Tuesday, 15 July 2014


Away for a few days, maybe a week; enjoy the reshuffling of Ruin's knavish deck. And expect to be dealt from the bottom.


Hague hints at Hollywood future.
And I write books, too, about other politicians.
Yes, Willy, get your people to call my people and we'll do lunch.
Missing you already.

Well, mr deputy ishmael, it may be  ay long way, from here to Hollywood,  but as we say in Yorkshire, there's nowt s'queer as me, I mean folks.

No, I do think there may well be a film role or two  to be played by ay middle-aged man, ripplingly fit, with ay challengingly masculine haircut, ay rather, mr deputy ishmael, ay rather, if I may say so, better educated individual than is, for instance, Mr Bruce Willis.  And let's face it, having been foreign seckatry I can, in all sincerity, confirm that all the world's ay stage, mr deputy ishmael, and we are all, we are all wotsanames. And as you, mr deputy ishmael, as you yourself are constantly reminding us, here in MediaMinster,  there is no business like showbusiness.  Mrs Hague's uterus?  Yes it's fine, thanks, I can show you some x-rays; when I do that, it proves I'm  not gay,

or worse.

Monday, 14 July 2014


Archbishop of Canterbury, Julian Woebegone, today won his fight to have Muslems in charge of the Church of England.
I think it is a true reflection of our modern church and our modern nation - gays, lesboes and ragheads chasing one another round the vestry - and it demonstrates something or other which is truly profound and spiritual about this corporation which I head-up, its shareholders and its market valuation. 
It will be a great adventure and a challenge for our dwindling numbers of old people to take communion from an imam and have their diocesan priorities determined by Sheikh Bishop Ali Baba but it is one to which we will rise.  And if it doesn't work out then we will simply convert the churches to Gay-Bisexual-Lesbian and Transgender drop-in centres, which, actually is mostly what they already are. 
Sorry, what?  Jesus? What would Jesus make of it all? Just who the fuck is Jesus when he's at home?


Well, now look, I want to be crystal clear about this, this, this misunderstanding, I think we should call it.  Lady Coronation Street has recused herself from this complicated and onerous task of rewriting history and walling-up skeletons behind the Official Secrets Act, a task for which, I still maintain, she was eminently qualified,  You can say there was a conflict of interest but what's wrong with that.  We are all men of the world.  A conflict of interest and being related to the person one is investigating are not in my judgement any reason for us not chosing the best man for the job. Woman.  I mean woman, or man, although, clearly, in this case, it's woman.

Wossat?  Recuse?  You don't know what recusing means?  Well, I should've thought it was perfectly clear; it means running away as fast as one is able to  when the shit hits the fan while you're standing in front of it, getting covered.

No, there was clearly no reason for Dame Elizabeth to resign, she has behaved throughout this tricky time with all the integrity which we have all come to expect from Lord or Lady Justice Slag.  But now that she has found out that a distant relative, whom she had never met - much less discussed criminal cover-ups with - was a devout beastworshipper, she has in the time honoured tradition of MediaMinster, resigned whilst having done nothing wrong, well not yet,anyway. Integrity?  I think you mean Great Integrity which is something I have a great deal of, myself, Great Integrity, which is  why I didn't resign over losing the Syria War Vote, or when it was found that my office was full of crooks and nonces.  Great Integrity is what you have when you charge the public for your own Wisteria plants and then, the minute you're found-out, whaddayoudo, what you do is  you voluntarily put your hand in own your pocket and  pay back the stolen money.  Yes, that's it, I suppose that is a good way of putting it - the rottener one is, the greater one's integrity.

No, any further questions to be directed to Mrs Tracey May, who is, for the time being, the home seckatry and who got us into all this shit.   


Sunday, 13 July 2014



Given his relative health and safety, one worries on behalf of any individual or group which might wish Lord Janner QC conveniently and silently dead.  But he is 85 and might just croak. Mind you, Rolf Harris is 82 and he hasn't.

