THE ONLY GOOD COMMIE'S A DEAD COMMIE.

Well, what can one say, socialismus mortem bellissima, what??  And now my fellow Londoners and myself can press on with the vital task of forcing down wages in order to drive up living standards, well, living standards of myself, what, ho ho ho.  No, confutatis maledictus tradeunionismus.  My own salary, what, ho ho ho, I knew you'd ask that, not as much as I jolly well deserve, what? Health and safety?  Load of old tosh, look at me, I ride a bike.

Boris Johnson is bribed  a quarter of a  million pounds a year by the Daily Filth-O-Graph in order to write dire, predictable and boring anti-democracy stories on behalf of its owner, the Bizarro Twins.  His mayoral salary is much less than this and is widely seen just as coke'n'totty money.

 I SAY, KEN,  DO STOP CRYING

Well, lessbeclear, as leader of the Labour party, I don't believe in working people myself but I must say that mr wossisname was a very effective thingummy  for them, - advocate, is that it? - and he will be sadly missed and my thoughts are with his friends and wossanames.

Well, when they broke him they made the mould. In all my time in well-paid and untaxed public service I never thought this moment would come but now that it has it would be foolish of me to say that I won't stand again for mayor because I will. Without wossisname the people really need me to get rich for them, not that I do it for the money.   No he's right up there, wossisname,  in my own pantheon of heroes, right next to Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness.  That'll be twelve hundred pounds, please.

sings: Maybe it's because I'm a Lahndunner.

SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND, THE RETURN OF MR SNOT.

MAD YOUNG  PARENT AND  DRUGGED-UP NUTTER

JOINS THE INDEPENDENCE DEBATE.

He's learned how to march but to his own tune,

 he is acting outwith the Better Together Campaign,

 

 No, piss off, Darling,  or ye'll get a Nokiaphone in the heid.

I am perfectly capable of fucking this up myself.

 just as he always has,  Gordon knows best;  if he saved the financial world - by privatisng its profits and nationalising  its losses -  why, he can easily save the Union.  He thinks he's aping the oratorical style of Mr Nick I-agree-with-Nick Clegg, who wanders around the stage asking himself questions such as 

 

Does this mean I am a liar,

No, of course it doesn't,  even though patently I am, and so on...

 CallHimDave, the unelected prime minister, spiv, cheat and nincompoop  has also taken to bestriding the stage, only not like a Colossus, more like a gibbon in a suit;  it is, in short, the new style of bullshit al le Bretagne, they all do it and we can bet that if he could be hooked-up to a portable autocue,  Uncle Sam's  Commander in Chief would similarly address his fellow  motherfuckers.  Gordon though, as you would expect, can't carry it off,  the casual, just-having-a-chat-with-you-approach,

One nation, Scotland and England, under me.

no, he marches, as though he has metronome psychosis, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like one of those Greek ceremonial guards, flinging each  leg in the air and swivelling, just-so, after just-so-many paces and returning across the stage. march, march, march.  You'd have a wee bIt more respect for him if he just stood at a lectern, and clawed it to bits.

Set yer moral compasS, Scotland. 

It's my way or the highway.

 Look, there's no snot on this tie, not yet.

NEGLECT IN THE COMMUNITY.

 I have tae go, the noo, it's time fer ma medi-cay-shuns.

(sings) So ye'll tak' the highroad and Ah'll tak the lowroad

An' Ah'll be in the loonybin afore ye.

  He has been schooled, obviously, in his new, Trust-me-I-can-walk style of haranguing people.  But it's the same old shit,  he no longer has a despatch box so, with his nailbitten Claws of Doom, he slaps the air itself, chopping downwards as though striking Tony Blair's Adam's Apple, he still does that thing with his jaw, his infamous, feverish drywank jawdrop and he still over-articulates his words in the ghastly, showy way he always has - dee-vohl-you-shun;  he still admonishes and harangues, he is still as mad as a fucking hatter, didactic I-Know-Bestism, ranting, growling, bullying and bad to boot. 

