Thursday, 11 February 2016


President Trousers, her brat, Chelsea and Spunky Bill's Secretary of State, Maddy Albright, stir the pot.

Hubble-bubble, toil'n'trouble, 
vote for Hills or you're in trouble.

Whatever the Clintons're paying Albright, 
it's too much.

Even by the standards of bought'n'paid for political whores, Albright's comment that the Devil had a special place for women who didn't vote for the crone, Clinton, is remarkable for its conceit and stupidity and as such reflects the old crow, Hillary, herself.

Women have to remember that it was that filthy young slut, Monica Lewinsky, who turned the head of our great president, Spunky Bill, and stole him from the arms of his loving wife, President Hillary Trousers, something he had never done previously just from the moment they were married. And it's those sort of women that have to be stamped-out, young, vulnerable ones.  And that's what we did, for women everywhere, we turned the entire weight of the US administration on this slip of a girl and tried to destroy her.  Women everywhere should thank us for that, but especially President Trousers and  President Spunky Bill,  women  should thank them, for the way they reacted with such dignity, such lies; that cigar episode,  the blue dress, they prove just how truly and abidingly feminist the Clintons have been, on behalf of you, the women of America.

It is one of those chutzpah things, the way that Ambition makes Feminists of the grubbiest. Apparently no-one should question Hillary's limpet-cling to her constantly adulterous arse-wipe of a husband because, yes, she's a feminist.

And that's why women must trust her, because where Spunky Bill memorably said, Ah feel yo' tits, Ah mean pain, his partner in crime now says she's just like all the women and blacks and gays in America.

Hillary knows the struggles that ordinary folk face, down there, on Main Street, USA.

How tough it is to raise a child, these days, when everything costs so much.  That's why not voting for a hard-working mother like Hillary is a betrayal.

Woke up, it was a wealthy morning...
The Clinton brat has a BA fron Stanford,
an MPhil from Oxford,
an MSc from Columbia
and is vice chair of the $2,000,000,000
Clinton Foundation.
Her parents gave her a $10,000,000 home as a wedding present.
Planning to take her place in what they think of as the family business, Chelsea Clinton has the right credentials to represent America's richest families.
I mean poorest.

Even by the standards of public servants the Clintons are staggeringly rich. Jimmy Carter spent and spends his retirement doing genuinely good works, Spunky Bill and his doxy have hustled bribes from bent banks, bent governments and criminals.  I guess they must be desperate to fulfill their end of the deal and give Greed the run of the White House.
Why else would an old lady put herself through all this shit?

From The Economist:
The Clinton Foundation is one of the reasons why (sic) voters have taken such a dim view of Mrs Clinton’s integrity. Created in 1997, it is a philanthropic foundation that backs multiple charitable initiatives ranging from economic development in poverty-stricken parts of the world, to fighting climate change, the betterment of lives of women and girls and access to drugs for those who are HIV positive. These are all laudable goals and the charity has won accolades for its impressive work. The problem is that a foundation, which is led by an ex-president and someone who hopes to be elected president by the end of the year, can appear vulnerable to conflicts of interest. 
One of the reasons that the Clinton Foundation has become such a formidable fund-raising machine is that donors appear to hope to gain access to the corridors of political power with their gifts.
Over the past 15 years, the Clinton Foundation has raised a staggering sum, close to $2 billion, from corporate titans, foreign governments, political donors and other wealthy entities, according to an investigation by the Washington Post. Many of these donors have multiple agendas in addition to their wish to do good. According to the Washington Post, almost half of the major donors who are backing Ready for Hillary, a lobby group promoting her presidential run this year, as well as nearly half of the so-called bundlers, the fundraisers who solicited and pooled her campaign funds in 2008, have given at least $10,000 to the foundation, directly or indirectly through foundations and companies. Donations from banks and other financial institutions account for the largest share of the foundation’s corporate benefactors. Its perhaps most controversial donors are foreign governments or other foreign entities, such as the governments of Oman and Kuwait, which are by law not allowed to give any form of donation to American politicians running for office.


This email scandal  resembles pretend-hubby, Spunky Bill's, pinhead dancing doctrine:  a blowjob from a woman is not sexual relations. And anyway, it all depends on what your definition of is is.

