Saturday, 23 July 2016

HOT TIME, SUMMER IN THE CITY.


 It is a place of melancholy connotation, Munich; 
there was Mr Chamberlain's well-meaning but misguided visit to Herr Hitler's Munich and the subsequent, eternal humiliation which followed his waving of a worthless sheet of paper;  
there was the aeroplane crash which, taking the lives of some footballers,  unwittingly sparked the global marketing phenomenon that is Manchester United 
and there was the Munich Olympics massacre, in 1972, when the PLO killed a dozen Israeli athletes, very few of us, I imagine, have an optimistic, sub-conscious notion of Munich, 
 and now there is the night of Angela's Folly. 



 It may well be that the perpetrator/s are German or other EU nationals and not part of  any refugee/migrant upsurge, but that won't matter, a mass killing, carried out by a man with Middle Eastern connections and the cry of Allah Akbar at the start of hostilities,
that's all that matters, 

 

people  will equate Frau Merkel's  open-ended welcome of innumerable, undocumented travellers 

with the recent killings in France and now Germany and more than ever will call for her resignation  



and the replacement of her government with one more nationalistic;  
they do that rather well, the Germans, nationalism.

Speaking from Downing Street, British prime minister, Mrs Askey, said that it was a jolly good job that both she and Mrs Merkel were women with no children and they would soon get down to a no-nonsense solution to this whatever-it-is.  

 

You know, voters,  she continued, immigration is such a frightful business, the bastards won't stand still long enough for one to count them all up and one, say, as home seckaterry, hasn't a fucking clue about how many, where or who the fuck they are. There's probably millions of the bastards, up and down the land -  still, that's the home seckaterry's responsibility, 
nothing to do with me.

Speaking from his office in the Sun newspaper, London's police chief, 

 
Sir Bernie Haagen Daaz, 
said that his officers stood ready to fly to Munich in order to assist their Hermannish colleagues in finding nothing out. 
All his officers' ten million poundsworth of  efforts to exonerate Gerry and Cilla McCann had failed and that initiative was now being wound-down.
 Munich provides the ideal opportunity for Metropolitan police officers to enjoy a free, paid, plus expenses, overtime and danger money holiday abroad, it's not as though they had signed-up to police the streets of London, after all.
 I mean, it's not sunny or anything, Munich, but they have some very comfortable brothels where my officers can conduct useful investigations.

I may be entirely wrong, about the worm turning; maybe all of Europe will just simply accept that terrorism is a part of life, as we did, here, while Deputy First Minister Marty KneeCaps was killing our children, until Tony Blair and Spunky Bill Clinton put him in government, and as have millions, all around the world, trying to live life under our bombs, under millions of our rounds,  burying their children before sundown.
 Even with the odd handful of casualties, here in Europe, we do seem to have the best of this terror bargain, don't we, ten thousand of theirs for every one of ours;  what's not to like?

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

WOTSONTELLY. MRS ASKEY'S CABINET NEWS.



This is the Six o'clock  news from the PBC. And I'm Huw Welshman. Good evening, look you. And in breaking news,  our current unelected prime minister, Mrs Askey, has announced the appointment to the Foreign Office of young parent, Lady Sir Elton John, music lovers will be disappointed but the cheery, former cocaine-addicted pianist's role will not be in govament to perform his three songs over and over again, for decades - the slow one, the mid-tempo one and the  fast one - but instead will be engaged in supporting the head of  Mr Askey's foreign service,  Mr BoJo, as he travels the world apologising for his history of insulting foreign leaders, but  only in the spirit of a high-spirited public school fourth former, least said, soonest mended, what, jolly good show.   No...sorry....wossat?   Not Sir Elton?  Some other old queen?   Right, gottit. Yes. On-air correction?  Right.

  Sorry,  viewers 
- and apologies, too, to Sir Reg, who's probably, as we speak,  dressing his much sought-after, expensively-purchased designer children.  