 First the leaden, hamfisted dunderhead. Fat Al Carmichael 

 

 Och, will you just get me, 

 mincing intae Downing Street as  Scottish Seckatry.

and now Gordon Snot;  greedybastard and lying fuckpig, Alec Salmond, is surely having it his own way......

  

 Aye.

Gordon, an' wisnae he the most hated politician in living memeory?

ANOTHER OSCAR SPEECH.

Well, yes -  applause, cheers - no, no need, I haven't said anything yet . Not -  chuckle-chuckle - that I won't. You all know me by now - cheers applause, shouts of nigger-nigger-nigger, out-out-out - you all know me, I tell it like it is. Seig Heil.

 

 There was an Englishman -  cheers, applause - an Englishman - more cheers and more applause - and another Englishman, and they all went into this pub. 

 

Those were the days, weren't they, when a group of Englishmen could go into a pub, if there was a pub left that the EU hadn't destroyed, sit down together, drink six or eight pints, splash piss down their trousers and not, definitely NOT wash their hands, as.....cheers... as....cheers... as,  I might say, we are continually being told to by the health and safety police in Brussels -  loud cheers, footstamping and whistling -   in the good old days, back to which I will, if you'll allow me, lead you, do you know what, we could all sit, trousers damp with beery urine, hands unwashed, sharing the fellowship of a packet of cheese'n'onion crisps,  pissed as fucking rats and  enjoying a few Bee'n'Aitches without having to go outside and - eyes bulge, veins throb on forehead - catch fucking cold, yes, catch fucking cold,  whilst enjoying a healthy, freedom of choice cigarette,

 

 which, quite frankly, never did me any harm, apart from that it'll kill me, like it kills everybody.  I mean, how dare they, the unelected EU, how dare they ban smoking in English pubs? Back in the good old days we could sit in our pub  OUR pubs, mind and discuss the latest hanging - cheers, applause, whistling -  and quite frankly which of us wouldn't like to see the return of hanging for, well let's just say for those who have overstayed their welcome.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with immigrants. But they need to be the right sort,  they need to be OUR sort, not foreign immigrants.  Wossat? Why were there no Englishwimmen in the pub story? Well, that's a good question and quite frankly, do you know what, I'm glad you asked it.  There weren't any Englishwimmen in the pub because she was busy winning a parliamentary by-election for UKIP.

Well, if you want to split hairs like the old parties do, she may not have won in the narrow sense of winning but she certainly won a terrific victory in the sense of not winning.  So there.

The UKIPPERS, they don't believe in political parties, apart from their own, which consists entirely of this nincompoop,

 

 Farrage, a not-safe pair of hands, being pulled from the wreckage of his leader's aircraft, pilot was probably pissed. 

 anyone else attracting any attention gets the Bums Rush. Farrage is  lavishly funded by the parliament which he claims to despise.  It was Baron Hattersley of Spit, wasn't it, 

said he only went to the House of Lords to destroy it, that was, how many years ago, 1997, seventeen years of free dinners, free brandies and a few hundred quid  a day for clocking-in and immediately clocking-out;  FagAsh Farrage is one of those, the Hatterjee de nos jours, went to Brussels to bring it down or get us out of it. Still a man needs something to do when the pubs are shut;  why not form a political party for the stupid, the old and the dying?

Eng-land, Eng-land uber alles.


One wonders what one has to do with the dummies,  the personality cultists - North or South of the border -  who maintain, from the dark, oceanic  depths of their  narrow-minded stupidity  that their politican isn't like any of the other politicians; no, no, they insist, he's not like the others, he'll do things differently. No, he's not and No, he fucking won't.

EMERGENCY STATEMENT, FROM THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY, THE DANCING QUEEN

 

 Mr Tiny Speaker,

  
standing up pompously: 

 I call the right honourable lady, the home seckatry. Order...ORDER...ORDER. The right honourable lady will not get her kit off, however much honourable members beseech her.  I want to hear what the home seckatry has to say as I am sure do viewers of these proceedings, among whom honourable members do themselves no favours. (Sits down pompously)  

The home seckatry: 

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH

LUVEM2BITS, MY KIDS, DOANYFIN4EM. ANYFIN EXCEPT DISCIPLINE THE HORRIBLE LITTLE FUCKING BASTARDS

Stacey Bradbury, a loonymum,  tells the BBC she is "disgusted and shocked" that "my son had to sit there quietly and have Sellotape put over his mouth" Get over yourself, you silly cow. Teach the little bastard to shut his worthless gob when teacher is talking.  Blackboard rubber aimed at the head's what we got

You have to laugh at  this story. Seems a teacher in a Somerset academy school, 

driven barmy  by  a classful of darling little fuckpigs took to Sellotaping their vile  mouths shut.