At her confirmation as Obama's Secretary of State, Spunky Bill bought Hills a webdomain for her private use, by private they  meant official, Secretary of State official,  but deletable, and all of Hillary's official State Department e-mail correspondence went to her private e-mail address, this is assumed to also be the address used by foreign donors and is  further presumed to have contained incriminating evidence regarding the Clinton-inspired removal of Gadaffi at the request of some of her funders in Western banks, fearful of his creating an Afro-Dollar.

Hillary, despite famously always carrying a handbagful of  i-stuff - i-pads, mini-pads, 'phones -  whined, when challenged about her breach of convention:

Speaking about the private server installed in her home, rather than securely, on government premises, Hillary insisted that there was Nothing to See Here; Move On and Get A Life; Oh, Please; Oh Really 

and other expressions of positively Caesarian irritation and displeasure.

When she was finally forced to hand-over her e-mail correspondence she and her girlfriends first deleted over thirty-thousand emails and wiped the drive.  Why would she do this, if everything was above board? Thirty fucking thousand official emails deleted. Congress won't go after her, of course, because they all pimp themselves out, too, but Main Street may; it's not entirely cluttered with embittered lesbians, desperate to see any woman in the White House, no matter how brutal, crooked and, well, macho-mannish, she is. Bright, ordinary women in New Hampshire and Iowa have burst Hillary's spunky bubble,  they don't give a fuck about her diseased marriage,  they just don't like her.

Christ, she makes this pair of filthy international gangsters look like petty criminals.

Look, Imelda, dear, it's raining money, 
and we don't even have to sign for it.


Clinton Lockett. If you feel up to a real-life nightmare, google him.

Team Trousers is confident that blacks all over the South will vote Crone but why should they, if they do, they must be as stupid as the Clintons privately say they are. Have they forgotten, did nobody tell them, that during his first presidential campaign, Spunky Bill roasted a neegra boy in Alabama, a backward neegra boy, just to show how tough he was on nigger trash?  

from wiki on Ricky Ray Rector: 

By 1992, Bill Clinton was insisting that Democrats "should no longer feel guilty about protecting the innocent" and voiced strong support of capital punishment. To make his point, he flew home to Arkansas mid-campaign to affirm that the execution would continue as scheduled. Some pundits considered it a turning point in that race, hardening a soft public image. Others tend to cite the execution as an example of what they perceive to be Clinton's opportunism, directly influenced by Michael Dukakis and his response to CNN's Bernard Shaw when asked during a campaign debate on October 13, 1988, if he would support the death penalty if Dukakis' wife Kitty were raped and murdered. Dukakis responded that he would not.
Bill Clinton's critics from the anti-capital punishment sector have seen the case of Rector as an unpleasant example of what they view as Clinton's cynical careerism. The writer Christopher Hitchens, in particular, devotes much of a chapter of his book on Clinton, No One Left to Lie To, for what he regards as the immorality of the then Democratic candidate's decision to condone, and take political advantage of, Rector's execution.[8] Hitchens argues that among other actions, Clinton was attempting to avoid focus on the ongoing Gennifer Flowers sex scandal.


I am in blood
Stepped in so far that,
 should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er.
If only mr tdg's  Maestro Wagner lived, to make overture, song, chorus and crescendo of this vile creature and his mangy trollop.

In the St. Louis University Law Journal, Bright wrote:
Not nearly as noticed (as the Bush Willie Horton ads of 1988), but just as significant and perhaps saddest of all, was when then-Governor Clinton went back to Arkansas to preside over the execution of a brain-damaged man, Ricky Ray Rector, an African-American who was sentenced to death by an all-white jury for the murder of a white policeman… After shooting the policeman, Rector, who always had mental problems, put the gun to his own head and shot himself, destroying the front part of his brain. Clinton scheduled the execution for a short time before the New Hampshire Primary. Clinton went back to Arkansas to make a spectacle out of Ricky Rector's execution and get as much political mileage out of it as possible. The logs at the prison show that in Ricky Rector's last days, he was howling and barking like a dog, dancing, singing and laughing inappropriately, and saying that he was going to vote for Clinton.
Have they forgotten that he brought-in one sentencing tarrif for crack cocaine, the nigger drug, and a lesser one for normal cocaine powder, the bankers' drug?  Have they forgotten that he funnelled hundreds of millions of dollars to private correction facilities in order that they build mediaeval high-max, lockdown jails in which to store the tens of thousands of new life sentence niggers created by his three-strikes and you're out, tough guy legislation, the rotten fucking bastard, jailing more blacks in his two terms than any other president in history? 