 

No, it's not to be Sir Reg, at the foreign office,  although I understand that he does stand ready to re-write and re-record his tuneless, I mean timeless classic, Candle Up The Arse, on behalf of either the EuroLeavers or the EuroQuitters.  You can just hear it, can't you, viewers, Goodbye, Donald Tusk, though I never knew you at all......and so on, I'm sure Sir Reg would do justice to the topic of a misguided nation being allowed to vote on a subject most of them didn't understand.  Although I believe, being something of a musicologist myself,

 

 isn't it, look you,  that SIr Reg doesn't actually write the words to his timeless classics, things like Benny and the Jets and.......some other tunes, too; no, he has a lyricist, writes them for him, and then all Sir Reg has to do is decide whether to use his slow, mid-tempo or fast arrangement, and of course, what to wear, which is where  his wife, David, comes in, she handles  that sort of thing.....Is she his wife or is she his husband, fucked if I know. Wossat? 

 Both husbands?  

Both of them are husbands? 

 Fuck me sideways, bach, how does that work?  No. no, never mind, I don't wanna know. Y'know, viewers,  when I was a cub reporter on the Merthyr Tydfil Weekly Herald - which is where I learned everything I know about journalism -  if I ever heard about that sort of carry-on, y'know, two blokes, being each others husbands, like, isn't it, it was in the local magistrates' court, where the offenders, as they then were, were being committed to the Assizes.  Wossat? Yes, for hanging, I expect.

 
 But we've moved-on some way since then and if two blokes want to buy  a bunch of children off  some poor third world bitch, set-up home together and then insist that they're quite normal, just like Mr and Mrs Jones, in fact not only normal but better than normal - yes, that is the word, abnormal -  I mean, nobody back then would've believed a word of it. Progress, y'see, something in which all the NancyBoys at the PBC have played such a part. I say NancyBoys but what we mean, here at the Corporation, is Trannies....wossat?  No, no, very different to Sir Reg and his Mrs or Mr. 

No, Trannies is where a man  says he's a woman and you have to agree with him, on pain of being exiled to Northern, where they shouldn't be allowed to vote, although I understand there's more than  a few Trannies up there, too.  Over  now to the sport, with Claire Balding, wresting some babes to the ground  and then to that hideously smug quiz show, QI,  is it,  with Sandi Tuskface, 
 

cackling at her own dismal jokes.  
But at least she's not a Tranny. 
At least I don't think she is.  

I never did get that QI, viewers, did you? 

Stevie and his husband.
Just an opportunity for Sir Steven Fag to show-off to a bunch of wankers.......well, come on, Phil  Jupitus? 
 

The man's a cunt, take it from me.  Bill Bailey?  

 
He stopped being funny fifteen years ago. once he'd played all his instruments.  Jo Brand?  Do me a fucking favour, isn't it, look you. The KnobJoke Queen, isn't she, cerainly alternative, a sneery,  dishevelled,  fat old lady telling knobjokes. 

 

Still, mighta been worse than Sandi, on QI, mighta been that  dreadful Sue Perkins, off the cake show, the one with that old corpsey confectioner.

 



 
yes, her  with all the nightmare make-up on. 
Christ Al-fucking-mighty, if she doesn't give you the horrors then  nothing will, isn't it, look you.

But no, it's not Lady Sir Elton going to the Foreign Office, or Foreign and Commonwealth Office, I should say, so's not to offend all those dusky folks who we'll need to come here and do vital nannying jobs for rich slags.
  I mean, why should rich and successful Londoners raise their own children, when they can get Polish and Bulgarian birds to do it for a pittance, and a room in the attic? 
But leaving that aside - the inconvenience caused to wealth creators by poor, angry people having a vote - the big appointments continue to come from Mrs Askey's dressing room and the one about which there can now be no confusion is that of a distinguished  Tory public servant, to whom, unlike Mr Corbyn, absolutely no scandal attaches.