I was married once to a primary school teacher and her first appointment was as a temporary replacement for a teacher taunted and bullied into nervous breakdown by the bad behaviour of her class;  this was in the nineteen-seventies,  before all children were spoiled, over-indulged, unwaged consumers, as they now are,  wretched little mutant creeps, a-texting and a-twittering their meaningless lives away; it was before the Blair phantasmagoria that all were university-bound; before A levels and degrees were worthless; this was when teachers knew that hopefully is an adverb, absolutely an adjective; it was, in short, the fag-end of a brief time when there was a compact between  the teacher and - via parents - the taught,  and this level of classroom mayhem was a relatively rare occurrence. 

 Why anyone, any adult  of sound mind would want to enter a clasroom full of  today's stupid luvem2bits little bastards is quite beyond me;  better to join the army and risk having your legs blown-off than confront, daily, the spawn of Ruin's monstrous, ignoramus legions.

Here's one, look, he's not in his right mind,
you can see it in his eyes. 
Mad as a fucking hatter.

Academy head, Mr Ian Gob, a management-speak basket case, said he was grateful that this had been brought to his attention, would do anything in his power blah blah blah, learn lessons, and move forward blah blah blah...

 Sometimes, down at Tesco, the cashier - is she a cashier? isn't that too grand a title for what she does? - asks me if I'm collecting this or that voucher to help the local schools, with computers or something.  No, thanks, don't like children. 

 I always want to add, I might not like 'em but, probably quicker than you, I'd run into a burning building to save one. I'd relinquish my place in the lifeboat quicker than any of the officers or the ship's owners.   I feel  the genetic imperative, to nurture and protect them, it's just that I don't like them,  they're not very nice, because their parents aren't very nice.  No law says I gotta like other people's children.  I don't even like our own. And as for Mr Oh, he's not just my son, he's my best friend, well, I think he's  creepy,  aberrant, needs a punch in the throat, should have his children taken into care, have them looked after by people with best friends their own age.

 Best just whisper it, though, else
Mr Oh, he's not just my son, he's my best friend will freak-out and withdraw best-friend-son Thomas from his Montesorri nursery and best-friend-William from his Steiner school.

TOBY YOUNG'S VIEW

We are joined now from the ailing Filth-O-Graph by professional  pushy parent, show-off,  Michael Gove arsewipe and all around knobhead, Mr Toby Foreskin.

What, she did what? I am apoplectic, incandwossaname with rage, look I am so incensed that all my hair has fallen out. And my clothes.  This slutty French trollop just proves that what this country needs is for the Michael Gove revolution to consume the entire nation, with me as his aide de camp.


le famille Foreskin.  
No,my wonderful little darlings,
Papa often poses with a book over his cheesy knob.
It's what we call clever.

Let's be clear. Special people, such as me,  produce special children and they need very special teachers in very special schools, teaching them, well, specially. Otherwise they will grow up to be complete cunts, like Papa, ie me.

No. What this so-called teacher did was unforgiveable  unless her pupils were common people, in which case, let's be clear, who gives a fuck?

NUMBER TEN, HEART OF DARKNESS.

 Mr Dave Crook bids farewell to another gang member.

We don't know what this guy did, if anything and, since you mention it, I don't know exactly why - if he did what they say he did -  it is a crime.  Mrs Ishmael, for instance, because of her employment, may look at child pornography images, however they are defined, whereas I  - and you - may not.  It is an axiom of our time - anyone, except a professional or para-professional  or copper, looking at certain images is adding to the original crime committed in their creation; it is an odd logic, isn't it, that the job, trade or profession of the viewer, defines the legitimacy or not of the viewing, as though the images, themselves,  were sentient, which by definition, they are not. It is as though the child subjects of the images live within the images and although native Americans felt that the Daguerreotype photograph stole their souls this is not part of our cultural understanding,  the image is not the person.