From Salon 

Over the past two decades, the Clintons' version of the War on Drugs" has inflicted needless suffering on millions

The Clinton dynasty’s horrific legacy: How “tough-on-crime” politics built the world’s largest prison system


Federal funding for public housing fell by $17 billion (a 61 percent reduction) under Bill Clinton’s tenure; federal funding for corrections rose by $19 billion (an increase of 171 percent), according to Michelle Alexander’s seminal work, “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness.” The federal government’s new priorities redirected nearly $1 billion in state spending for higher education to prison construction. 

Clinton put a permanent eligibility ban for welfare or food stamps on anyone convicted of a felony drug offense (including marijuana possession). He prohibited drug felons from public housing. Any liberal arts grad with an HBO account can tell you the consequences for poor, black American cities like Baltimore. As Alexander writes, “More than any other president, [Clinton] created the current racial undercaste.”

 Don't they know that these anti-nigger laws which TrouserWoman is promosing to repeal were brought in by her good ole boy, Spunky Redneck Nigger-Hatin' Bill, with her whole-hearted support? 

What sort of a place can America be, that its blacks would vote for their JimCrow tormentors,  that its women would vote for some power-crazed,  redneck, murderous, vindictive, money-grubbing old buzzard,  bought by the banks like a whore for a gangbang, patronising ordinary people from dawn 'til dusk, about the cause,  the cause being her own crazed ambition to equal the criminal career of the husband who has shat on her for forty years?
This is TrouserWoman's achievement; this, cruel, sexist and ageist is what they think of her, because this, actually, is what she is saying about herself.


I mentioned, some years ago, that our old friend Richard Milhouse Nixon, down there in Hell, would be frothing at the mouth at what   the Clintons,  Bush, the Blairs and Obama now get away with.
Many's a true word, spoken in spite.

Stumbling along in Hell, behind Spunky Bill, tights full of holes and shit dribbling from her mouth, I hope Hillary Clinton encounters Richard Nixon, he can give her a piece of my mind.

Ry Cooder's Wall Street Part Of Town says all the above in a few jaunty bars.
If Music be the food of satire, play on.

It's been a good day for good folks, Wednesday; Sanders beat the Crone and may yet piss in her yoghurt, and Spunky Bill's; Trump beat whoever it was; Met Commisioner, Bernie Hagan Daaz, is in trouble;  the truth is emerging about Deepcut barracks - heavily sexualised, misogynistic and toxic, whooda thought it? - and those evil bastards at West Midlands Constabulary  are about to be exposed, God bless those Birmingham women,  fighting forty years for the truth about the IRA 'pub bombings. 
I'd vote for them.

Tuesday, 9 February 2016



At the Court of Appeal, recently, some poor, mad cow had her sentence for killing an elderly paedophile more than doubled, from three-and-a-half years to seven-and-a-half. There is no joy to be derived from a lone parent of five going to jail for any period but in the circumstances this was the correct decision, the authorities having referred the original sentence for review, considering it too lenient.

Sarah Sands, 34, is obviously more than a killer, she contains multitudes and will be known as daughter and sister and lover and most importantly as mother but for the purposes of this note killer is her role; she killed the pensioner and life-long beast, Mike Pleasted, 72, having gone to his flat equipped with a knife and  a hammer, and she is blessed already by not being charged, in the first place, with his murder. 

 It seems odd that one can - as she did - drink heavily, arm herself, visit her victim, kill him when he did not respond to her drunken demands and not face a murder charge. She was, further, unacceptably fortunate to receive a sentence of three and a half years, which might have made her parolable after twelve months or so.  There is no satisfactory conversion table  which equates the value of the life taken  with the years to be served but Ms Sands' sentence was taking the piss a bit and the Attorney General was correct to  appeal it.

At her original sentencing the court heard that by way of explanation for her lethal violence she told police:
“He was in front of me. We were staring at each other, I was poking him."
“He was looking dead in my face and he was just standing there and I don’t think either of us realised what had happened.”
 “I didn’t want to go there. He had to listen to me.”
Something, someone, some chorus of voices made her vigilante, made murder not foul, which it is,  but righteous and necessary, which it can never be.  In the age of the catcall, of Murdoch, of tweeted hatreds, of Cruelty TeeVee,  the vulnerable, like Sarah Sands, should shield their eyes and plug their ears.