Here's the new appointee, talking to my colleagues, Ian Hislop and Paul Merton.  yes, I know, viewers, talk about a job for life with the PBC, that show's been going for - what is it -   twenty-six fucking years; that smirking little fat fuck, Hislop, and Paul Merton doing his absurdist schtick, twenty-six fucking years of it, I mean, viewers, how can they call this satire, after twenty-six years? It's for dribbling old people, stinking of piss, and all they want is something familiar. to make them feel secure for a moment or two.  
If you ask me they're fucking bone idle, upstairs, at the PBC.  Marcus Bogstick, Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, and HIGNFYfor fuck's sake, and that't the PBC's satire. Oh, I was forgetting, I think that Sue Perkins has her guests baking satirical chocolate eclairs, 

 
her and that big Scouse fairy, the one with the goatee;  how the fuck did the PBC come to this pass?

Anyway, enough of me. And the pretend news. Here's another one of Mrs Askey's Top team.  Satire?  Alan Duncan? Alan fucking Duncan? In government again? You're having what the young people call a fucking laugh, isn't it, look you?







 Hello playmates.

Unavoidably, I saw a few minutes of Prime Ministers Questions; no,  it was just a few dreadful seconds, and I swear, that Mrs Askey, she's really David Flashman, in drag. Poison.

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

GNASHER CALLS FOR SECOND TRIDENT VOTE. AND THIRD. AND FOURTH




 Scotland's First Minister,
Ms. Krankie.

See me? 
I'm just addicted tae democracy.
 Ask anybody. I pure am.
Whitever people vote fer, I'm agin it.
Especially when millions and millions of Scoattish people have been misled  by Project Fear. 
 And voted in a way that they didnae really mean tae.
Or, in this case, Project Nae Fear a Gettin Rid a They Nukes oota Scoatland. 
An' I'm fair pootin' yon Mrs Askey on notice, 
that the Scoattish people'll nae be havin' that shite excuse for democracy.  
Just because a majority - a big majority -  votied fer somethin' disnae mean nothin'. 
An' democracy certainly disnae mean respectin' the will a the people. 
In fact, whit it meanses is the exact opposite. 
An' I demand a second vote on Trident, 
only this time, in order to be fair, 
 wi' only my ain  Scoattish MPs voting. 
And wi' none a they lies aboot other nations havin' nukes,
 because they dinnae,  
they just dinnae,
unnerstand?  
They dinnae have any nukes,
 nae other  bastard has any nukes.
That's just Project Fear.
What?
President Trump? 
 Bein' pissed at the Scoattish people?
Especially me, and all they SNP MPs  whose bin callin' him a heidbanger?
Ach, it'll never happen.
Nah, it just willnae.
Never. 
Never gonnae happen.
More chance a the oil price fallin', d'ye ken.
An' that's just pure never gonnae happen.


Gnasher, aping her heroine, below, 

Whisky Maggie.



Monday, 18 July 2016

OH, COWARDLY NEW WORLD, THAT HAS SUCH PEOPLE IN'T

I must make confession, forgive me, friends, for I have sinned. Some impossibly cretinous hack from skymadeupnewsandfilth this morning advised me that I should stay tuned, as they were soon gonna bring us the one-minute's silence, from Nice, from the very sight of the most infamous slalom, where more people died than have ever died in that manner, at that place, than at any other moment in time. Or, indeed, history. Ever, in fact.
This was the low point or, depending upon your point of view, the high point of lethal mothertruckery on le boulevard de whatever it was.
 Heartthrob President Frankie



 has been forced to put his cock back in his trousers and stop enticing young actresses to fondlez-vous mon cock, cherie, c'est  tres aristocratique, even though Je suis le socialiste, only not tres socialiste, 

parce-que Je suis le garcon de tea, pour les terroristes financiale, n'est ce pas? Et aussi, Je suis la fellatrix premier des Bosches.
Vive la France, eh? Ou peut etre Non, vive l'Union European  et merde.
Only a couple of weeks ago the wretched Hollande was trying, in a fit of post-Brexit francopique,  

 

to bully the nation - us - which has twice saved the Frog arse from Frau Merkel's grandparents and uncles. 
All Euro-exchanges must de withdrawn from the City of London, he roared, as if he could count a handful of francs and get the same numer twice in a row. Now the cheeky cock-waving dwarfbastard bleats about us all being in this shit together. 
Any decent politician would've resigned over this year's security failures but as far as Frankie Hollande is concerned the buck stops with anyone but him.