Those in or adjacent to the child protection industry- most of criminal justice, social and health and education services -  invigilate themselves,  they say,  have mechanisms in place to stop themselves being turned, by exposure, into beasts. Unless of course, they are beasts already, which, the law of averages says, some must be.  In such circumstances the watching of kiddy porn may be seen as a perk of the job.

  If you or I, however, review this stuff, it is a criminal act, our only purpose being defined as masturbatory.  But suppose we could eradicate every childporn image in the world, what, then would the devotee do? He would just imagine-up some child abuse images for himself, wouldn't he? (....and if my thought dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head in a guillotine....) And  there's nothing we can do about that - even in a world awash with actual kiddyporn and beastymen it is the imagination against which we must, yet cannot guard. Somebody imagined the image before he set it up, the photograph or the videotape exists as a result of someone's 
image-ination, As Paul Simon sang in Kodachrome:

If you took all the girls I knew

When I was single

And brought them all together for one night

I know they'd never match

My sweet imagination........

If Mr Patrick Cock was viewing BeastULike porn on a Downing Street computer there is no way we can know - for sure - why. Maybe he is a beast, maybe he is not depraved but just has an interest in the 
image-ination of depravity, as I do.  And you do.  Christ, sometimes one can simply no longer look at MediaMinster, at the depravity of Blair and Snotty, the Ballses, the Milibands, Jack Torture;  at Hague and Fox and Duncan Smith, at Osborne and Cameron;  these people are vile, their prolonged study can only weary the student, best to have a break, do something wholesome, go down the garden and plant a daffodil meadow.  But studying them doesn't make me copy them. Looking at filth doesn't make me filthy.

Similarly with kiddyporn, I am sure that it turns the stomach and puts the mind in a bad place, nevertheless, we should all be able to look at this stuff,  maybe compelled to confront its wickedness, for only by doing so can we protect ourselves from it. 

 Nobody says we should not view the vilest depravities of the Nazi war; au contraire, these shocking images have acquired for themselves the same status as the sacred iconography of the early Christian church,  they are regularly paraded before us, in newspapers and on television;  in award winning cinema and between award winning hard covers.  

There is no National Nonce Day but there is a National Holocaust Day, whose purpose is to remind us of cruelty; you can be locked-up for suggesting that Shoah never happened, or that it happened in  a fashion different from the orthodox view.  This libraryful of murderporn is sanctified,  no-one says, No, there are neoNazis who will be aroused by these bulldozed bodies, these incinerated children,  these, the hanged, the whipped, the neckshot, digging their own graves, even looking at these things should be a crime, they are obscene,   they will corrupt and deprave, people  who are not part of the Holocaust trade will masturbate, you know how wicked people are. Nobody says that by watching or reviewing the doings of the filthy Nazi nation we are complicit in the fate of its victims;  nobody says that because it is not true.

And neither is it true of child abuse imagery. It is time we unleashed the demon of child abuse from the supercilious, clutching, exclusive and secretive  I-Know-Best bosom of pc plod and ms do-gooder - it's not as though they stop any of this shit happening, is it,  the experts? It is high time we dragged the beast into the daylight, recognised him and kicked his arse. Do we really need to be policed, lest we are all nascent paedophiles? Fuck off, I say, no, we don't.

But I digress, hard not to.   I came, anyway,  to talk about Cameron's Downing Street, unelected, illegitimate in its conception, the Coalition of spivs chancers and criminals is increasingly tainted by arrest and prosecution. At what point do we say, fuck this shit, the whole barrel of apples is rotten?

Cameron with Coulson, his own version of Blair's venomous psychobastard, Big Al Campbell;  Coulson is currently on trial for all sorts of anti-democracy shit.

We said all along that this appointment was a deal brokered in Rupert Murdoch's office - access to the heart of government in exchange for tabloid support. And so it was. Naked, barefaced treachery, for which Cameron shuld have gone to jail, like ButcherBlair before him.