 It seems that, having children of an age with Pleasted's previous victims, Ms Sands talked herself up into a drunken rage - easily done, God knows - about a beast living so close to her own LuvEm2Bits tribe - didn't LuvEm Enuff to keep herself at home with them, and one would expect them now to be in local authority care,  but never mind, Luvvin'Em2Bits isn't really about loving them at all and generally means the exact opposite,  the dreadful narcissism of the father who burdens his son with the curse of being his best friend,  the mother who makes her daughter jailbait almost before she can walk - and went to confront the now deceased with his offending behaviour, insisting that he plead guilty.  He had only been charged at the time of his murder  and awaited trial, perhaps conviction and sentence but having  several previous convictions he  was obviously guilty. 
 She started giving him a bollocking and then just stabbed him to death.  Many said she should have been given a medal. Seven-and-a-half years  is a different kind of recognition.

Now, however much we are troubled by paedophilia - and it is nowhere near enough in my view - we can't have people going around doing that, it's not in anyone's interests, especially not Ms Sands'  or her children's - claiming to protect them she has, instead, abandoned them to the dubious mercy of the local authority, to the same sorts of structures which so accommodated great public servants like Sir Cyril Smith and Sir Jimmy Savile - and it's against the law, too.

You wonder where people find inspiration for this sort of behaviour.  It's alright to say she was pissed and separated from her reason,  but not everybody just goes and stabs their neighbour to death, doesn't matter how aggrieved, how pissed they are. The temptation is to imagine her life as being grinding and relentless, a permanent,  waking nightmare of poverty, incapacity, accusation and want, an existence so miserable that the chastisement of one further down the  index of human capital provides a  momentary sense of betterment;  imagining her life, five fatherless children and an urge to drink, one can maybe understand her behaviour. It is common - but not universal - among prisoners to berate, spit on, scald, knife and kill the child molester, as if to demarcate their incarceration from his, like John Cleese and the Two Ronnies, parodying the class system.  I'm a burglar, me, an' I look up to the armed blagger, but I look down on the nonce.  Ms Sands was clearly and murderously moved  by such stratification of badness and  I daresay that her insights into jurisprudence flow from people like this cunt

Kelvin McKenzie, favourite  of the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation

and this one. 

Murdoch bitch, Brooks.

With her sentence more than doubled by the Appeal Court, Ms Sands may reappraise her actions in relation to child protection, now that hers are not protected. She now, also, has the time to read something other than skymadeupnewsandfilth;  
I hope she does. 


On the news of a single murder in Dublin, claimed by inheritors of his mantle, mass murderer, child killer, torturer and nonce Gerry Adams, had this to say:

“It was a brazen attack in broad daylight by criminal thugs who believe they can operate with impunity and above the normal rule of law,” he added.

You could fast, rub your lips with cocaine, squirt tramadol up your arse and fill your nostrils with amphetamine sulphate for forty days and forty nights and not in your wildest, most paranoid,  wasted, hallucinatory come-down would your frazzled, distorted, delusional, screeching mind conjure up anything as unspeakably vile as Gerry the Nonce Adams.
Gerry's Greatest Hits. 

Murder, murder everywhere.

Enniskillen Remembrance Day Blues.

“Our overriding aim is to ensure criminal thugs - just not us - have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
“They need to be brought to justice, be subject to the full rigour of the law and put behind bars where they belong. Only not me.”

The fact that so many in Ireland see this  revolting child-molesting torture-monster as their future president is reason enough to quit the EU, isn't it?


I was told, years ago, of a case commenced in Solihull Magistrates Court.  A young Pakistani man was appearing for the first adjournment of his case.  He had arrived at Birmingham International Airport and almost immediately followed a young woman into a toilet and molested her.  His brief told the court that he was a simple young man from a Pakistan hill village and his brothers and cousins in the UK had told him that, here, white women all wanted sex, all the time, and it was upon this misunderstanding that  his offence was committed. 
 It might, of course, just have been the solicitor clutching at straws on his client's behalf, equally, it might have been true.  Certainly, in my years in the West Midlands, I saw countless groups of Asian men - in Balti houses, cash'n'carrys, bed shops and taxi firms behaving in what we used to call a lewd manner towards white women;  I even have dim memories of my early childhood in Balsall Heath, then a near-inner city slum with high immigrant numbers,  where grown-up rumour and whisper and indeed  the evidence of one's own eyes suggested that muslim men and young white women made for an unwholesome takeaway.  I doubt that any of these British-born men were labouring under any misapprehensions, foisted upion them by cousins or brothers, they were merely acting in a way for which they had been pardoned, as it were, in advance, by institutionalised anti-racism.