When the Frog elite starts accepting some responsibilty for its behaviour, vis a vis the dastardly wog, 
 

Liberte, Fraternite et bombez-vous les nig-nogs.

maybe then I'll join  their mourning. 
Until then or until the French once again revolt they  can go all and fuck themselves, s'ils vous plait.

I guess that sky's Justin Shithead expected me to join the Frog flashmourners, maybe standing-up, silently mouthing the words of le Marseillaise, head-bowed, but defiant, down but not out, and fuck me, I forgot all about it. 

But while I wasn't flashmourning I have been busy testing the world reaction to whatever it all was.


The people of this island have asked us, so they have, to express our disgust at the Nice Slalom, as that bloke Ishmael calls it. It's just dreadful, so it us, and unacceptable, too, that people just out for the evening, enjoying themselves, can be killed by a bunch of heartless murdering psychopaths.

Just celebratin' a national event, so they were,
 
Belfast 1974

NIce 2016

 and some utter scum, there's no other word for yon bastards, some utter scum just killed them where they stood, with their weans an' their mammies'n'daddies.
 Eniskillen 1987, 
Remembrance Day Masssacre

We, in the Provisional IRA, I mean in Sinn Fein, we utterly and totally condemn, so we do, the taking of innocent lives in the pursuit of some vicious shitbrain political superstition, so we do.

 Birmingham 'pub bombings

Some a yon young people, they were just out for the night having a wee drink, so they were, and some cunt came along and blew them to fucking pieces, so he did, in the Tavern in the Town and the Mulberry Bush.  I mean ran them down with a lorry on the beach at Nice, smashin' them all to fuckin' pieces.
 
IRA victims in Birmingham.

Mind youse, at least them IRA boys  had the courage to run away and let some other bastards take the blame, whereas yer man, the nigger, in Nice, he was cowardly enough to die at the scene. Honest to God, today's terrorist scum have a lot to learn, so they do, from the Provisional IRA. We always ran away, so we did, when we killed innocent civilians.

And we stand together with all peace-loving democratic mass murderers  everywhere, aye, and as experts in conflict resolution, too, in condemning those bastards that kill and maim and torture their way through their own communities, buryin' poor wee women alive, an' denyin' it, even to this day,  threatenin' and intimidatin' ordinary decent people. It's just pure shite, so it is and we condemn it absolutely, so we do.

D'you think they believed us, us havin' killed thousands?
Och, away man, yer bum's out the window, so it is; 
fuck 'em, they can't touch us. 

And nor can they.

My fellow motherfuckers, 
I would just like to join with my terrorist colleagues from the IRA, Mr Kneecaps and Mr ChildMolester, in very sincerely condemning the events in France.  The killing of civilians is entirely wrong. Except in those instances  where it is done on the orders of myself or some other cunt who is beyond the law.  
Yes, like President-elcct Trousers,

 

or her first gentleman, 
my very good friend,
 President Spunky Bill 

Niggers or Orangemen, yeah, way to go, roast their asses, Gerry.

And I am sure, motherfuckers,  that I speak for all of those who work so tirelessly for peace in the world.


 Including Lord Blair of Chilcot and his good wife,
 Lady Imelda Slut, 

A mutual kiss, Death's own halitosis.