Mr Janner's  gaff in the House of Lords was raided by his local police force in March and in the unlikely event of  him not being completely vindicated one would normally expect him to die in mysterious circumstances.

 Meanwhile, the world's leading liberal voice, as it pompously styles itself, the millionaires' co-operative, charity status broadsheet, the Guardian/Observer, today coyly reports the criminal career of a Labour peer  who  buggered children for years.  The married, family man, like so many in Labour, is a rich QC and has for decades managed to keep his name out of the press and his arse in the luxurious comfort of the House of Lords, where we pay nonces, crooks and war criminals three hundred quid a day plus subsidised food and drink, just for turning-up.

Legal experts insist that names should not be named until charges are brought, bless, always interested in fair play, only not towards the buggered children.

Saturday, 12 July 2014


This is the PBC lunchtime news with me, Jayne Tits, and the top story of the day is that decent hard-working working parents all over the country have been forced to look after their own children, themselves.  For more on this story, over to Birmingham, where Samantha Tits has the latest for us.
Fifth columnists, marxists and paedophiles gather in Brum to molest children and undermine long-term economic reform and  growth and whatever.

Thanks, Jayne, and yes, that's right, this is the news that communist teachers, many of them of interest to the security services, have betrayed those many parents who expect teachers to do as they're told by the gabshite, mutant  lunatic,

Mr Spit, the education seckatry.  

I wrote the Bible, you know, children. Let's see, now....
  Chapter one, verse one, in the Beginning there were  Free schools.
And God looked on Mr Spit and was pleased.

Mr Spit has, today, reiterated his delusion that it is quite clearly the teachers' reponsibility, first and foremost,  to look after other citizen-suspect's children for them, while they, the hard-working parents, pursue their rewarding and important careers down Tesco or in the call centre. If it wasn't for their child-minding capacity, said the diminutive education seckatry, why, I could dispense with them and teach the nation's children myself, via television screens in their classrooms, bedrooms, nurseries, prams, buggies and so on; just imagine,  a constant LoopOfLearning,  A nineteen-fifties curriculum, for which we are all so nostalgic, for which the nation cries out  to me; me, Mr Gove, the nation's teacher.

  And I am joined now, Jayne, here in - whereisthisplace? - here in Birmingham's Victoria Square  by a local grandmother, Mrs Maxine Cough. 

Maxine, you're a local grandmother,  tell us what this strike has meant to you,  how has it impacted you? 

 How'sitwot, love, impacted me? 
 No, Oi'm a bit old fer that lark, me, bein' impacted.  Although there's them as does say, loike, that there's manys a good tune what gets  played on an old wossaname. But no, moy grandchildren, luvemtobits, me, doanyfinforem, 'snuffin's too good for 'em, phones, games, chips, pizza, if I got 'em, they got 'em; what's their names? Well, there's Delroy, loike, an' Winston an' Chardonnay an' Kylie an' Jason an little Manjit, only he lives wiv 'is dad, loike, in Pakistan. Never could take to 'im, Manjit's dad; nuffin' against them people, honest I int, right 'and up to God, so 'elp me, I int racialist, no way, Jose,  but they smell different, knowharramean, love, different than what we do.  Must be all them spoices, loike, what they 'ave in their dinner, Oi mean, you wooden wanna go in the smallest room, not right after Manjit's dad's been in there, prayin' to Allah, so to speak, break the 'eart of a bleedin' wheelbarrow, it would. Gorra face as  long as bleedin' Livery Street, they 'ave an' all, most on 'em, all beardy an' wearing frocks, loike, over pyjama bottoms.   An the blokes is just as bad. But 'ark at me, here's you wanting to know about the school stroike and I'm  gooin' all around the Wrekin, moaning about our Tracey's last husband, partner, achelly, don't seem no point in 'er marryin' em any more, all ends in bleedin' tears, dunnit ? Well, what can Oi tellya, love, it ain't roight, is it, them teachers'm  s'posed to look after the little uns, int they, I mean, swot we pay  'em for, innit?  Take me, Oi should be at 'ome doin' me online Bingo an' instead I gorra go traipsin' over to Druids 'eath and help our Trace out wiv the little darlins, and she ain't used to bein' up so early, at lunchtime, loike.  Diabolical liberty, 'sworrIcallit, them teachers gooin' on stroike an' expectin' us to do their work for 'em, idle bleedin' gits. That Nigel Fruitcake bloke, 'im wots on the telly, wiv 'is pint, loike, an'  puffin' on his B an' Haitches, he'd soon sort 'em out, send 'em all back where they come from, shouldn't wonder, send 'em all back to TeacherLand, or wurevver it is.