My old man worked with and liked what were called West Indians and they were in and out of our house,  I loved their blackness and their curly hair, which I tried, sitting on their knees, to straighten.  I would've been about six, I suppose, and easily impressed by good-natured Otherness, but my parents and siblings would hurry me past street-corner dives and shops with muslims gathered outside,  as though we were in real danger. we didn't actually have a sign in our window, saying, Blacks, Poles, Irish and Dogs Welcome, but no Muslims, but that was the multi-cultural leitmotif, you could be from anywhere, just as long as you didn't want to replicate, here, what you'd left there.

As an adult, although much attitudinally changed, I never felt easy around groups of muslim men, still don't, always thinking that they have a congenital urge to cut off my head, something I felt long before ISIL made decapitation an act of obeisance to Allah, peace and blessings be ironically upon His name. And it's only Muslims, maybe Sikhs, too, on reflection, with their knives and anger, who unnerve me.  Never been bothered by blacks or Hindi Indians.  It must be some remembered empire commonality, we enslaved and conquered the Africans and Indians, never quite managed it with the muslims, and it shows. I am just hearing a woman on the TeeVee, moaning that she's a British-Pakistani-woman, who has to fight every day for, I dunno,  something or other.  Maybe if she was just a British woman, not a hyphenated-citizen, she wouldn't have to fight quite so much;  am I  Viking-Norman-Scots-Ulster-Diabetic-British;  will somebody help me express all my -nesses, maybe start me a support group, with community leaders and funding? No, of course they fucking won't. Like many of my generation of immigrants I quickly learnt to speak Brummy on the street and at school, maintaining my Ulster-Scots Belfastese in the house, 'ncase m'mammy boxed m'ears.  I was just an infant and I understood instinctively the harsh purity of street wisdom.  

I am at a loss, therefore, to understand this present furore about Asian women being unable to speak passable English;  it is not that they can't, most people in the world can have a stab at it, English is the global lingua franca,  the language of computing, mathematics, infotainment, Coca-Cola and Shakespeare, half-way across the world people learn it by osmosis, how can it be that people living daily in Yorkshire for decades do not? The reason is that their husbands won't let them, the cunts would eat their fucking sandals rather than let their women speak English, learn Englishness.  They must speak only fluent Patriarch, and keep their eyes down.  How have we allowed this widespread spousal abuse to continue and flourish?  How much has it cost us, reshaping our own culture into that of savage mudhut-dwellers? It is not the seemingly recalcitrant women who should  be challenged but their nasty, bullying, patriarchal areshole husbands and sons who need slamming up against the wall, motherfuckers.

Things might have been better were it not for the likes of Lord Hattersley,

For more than 30 years, I took the votes of Birmingham Muslims for granted. The Muslims themselves I treated with more respect. But if, at any time between 1964 and 1997 I heard of a Khan, Saleem or Iqbal who did not support Labour I was both outraged and astonished.
My presumption was justified. It was the Muslim vote - increased by an influx of families from Kashmir, the Punjab and other parts of Birmingham - which expanded my majority from barely 1,200 to more than 12,000.

 Jack Straw,

You do know that it costs five thousand pounds a day to be near me?

Cancer, walking.
No, I think you'll find that David Cameron will give me my peerage, just be delayed a little, we are all on the same side, after all.

Before the last election, a former Blackburn police chief superintendent, Mick Gradwell,  told the Daily Mail: 
“When I joined in 1979 one of my first tasks was to police around a Blackburn nightclub where one of the issues was Asian men cruising around in BMWs and Mercs trying to pick up drunken girls. This has been going on for decades”

He continued: "You have young girls being abused and raped and yet the most senior officers, chief constables,  are refusing to comment on it. On what other subject would you get that? How many young girls have been abused and raped because of the reluctance of the authorities to say exactly what is happening?”

Straw was MP for Blackburn throughout this period and for part of it he was home secretary and justice secretary.  It is inconceivable that he knew nothing of this;  too busy, perhaps, lying his arse off, starting his own crime wave in Iraq.

 the likes of Dennis McShane,

McShane, along with Chris Huhne, one of Newsnight's house criminals.  Who gives a fuck that they robbed the taxpayer, lied to parliament and the courts, the PBC does that from dawn 'til dusk.