Aye, wee darlin' and we're both just hogs for death, eh, isn't that right? 
Oh, Martin, you're such a flirt.

seen here embracing a fellow peacebringer.
And, my fellow motherfuckers, let me just share with you a few lines from Lady Imelda's book, Slutting4Money, Speaking for Myself, and I ain't makin' up a Goddamned bastard, name-dropping egostitical worda this shit:

(the children) had been given skateboards in Washington and they were trying out their skills in the Downing Street garden when  I had an irate call from Alastair  (PornoAl Campbell, the dipsomaniacal, manic depressive bullyboy of MediaMinster)
"Get those kids out of the garden."
"Whatever for, they're just having  a bit of fun?"
"Well, take a look out of the window and get them out before the press get wind of it." 
So I did, and there, to my astonishment,  were Gerry and Martin,  showing the boys a few tricks.
A few weeks later I happened to be taking Ralph Lauren around and as we came into the White room, there were Martin and Gerry.  Naturally I introduced them  and was intrigued when Gerry started talking very knowledgeably about clothes...."


But, my fellow motherfuckers, Lady Imelda what they call in LimeyLand, a has-been,   and I have also been talking to the new Limey President, Mrs Askey, 
 
and she agrees with me, that the best way to uinite a country is to divide it, rich against poor, young against old and most importantly white folks  against niggers. 
It's worked well during my administration, y'gotta just shoot them sonsafuckinbitches down on the street. And then keep on shooting them, until you're sure they's dead. Otherwise they gonna fuck everything up for the rest of us.



It's like I was only saying to that Ayrab, the one in Turkey,  who's busy roundin'-up his critics and kicking the shit outa them, wirin' up their nuts to the national grid, what's his name, Cardigan, is it, Erdogan, whatever; some useful bastrad wog, anyway, but he's doing the right thing, for democracy and freedom and human rights. 
What y'll have to do with legitimate democratic protest is crush it like a bug. 
Yeah, like we done with the Occupy movement, 



yeah and like, day after day, we expect our brave lawnforcement men and women to do.  

Ferguson police officer. 

Thassright, motherfuckers, shootin' dead unarmed black folks.  An' thasswhy we all bin militarisin' lawnforcement, 


with armoured  cars and tanks left over from Iraq and Afghanistan. 

 



To protect and serve President Trousers from democracy, or legal action of any kind.


See, these folks, 
stirrin' up trouble,
sayin' that black lives matter.
 

They're just plain wrong.
They don't. 

You just ask President-elect Trousers;  she bin' roastin' niggers for decades. At home and abroad,
I can do whatever the fuck I want.
The FBI said so. 


You just ask Lord Blair, the Peacebringer, 

If I had to kill all those niggers again, I would. 
And. lessbeclear,  the house of commons'd back me again, too.





I mean, God, Hisself, 
he  tells Tony Blair to kill niggers, 
can't get much more justified than that.


Or just you ask the Limey president, Mrs Askey, 

Kill millions of innocent people? 
Niggers and wogs?
Fuck,  yeah, bring it on.
'Swhat I came into politics for. 

even now she's tellin' the Limey Congress they gotta have Uncle Sam's Weaponsa Mass Destruction, 


even though they cost fuckin' trillionsa Limey dollars, at a time when they ain't got a pot to piss in, n're gonna have to sell-off everything' to Wall Street, the schools, the hospitals, the roads, all that socialist kinda shit.  Well, I say sell, but y'all know I mean give.

So, as I hand over the the torture chambers of this great nation, as I gift her the legacy of shoot-niggers2kill4free, as I give to President Trousers the entire apparatus of the secret police state and the most successful exporter of terrorism ever, 


I just wanna express American solidarity with tyrants'n'despots, and 'specially torturers, all over the world..

The only way we can stand-up to our various subject peoples  is by shootin' then dead on the street. Anybody tellin' ya different ain't a patriot.

Me, too, Mr President, me, too;
 didya mean to forget me? 

I believe in all that stuff, too. In fact, in my country - although it's obviously really your country,  first and foremost, that's the basic principle of NewLabour -  I'm trying to deny voters the vote. They're all just terrorists, arent they, at the end of the day?  
Aren't they, Mr President?
Voters?

  

I mean, what's the point of giving people the vote if they misuse it, by voting against you, when it's you who knows what's best for them?