We have ever damned the LibDems as a gang of nasty hypocrites, thieves and  criminal beasts;  in exchange for commons votes Cameron appointed this cunt energy seckatry, 


even when the dogs in the street knew he was bent, as bent as he is repellent. Cabinet minister goes to jail and no-one says a word about the judgement  of his boss.

Cameron's appointment, Arseman Fox,

 flying his boyfriend all around the world at my expense, 

misrepresenting his lover's position, running a bought and paid for, maverick foreign policy;  a thieving, traitorous degenerate and all that happened to him was a twenty-grand severance payment, not even a slap on the wrist.

  

Oh, go on then, big boy, slap me.


And then there's the witch of Chipping Norton, Bekah, a close friend, lol-er,  neighbour and co-worker of Dave Crook's.

Bekah too, is on trial for serious, anti-democracy offences  and she is currently attempting to bamboozle the jury with sad tales of her poisonous womb, her working class upbringing and her wretchedly unsatisfactory bed-hopping.

 A group of violent young offenders,
still at large.
 
As well as his failure to actually learn anything, Dave Crook's undergraduate days, along with those of many of his current co-offenders,  were punctuated by loutish, bullying behaviour which would have seen ordinary people jailed.  Dave has never quite denied using hard drugs - cocaine isn't like a bit of weed - probably for fear that BoJo or some other cunt would contradict him, 

 
Once teenage hoodlums, now sleek organised criminals.
 
when the time was right.  And since the coup with the LibDems Dave has surrounded himself with filth.

It may be that, like lots of rich kids, he gets off on associating with the shady and disreputable, or it may be that he is shady and disreputable, himself.  Whichever it is, the more we learn about life in Downing Street - particularly the reluctance to reveal this latest scandal - the more it resembles a safe house, in which a Mafia family has taken to the matresses, is holed-up, not knowing from where the next shot will be fired.

THAT OSCAR SPEECH.

   OSCAR TESTOSTERONE

 First of all, I would like to thank my parents and the great team I have around me and whilst I acknowledge that I did shoot wotsername it was only because she was playing-up; acting like a bleck, she was, a proper Kaffir.  I ask you, your ladyship and members of the jury, what would you have done?  I mean, there I was, a no-legged, millionaire Olympic legend and the bitch was giving me lip.  I ask you, which of you wouldn't shoot an uppity bleck, it's the only language they understand. I mean, if you gotta gun or two you're gonna kill some bitch sooner or later, otherwise what's the point of having them?  And I am only on trial here today because the alleged victim was white.  Just close your eyes and imagine she was black and you must acquit me.  Nelson Mandela?  Yes, a great inspiration to us all. What?  Bleck, was he?  Fuck me, your ladyship,  I never knew that;  always acted like a white celebrity, he did.     

 No, I just like my guns, that's all, bigger the fucking better, that's right. Athletes? Salt of the Earth.

I know, I know, it's legal  to own and shoot guns in SA, doesn't mean he murdered  his totty.  

 

Next week: Oscar OJ Simpson, no, no,  sorry he's in jail.

TEA WITH THE DROMEYS.

Mr and Mrs Beast-U-Like.

Privately educated and from a wealthy family, Harriet Soursister  is Labour aristocracy, niece, I believe,  of the late Lord Longford. It's one of those things which the Labour party has always managed to carry-off, the promotion of those utterly inimical to the good of organised labour -  Callaghan, Kinnick, Blair, Brown, the Ballses and now the wretched Miliband, what on Earth connects these idle, over-privileged, thieving, warmongering  bastards to the labour movement? Why do working people permit themselves to be represented by those to whom they are just a coin-flipped career choice - Blair, Mandelson, Brown,  Campbell, Straw, Reid,  all of them, these cunts are just greedy, Tory bastards.  But at least with proper, greedy Tory bastards you know a priori  that they're proper greedy Tory bastards.