Oh, 'sno biggie, they're just little scrubbers....
Yes, I'm minded to agree with you.

 well, all of the New Labour criminals, happy to see any number of hostile, alien, insular, potentially explosive ghettos sprout up all over the country, just as long as they always voted NewLabour.  They can fuck any number of underage children, they're only the underclass anyway.

Last week, (August 23, 2014) Denis MacShane, the former MP for Rotherham, admitted he might have not done enough about child sexual exploitation by Asian men in his constituency because he was a "Guardian-reading liberal leftie". MacShane, who resigned as an MP in 2012 over expenses fraud for which he was later jailed for six months, told the BBC he was never directly approached by anyone with allegations of child abuse during his 18 years as an MP.
Yet he "probably" didn't do as much as he could have done and should have "burrowed into" the issue, he said. "I think there was a culture of not wanting to rock the multicultural community boat, if I may put it like that."
from the Guardian.

Things might have been better were it not for the likes of the PBC, which, even today, barely reported the sentencing, in Bradford, of a dozen Asian beasts, preferring to run on the news bulletins an advert for a new album by someone called Rhiannon.  In America. Things might have been better if the cops, all over the country, had not so shamefully and improperly described the victims of these gangs - when they acknowledged them at all -  as complicit, conspiring in their own abuse, worthless fucking bastards, the police, 

I am quite happy to offer a full and unqualified opportunity, I mean apology, for whatever it is and accept full responsibility.  What's that mean? Well, whaddaya think it means, it means fuck all.

always up to their arses in theft and drugs and porn and pimping, framing people up, blaming a twelve-year old for provoking her own gang-rape, 

Since when's incomopetence been a resigning matter?

lest worshipful brethren in high places be called racist, lest the chalice of vibrant, diverse, multi-cultural horsepiss be o'erturned and those who drank from it seen as knaves and fools, beasts and bastards. That thin blue line which is the only thing separating  us from utter Decency.

Chief constables, MP's, cabinet ministers, councillors,  journalists, priests, prelates and the national broadcaster, all turning a blind eye to racially motivated hate crime, sex crime, drug trafficking and violence, perpetrated against our most vulnerable,  by our most despicable, and telling us that even to mention this epidemic is unhelpful.

Talking about this, earlier, someone raged What would these fuckers do, how would they feel if this happened to their mother or sister?
The answer, of course, is that they would kill them, for bringing shame upon the family. 

Nobody can tell me that they wouldn't, because I know that they do;  theirs is a primitive, brutal esprit de corps, in which woman is less than the enemy, just a chattel to be used, most of the time it is white women but these Islamic men, now approaching us in force, will rape and kill any woman, some of them will, anyway, enough of them.

It is  not as though we suffer a shortage of native paedophiles, is it, the legislature, the courts, the churches, the PBC, they're all bursting at the seams with nice, middle class, white child sex offenders, maybe we should deport some of them to Pakistan, shift the balance of trade, as it were, in Sin, back in our favour. 

We are told that the overwhelming majority of Muslims,  Brit-borns and immigrants,  only came her to very kindly help us out, with the NHS, and to pay lots of tax, and to care for us when we age.  If you believe that, you'll believe anything because  the need, the really pressing need for nurses and doctors and income tax is not here but in the countries which they have abandoned,  the countries from which they would siphon-in as many of their friends and relatives as possible to, using rules framed by filth like Straw, make us strangers in our own land, apostates of an alien, sexist, patriarchal, hand-chopping religion. These people, like all immigrants, are here for themselves,  they don't give a fuck about their own countries, why should they, when we will help recreate them here? With roads and plumbing.

Although her victim, like the majority of sex offenders,  was white as she, we can see how and where Ms Sands climbed onto this filthy carousel, can't we, 

and she doesn't know the half of what we know, here.
She simply sees that the bad people are often treated better than the good people.

If a nation state does not buttress and defend its borders it becomes ungovernable,  the more rapidly when those who force entry aim not for co-operative assimilation but domination.  That government and the authorities should have conspired in this madness, to the extent of silently pimping our children is almost unbelievable, almost. 


Towel-folder minor, with Towel-folder major, aka Junky George, inset.

George Osborne's younger brother, Adam,  a convert to Islam, is in a bit of a scrape with his professional regulatory body, the GMC has suspended him while it examines charges of improper conduct with a vulnerable patient, a posh term for noncing.  Like the politicians, the medics get to police themselves, one of the perks of the trade so's nothing too radical ever happens to the miscreants. And Adam  has form for this, only last year, as well as for forging prescriptions for an unnamed family member. I suppose that having a doctor in the family, even one, like Adam, good for fuck all, can be useful.