That was Birmingham grandmother, Maxine Cough,  there, telling us what, frankly, Jayne, we are hearing from all over the country.  People are utterly dismayed at being dumped with the care of their own children; it's absolutely not what we had them for, complain many, to look after them,  that's why we have teachers in the first place,  as child minders, so we can go out to work to pay the mortgage; isn't that what the property ladder is for, isn't that where it leads, slavery?

Thanks, Samantha, that was Samantha Tits for us there, in Birmingham or Wolverhampton, one of those dirty places, anyway, but to discuss this crisis further, here in the studio, we have professor Germaine Drongo of Oxford University, the Daily Telegraph, The Sun, Nuts Magazinee, The Times Literary Supplement, Have I Got News For You, I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, Big Brother and Screw Magazine.
 Professor Filth, 
writing in the NewYork Quarterly Shrubbery Review,
Professor Drongo, you are a widely respected educationalist, drunk, gabshite and pornographer  who is addicted to appearing naked in public, even in your late sixties, and you have no children;

 what does this tell us about the teachers' strike?

Nothing, babes, sweet Fanny Adams, zilch. Teachers?  Fuck 'em. If they don't wanna get their kit off for the camera, pointin' it where the Sun don't shine, that's their problem.  But I love it. It's the essence, actually, of feminism. 

 Now, babes, what about you an' me slippin' outa here an' doin' some girly stuff to each other? 
I got loadsa fags and fuckin' cases fulla strong lager.
 How about it, bitch? 
  I bet  you bang like a shithouse door in a gale, sweet thing. What? Clive James?  What? 'Strewth.  I'd  fuck a kangaroo before I'd do that.

Well, we're interrupting the programme there because our political editor,  

Nick Toenails, 
is at the prime minister and that other bloke, the one who's always asking himself questions, at their press conference at the White House, I mean, in Downing Street. Just looks like the White House, with those flags and seals. Let's hear what the unelected prime minister has to say.

My fellow motherfuckers.
 And suspects, Yo, suspects, because that's what y'all are now. 
Lets be quite clear about this, we have to read all your mail and listen to all your 'phone calls because, well, just because I say so. I know it's illegal but I am a great respecter of the law, so that's why I'm doing this, it may well actually be illegal, but actually it's not. And as I never tire of telling people, only those who fear totalitarian dictatorship have anything to fear.  Would you rather that we appointed paedophiles to run the place?  What? Sorry? We already do? Always have? Mr Patrick Rock?  Well, Nick, I think you'll find that he never actually ran anything in Downing Street, apart from kiddyporn programmes on my computer, er, his computer...... no, no, neither of us's computer, your computer, you, the public's computer, you own it, paid for it.  Now, do you see why we have to watch you so closely? Over to you, deputy prime minsiter.

And look,  and I want to be quite clear about this, am I the sort of person who would see his party wiped-out in the polls just so's I could play at being deputy prime minister? No, of course I am. Am I the sort of liberal who would attack the poor, the old and the sick? No, of course I am.  Did I become leader of this great, tiny, shrinking party just in order to usher in a police state? Well, that's a question which modesty forbids me answering.  But yes, of course I am. You know, I didn't come into politics to do anything other than burnish my ego and line my pockets...wossat? yes, of course, and to bully people, taken as read, to bully people.  But let's be quite clear about this, liberal democrats, labour politicians, me and the other prime minister, we have all  had our struggles about this legislation

 but - and I stress this - if we want to protect the govament from you, the suspects, or the public, if you prefer;  protect the elect from the electorate, even, then  we simply must have the powers to keep a close eye on you in case you disobey me, I mean us;  this is a democracy, after all. 