 It's the sort of thing junkies do, blag scrips off friends and relations.

I wonder who it is, the unnamed family member.

Wednesday, 3 February 2016


He has never been short of courage,  


Peter Tatchell, and I suspect that had he not been so vilely treated by Straight Simon Hughes and the shit-eating, dog-shooting, child-molesting  Liberals, way back,  his presence in parliament might have delayed its descent into the filthy shithole which it has become.  

Maybe confronting the hypocrite in his lair is just his stock-in-trade, what he does, but he does it consistently and boldly. As well as his contretemps with Mugabe, I saw him wrestled to the ground by Dame Portillo's goons, 


merely for asking a question which might have embarrassed the slimy wretch - although judging by Portillo's TeeVee career he is beyond embarrassment;  MediaMinster, what are they like, this most reactionary, right-wing of Tory ministerial thugs feigning Everyman on a train, licking up all sorts of insults from Andy Neil, just for a few quid.

Tatchell, anyway has come out, so to speak, this morning, against the New Puritanism - which, I think he realises, he has helped spawn - specifically in criticising the pursuit through the courts of the Ulster bakers, those who declined to bake a cake promoting gay marriage on the quite reasonable grounds that it was against their religion to do so. 
 I come from an Orange, Presbyterian Ulster background, some of my father's kin were even missionaries, in Africa, and on the wireless, bringing Christ to the Nations, and from what I know of them they were a hissing, tight-fisted, tut-tutting, judgemental, hypocritical, po-faced, miserable Godlessheathenbastard  pain in the arse, and maybe these two are as well but that should not be a matter for the courts.


 And this affair was not against their religion in the sense that they wanted to stone faggots to death for disrespecting Allah, peace and blessings ironically be upon His name, just that, y'know, we really don't believe in this, we cannot in conscience fulfill your order, why not take your business elsewhere?  Seemed perfectly understandable, it is not yet compulsory to support same sex marriage and if an evangelical Christian is affronted by it, well, tough shit;  I'm affronted by it, too, I am affronted by so much that I could be here for years, have been here for years,  scribbling the chronicles of Ruin on the cyberwall, whistling them on the cyberstreet corner. I am affronted, for instance,  by the absurd notion that cutting off his cock and balls and stitching part of the remnants into a fake vagina makes a man a woman;  that people insist I believe this garbage is the true offence here, to logic, to women and to sanity, they can all fuck off, the trannies, live in Hebden Bridge if they want, the town of the perpetual flood, give 'em something to moan about to the lesbians. The gay cakeists, they can fuck off, too, find someone who wants to bake their stupid, childish  cakes, instead of screeching hysterically about those who don't, wasting my fucking money, dragging them into court.

Tatchell, this morning, made the perfectly reasonable point that tolerance is a two-way street,  the blessed thoroughfare of a civilised society.  The New Puritans, however, are not interested in tolerance, just in a kind of  fascistically enforced, scabrous Rabelaisianism, a paradoxical society wherein a difference of opinion becomes an offence in itself, even when that difference is offensively created, highlighted and exaggerated  in the first place by those now seeking remedy in the courts. 

It was this guy who deliberately provoked the incident  which he now claims discriminates against him. 


 Silly cunt should buy himself some children, down Mexico way,  bring 'em back here, he'd find himself having something better to occupy his time with than going around waving his poxy arse at people who're  just trying to run a business and practice their faith, one established a good deal longer, by the way,  than matey's hysterical New Puritanism.

The appeal judges should find for the bakers, uphold their freedom to live their lives.  

Sunday, 31 January 2016



How I never listened to him.  
How I never watched him.  
How I despise all the other cheesy broadcasters basking in his reflected, dubious glory, now that he's croaked.
Dara O Briain tweeted

"Terribly sad news about Terry Wogan dying. Hard to quantify what he achieved, not just in broadcasting but for the Irish in Britain.
"Hard to separate what he achieved & the accent he did it in, from the times in which he did it. And opened to the door to all who followed."
Sure and he means himself, so he does. 

"He had a great sense of perspective, he made sure that his priority was the people he really cared about", she said. 
How I never thoughT he had the smoothest voice on radio.
How I never found him interesting,  funny, witty, ironic or entertaining.  
How I never married anyone who loved Wogan just as much as I did.
How I never thought he was my friend behind the microphone.
How I won't miss his cheery, anodyne banter 
on account of how I never listened to him. 
How I never watched Terry In Need.
Documents released under the Freedom of Information Act disclose that while his co-presenters give their time for free, 68-year-old Sir Terry receives £1,300 an hour to front the charity television extravaganza.
Sir Terry has been paid for his efforts since the appeal - described by the BBC as the most important event on its calendar - began in 1980.
In 2005, the Irishman - who earns £800,000 a year from his Radio 2 show - picked up £9,065 for his seven-hour stint as Children In Need's main presenter.
Yet his co-stars Natasha Kaplinsky, Eamonn Holmes and Fearne Cotton do not receive a penny. All the musical acts that appear also waive appearance fees.
There is no suggestion that Sir Terry, who owns a mansion near Windsor and a house in France, receives any money intended for charity projects, nor that he has ever claimed to be hosting the show for free.
In the past, Sir Terry has made a show of donating personal items, such as his tie, to highest bidders.
How he didn't transform the Eurovision Song Contest.
How I thought Blankety-Blank was shit.
Just because large numbers of people like something doesn't make it bad. 
 Doesn't make it good, either.
National treasure, Wogan?  
God fucking help us.
At least Gracie Fields could sing



 How I don't care about  Andy Murray, his legendarY father-in-law, his legendary pregnant wife or his legendary mutant mummy.


Worthless lying bastards, both of them.
Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

Wogan, though, a fortune of £20 million, Christ, that's worth pretending to be nice to everyone for an hour or two a day.
What irks, though, is the utter banality of his output,  a stage Irishman, running the gamut from self-deprecation to self-deprecation, whist fawning over any number of showbiz filthsters, worse at that than Mike Funerals Parkinson, and that's saying something.

It is part of the national decline,  the prominence of the BBC disc jockey, a man, generally, twittering in-between other people's recordings, about nothing.  There was a case to be made for disc-jockery back when there was a difference between teenagers and their parents, when listening to rock'n'roll or punk was temporary rebellion's  demarcation line,  John Peel and Johnny Walker defining an ethereal barricade.  Now that the land is awash with worthless multi-generational celebrity voted for by  consumerised  families, now that people don't buy singles or LPs, don't listen, together, to the latest thing, now that music is  atomised, ubiquitous and purposeless the role of the deejay seems  as relevant as that of the lamplighter.  A clebrity personality, though, a cynical confection, reflecting yourself back at you, cleverer, wittier and warmer,  that's something else.

I can't remember one such whom I considered worthy, useful, a  voice welcome to the public discourse.  Mark Tulley,  the BBC's sacked India correspondent, used, on Sunday night, to do  a compendium show, his thoughts, some readings  and some bits of music from everywhere, it was a delight.  Alexis Korner, away back, on Radio One, played a blues/roots selection, again, on Sunday night, which made me smile at his almost scholarly enthusiasms -  that was Delbert McLinton, there, Oh, dropkick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of Life.  Unlike so many, Korner was a musician himself, and not a member of the band of gobby nobodies which BBC promoted, and is still promoting. Even in his death, the dreadful old crow, Esther Rantzen, is milking Wogan, like she was masturbating a dead man - he raised millions, hundreds of millions for Children in Need.  And I started ChildLine, even though I had romanced a paedo, myself, and simply adored Jimmy Savile, who also raised tens of millions, hundreds of millions, Oh, thousands of millions, we've all raised thousands of millions, millions of millions, for those less fortunate than myself.

Across the board, many adults are Woganised, infantilised, unable to bear their own silences, unable to entertain, comfort, amuse or stimulate  themselves, millions addicted to the children's programme, Dr Who,  pretending to watch it because it is  challenging, philosophical, science fictional, tackling difficult issues, when all they are doing is lusting after whichever character 

 is the current Dr's current jailbait cyber-minx,
 IS he gonna fuck her?  

Harry Potter, tens of millions of middle-aged people, desperate for the next instalment of a children's book/film franchise, because it is encouraging boys to read books again,  yeah, old boys, and old girls, who ought to know better. Kleptocrats robbing and raping us, angry millions on the move in our direction, ice-caps melting and we lose ourselves in spells and wands and wizards;  in Time lords and Daleks; in retreaded galactic wars of empire;  and we sit at home, doddery, frightened, listening to a highly-paid, low-brow entertainer, chuntering away, like he gives a fuck.