Just ask yourselves, suspects. Would you rather my party fiddled its expenses,  stole housing benefits, lied to the public, lied to the courts, took bungs from dodgy donors, bashed queer people and covered-up sexual harrassment by our peers; covered-up the  noncing of the mentally ill and  decades of kiddybeasting by our MPs?  No, of course you would.

And let me just come back in, here, Nick,

 and remind people that,  as with bringing Mr Murdoch's obnoxious  deviant thug,  Mr Coulson,

 whom I have never actually met and will never meet again,  into  the centre of govament, ignoring the irrefutable  evidence that he was a crook, 

well,  just as with that, if it turns out that these security measures are undemocratic, alien, unconstitutional, improper and wholly illegal,  I will of course apologise and take full reponsibility. And what does that mean, you may ask.  Nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, it means nothing at all. Except that, well, nothing really, it means nothing. It's like the Deputy Prime Minister says,  if any of us wanted to be held accountable - for anything -  this is the very last place we'd be. Let me be quite clear, doesn't matter what we do;  just because we pass the laws, doesn't mean we have to abide by them.  I'll take some safe questions from safe journalists,  Nick Robinson, of the BBC.

Prime minister, what do you say to the charge that historically your party has been a hotbed of child sex assault, torture, even murder...?

Historically, did you say historically, Nick, I think you'll find that it's a bit more.......whoops, got my wires crossed there, Nick, but look, we were both at Oxford, let's not make a mountain out of a mountain, eh?  There's a good chap.  No, I think you'll find that that nice actor chap, Mr Nigel Havers, 


yes, him  off Coronation Street, he's bang on the money.  No, no, his Dad was a great guy, a simply great guy, 

 a great govament law officer who simply wouldn't let his mate off  a charge of noncing, and even if that is what he did, which it is, he never told his son about it, so, obviously it can't have happened, can it? If the man from Coronation Street says he doesn't know that his Dad had a rewarding career as HM Nonce-Protector General, 
 then that should be good enough for ordinary people, who aren't in Downing Street, I mean Coronation Street.  And I would remind people that his aunt, Lady Coronation Street, 

whom I have appointed to head-up this very important, full and far-reaching cover-up, Mrs  Butler WhiteSchloss, is lovely, too, her nephew said so,  and furthermore she actually never met her brother, 
his Dad, never met him once, so how could she be compromised in investigating him?  I mean, and let's be quite clear about this, Lord Havers and  his sister, Lady Butler WhiteSchloss,  were only brother and sister, it is not as though they were related or anything.  Look,  to be quite frank, they never even met, let alone spoke to one another.  Yes, like myself and Mr Coulson and myself and Mr Rock. No, I think the nation will thoroughly admire the cut of Mr Nigel Havers's jib.
  I mean, it's not everyday a man stands up so impartially  for his own family, now, is it? 
 I think the very least we could do for him is a knighthood, he is one of us, after all, not that that would influence his judgement, of course. Just because a man loves his aunt, that's no reason not to give him a second chance.  Not that he does.  Not in that sense.

And what happens, prime minister, if she, if Auntie dies before accomplishing the desired whiteschloss, I mean wash, forgive me, been reading that ishmael chap....no, no I don't think you should;  what would happen, were her Ladyship to die before finishing the whiteschloss, damnit, wash,  the whitewash?

Well look, Nick, it's quite simple.  If Dame Not-Actually-Related-To-Her-Own-Brother should pass away, which, let's be fair, is highly unlikely,

not as though she looks like Death warmed-up, is it, 

and she's only in  her eighties, if, however, she should croak, well, then I will accept full responsibility for appointing her and, should I still be prime minister, appoint some other old coffin-dodging lawyer to start all over again, with  a safe, if shaking and palsied pair of hands.

But prime minister, this enquiry could take years.
Yes, Nick. 
And years and years and years.

And finally, if I may say so,Nick, to you and your colleagues, it's not us, the rich and powerful, that you should be investigating. If, despite Francis Maude's best efforts, you hadn't noticed, the fucking teachers are on strike, yes I know they only teach in ordinary schools but even so, And the strike is entirely legal.  It's the teachers you should be attacking, not, if you don't mind me saying so, not harmless old gentlemen, generally from good families,  whose only crime is buggering a few children to death, whilst laughing their heads off. Long grass, Mum's the word.

Thursday, 10 July 2014



Norman Tebbit is now an old man, his wife disabled by the doings of noted conflict resolution expert and statesman, Mr Marty Kneecaps, deputy first minister of the house of horrors which is the Northern Ireland Assembly. 

Ever since he was forced to return the Range Rover donated to he and his wife  by Mohammed al Fayed - of whose bribes his Lordship of course knew nothing - Tebbit has grown more unpleasant, his incessant Why-Oh-Whying sometimes like a national rash,  the answer to his querulous, whining  enquiries is,  obviously, Because of you, you cunt, and your fellow spivs, flogging-off the national silver and holding Greed's coat for him, that's Why-Oh-fucking-Why,  Lord fucking Telecom.

One can understand there being bitterness in his daily round but his own wounds do not warm his snide cold-bloodedness;  he was a ghastly reptile before the Brighton bombing and he remains hissing, scaly,  untrustworthy and venomous.

He is adored, yet, by followers of his Filth-O-Graph blog, by other sclerotic old men who delight in addressing him, in their comments, as my Lord or your Lordship, as though he was a noble warrior king and they his sturdy yeomanry; not for them the notion  that he is a  cruelly disgraceful old bandit and they a bunch of cranks clinging in their dotage to their illusions of Whisky Maggie is a shiny armoured delusion,  unoxidised by the rainfall of Time's realism but  burnished, instead,   by Lord Snide's undimmed hatreds and resentments, by  his readers' fretful, aged alienation.

It may well be the case that his recent - customarily veiled - references to the Great Noncing Cover-Up by his government are an attempt to get his own retaliation in first, as we now say, blaming others for his own actions.

Tebbit was close to Savile, not a crime but surely a huge misjudgement, perhaps worse than a misjudgement;  what ordinary person could not be repelled by Sir Jim's bespoke bestiality, his monstrous, bullying ego, who could admire him?  Well, Tebbit did.
And who would not sue the ghastly trollop, Currie, for her remarks, below, regarding Tebbit's acceptance of another nonce into the inner sanctum.  If I was him  I would have had the lawyerly mr umbungo all over the case.

Tebbit  often whines that he is misquoted, misrepresented over his On yer bike remarks, he never meant it quite like that or didn't say it but few would doubt that his thinlipped, cadaverous,  greedy soul meant exactly that, and worse. Wasn't his gang of bent spivs determined that (someone else's)  employment was a price worth paying, and do we not see, all around us,  the generational consequences of their filthy cynicism? 

The sneer is Tebbit's default expression and as he sneered at those dashed on the rocks of his vicious policies so he licked the arses of the City gangsteriste noueveau, begging for his crumbs.  It is easy to see him sneering, too, at the fate of worthless social services rentboys, what were they, compared to Greed's Crusade.

Somebody should ask his fucking Lordship about this Morrison business.  And be quick about it, before he, like his mate, Jim, is feeling Satan's poker up his arse.

Well, of course,  if I had known that the kiddybuggering and killing were fact and not rumour, I'd have privatised them.  And yes, probably taken on a non-executive directorship after retirement, but not for the money, just to protect the taxpayers' interests.

Old friends.
Jolly nice chap, Jimmy Savile, and rather sharp.
Self-made man, just like me. 

 In 1986, Edwina Currie wrote in her diary: 

‘One appointment in the recent reshuffle has attracted a lot of gossip and could be very dangerous: Peter Morrison has become the PM’s PPS [Parliamentary Private Secretary]. Now he’s what they call a ‘noted pederast’, with a liking for young boys; he admitted as much to Norman Tebbit when he became deputy chairman of the party but added ‘However, I’m very discreet’ – and he must be! She [Thatcher] either knows and is taking a chance, or doesn’t; either way, it’s a really dumb move.

The lady's not for turning.

Wednesday, 9 July 2014


Aye, Gary, I wuz right, didn I tell you that them was a loada ladymen, like, and couldn't play fer toffee?

 I mean, they crack-on like they was proper fellas but you only had to look, like, at the shorts and you could see that they 'ad some proper tackle doon there.  Wossat. Ah, yeah, s'pose yer right, 'adn't thoughta that, like;  aye, yer reet, bonnie lad, they would have, wooden they? My mistake.  But even so, the supporters,  they  was ladymen to a man, they was, 
  all that make-up an' fake tits an' what not. 'Snothin' gets my goat like a ladyman, Gary; did it never 'appen t'you?  You know, you got yer arm round this gorgeous  bird, 'avin a few drinks after the match, you been 'avin' a reet good snog and you slip yer hand into the penalty area an' fuck me there's meat an two potatoes?  Never 'appen to you?

Can't say it did, Al, can't say it did. 
But was this in Brazil, Rio?

Nay,  lad, it were in  Rusty's gay bar, in N'cassul, like. 
'Slike that most Fridays.  An' Satdays. 
 You should gi' it a go, like, Gary, they sell crisps.

But that bloke, that cunt, wossisname, ishmael - what sort of a fuckin' name is that anyroad, is he a fuckin' foreigner? - that bloke as is writing this, he says we gorra play this record, like, for the defeated nation of Ladyman, might bring 'em some comfort, like, after bein' handed their  arses by the Super Race. Fair's fair, lessfaceit, Gaz, they 'ad some good points, them Jerries. An' he says it's one a his favourite quartets, whatever one a them is; is it like a, you know, a threesome, only better, with more cocks, not that I'm a big fan a cocks or owt, an' he says that even though it were turned into a national anthem it's a sublime imagining, what can, like, move us all.  He says this here is a movement from the Kaiser or Emperor quartet, by some Herman called Haydn. Is that like in Haydn Seek, do you think, Gary?  Only we play that, down Rusty's,  of a Friday, hide'n'seek each other marbles, like; reet bonny, somea them lads, I mean lassies.


There were some friends here, a little while ago and a text message came from Birmingham, favourite son was unexpectedly flying out to the already kicked-off THIEFA World Cup.

He's one of those forty-year old Mummy-dependents, on his second failing marriage, trapped in an immaturity undisguised by his beery blokeishness, his bloated, red-faced excess.

We were talking, here,  the other night,  about what we now call consumer choices - how you spend your money - and there has never been a time when I could afford to fly-out to Brazil, didn't matter how much money I had, I could never afford to do that.  This guy also, with his mates,  regularly flies to European capitals in order, bless,  to get pissed and obnoxious. I blame the football, it is the bloke's equivalent of Because I'm worth it.  Somehow, thousands and thousands of pounds are diverted from family budgets into the pockets of spivs, gang-rapists and a United Nations of foreign gangsters.

Today, two young British Muslims face lengthy sentences for having flown abroad, not to engage in the mass hysteria of footy, not to get pissed-up and shame their country but to risk their limbs and lives fighting an enemy which the British government was desperate, a short time ago, to annihilate.

By today's yardstick any Briton who  fought fascism in the Spanish Civil War would be deemed terrorist and face durance vile upon their return.  And let us not even consider the bizarrely  incongruous judicial example  of Old Queen Brenda having a knees-up with Marty Kneecaps, or the fact that no British or any other kind of  Muslim has come anywhere near Marty's record of killing British citizens, men, women and children.

One would hope that, come sentencing time, Mr Justice Slag will say, Listen lads, fair play to you for wanting to have a go at Bashir Assad but, you know, you can't go taking the law into your own hands, you're not Tony Blair or anything.  I'm gonna give you a suspended sentence, just as long as you swear to me, before Allah, peace and whatnot be upon his wotsaname.... that you'll step back from this Jihad stuff.  Now off you go and stop worrying your parents and everybody.

But these young men are black-ish and they didn't go to Eton or Repton,  they were never in the Bullingdon Crime Gang  and they must, therefore,  be punished for their youthful high spirits  and idealism.

I am related neither to the lachrymose, neglectful,  spoiled, ageing footybrat nor to the young Brummie Jihadists but  think if I was looking, from among them,  for brothers in arms, I'd have to think long and hard.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014


There is much comment, on the information super highway, much of it thoughtful and well-informed, about the conviction of Rolf Harris.  Some complain that the evidence is all hearsay, others that it is too old, or historic, as we must now say, aping our arse-watching masters in MediaMinster.  One strand in this unpopular campaign is the fact that one of his victims took thirty grand or so, in advance of the trial, from a tabloid; another is that Harris's daughter's friend, upon turning 18, voluntarily remained in a sexual relationship with the old creep for thirteen years, only raising Hell when he refused her demand for money and there are yet others who insist that even if he did do that groping and all the rest it, it isn't really that bad. Strengthening their hand, paradoxically, some might think, is the intervention of Ms Vanessa Feltz, complaining very late in the day of events she alleges took place decades ago.  Like so many in showbusiness, Feltz, indefatigably talentless, is a Cantabrian, amongst the finest brains in the country, yet she breaks, it seems, just like a little girl.  I don't know the extent of the Harriskrieg on Feltz's underwear but whatever it involved it is a long way from child abuse and I guess, par for the showbusiness course, these people are uniformly repulsive and amoral and Feltz's belated cant unreasonably fuels the unreasonable assault on feminism which underpins, I think, much of the disquiet around Harris's conviction. 

I do not know if he was guilty as charged, if the charges were lawful but I must presume that the judge and the jury decided rightly, on my behalf, on both.  Judges, however,  are neither infallible nor always entirely honest; look at the trial, ancient now, historic, of Liberal leader, Jeremy Thorpe, in which the judge directed the jury that it could not convict an Old Etonian; look at the trials and imprisonments of so many supposed IRA bombers, who were all innocent; at the outrageous framing of Barry George for the murder of Jill Dando and the unanswered questions about her investigations into establishment paedophilia; we could fill the streets of cyberspace with the rotten, scandalous behaviour of judges high and low. Overwhelmingly white,  privately educated and Oxbridge, who could doubt that these vermin will, first and foremost, protect their own, I would believe anything of Mr Justice Slag.

I am also perfectly willing to believe that Hall and Harris and Clifford have been chosen  as scapegoats; indeed, watching, a few minutes ago, a sinister, former Tory children's minister, smarming and soothing, advising caution in the face of hysterical conspiracy theories and blaming all but parliament for all this shit, I would almost bet my life on it.  Thrown to the wolves or not, though,  I have little doubt that Hall and Harris and Clifford behaved reprehensibly for significant periods and towards those who were vulnerable to them as a result of their celebrity.  This does, of course, open an argument about the nature of celebrity but I have been having it here for years, already.  I wish more would engage, would see the true meaning of the phrase, There is no business like showbusiness.

But the danger I came to talk about is that old one, divide and rule, which Mediaminster so readily deploys against us.  Cameron’s spivs and gangsters would, at a stroke, repeal equal pay legislation – Look, it hampers the wealth creators, simply gets in the way of long term economic reform; would repeal anti-discrimination legislation -  Lessbeclear, it costs the taxpayer a fortune; would, as it so successfully does, even further set worker against worker, black against white and man against woman.  The women’s rights struggle was and remains everybody’s struggle; it is a piquancy of our ruinous times that so many blame it - and not himself - for the apprehension and conviction of a wretched old nonce.