Like so many of  her idle, worthless caste, Harman studied politics at university and has never done a proper day's work in her life.  Oh, I forget, they were all hard working lawyers, weren't they, the career politicians,  even the wretched, warty Straight Simon Hughes refers ad nauseum to his long career at the bar, before he took up queer-bashing;  Harriet Soursister is no different, she, too was a barrister and despite the lawyer's ability to  talk out of her arse and her gob at the same time  her career  in parliament has been besmirched by her  dodginess, 

How dare you accuse me of anything?  she rages.  Haven't I given my life to whatever it is you are accusing me of.  She is a fiddler, a liar, a dissembler, a bully  and an incompetent, cack-handed enough even for Blair to sack her.  In another time and place Harriet would be guillotine fodder.

This is just one extract from her wikipedia entry:  

In January 2009, Harman proposed a rule change to exempt MPs' expenses from the Freedom of Information Act. Her parliamentary order aimed to remove "most expenditure information held by either House of Parliament from the scope of the Freedom of Information Act". It meant that, under the law, journalists and members of the public would no longer be entitled to learn details of their MP's expenses. Labour MPs were to be pressured to vote for this measure by use of a three line whip. Her proposal was withdrawn when the Conservative Party said they would vote against, and an online campaign by mySociety.^[44] The failure of the motion led to the disclosure of expenses of British Members of Parliament.

In December 2010 it emerged that Harman was amongst 40 MPs who had secretly repaid wrongly claimed expenses between 2008 and 2010. In November 2010 Harman's parliamentary private secretary Ian Lavery had blocked a motion designed to allow the repayments to be made public.[45

The rest of wikiHarman is well worth a look

Jack Dromey, PikeyJack, as he is affectionately known following his decidedly unNewLabour racist jibes,  

 

What paedophilia?  How very dare you?  
Don't you know who we are?

 is an archetypal politico,   one of MediaMinster's chosen inner sanctum, from NCCL to trade union  official to  being swaddled in a parachute and dropped into  a safe Labour seat, about as democratic as slavery. Man's an utter cunt, a professional gabshite, blustering about  values and beliefs, neither of which he could identify at six inches. Pikey Jack, too, can't dry-clean away the smell of shit that clings to him;  again, this, below, is just a snippet from his wiki rapsheet:

Cash for peerages

On 15 March 2006, in the Cash for Peerages scandal, Dromey spoke of not being aware - despite his being party treasurer - of £3.5 million loaned to the Labour Party in 2005 by three persons who were subsequently nominated for life peerages (Chai Patel, Sir David Garrard, and Barry Townsley). Loans made on commercial terms, as was claimed to be the case here, are not subject to reporting requirements to the Electoral Commission.

Dromey stated publicly that neither he nor Labour's elected NEC chairman Sir Jeremy Beecham had knowledge of or involvement in the loans and had only become aware when he read about it in the newspapers. Dromey stated that he was regularly consulted about conventional bank loans. As well as announcing his own investigation he called on the Electoral Commission to investigate the issue of political parties taking out loans from non-commercial sources. His resulting report was discussed by the NEC on 21 March 2006.^[3]

Labour Party donations scandal

Dromey was caught up in further financial scandals in 2007 as he was responsible for party finances, which included more than £630,000 in illegal donations from David Abrahams. Dromey again claimed to know nothing of the donations, with critics wondering why he had not examined the issue more closely^[4][5] Harriet Harman, Dromey's wife, was also caught up in the affair, as her staff had solicited and accepted illegal donations totalling £5,000.^[6]

As a result of this incident, there was growing concern about the fitness of Dromey to act as treasurer and Mark McDonald challenged Dromey for the position at re-election. McDonald argued that more transparency was needed: he was unsuccessful in his efforts.

Now, sadly, I am old enough to vaguely remember the Paedophile Information Exchange group and I remember thinking to myself, what the fuck is this? A what?  A nonces' clearing house? The very fact that such a thing could get airtime and press space,  that its chief nonce could go Farrageing around the country talking offensive shite made my blood run cold.  I don't recall connecting it to the NCCL but that doesn't matter because Harriet and the ghastly, moneygrubbing fuckpig Patsy Leatherface do.  

The cream of the NCCL

from the Ishmaelian archive
 Patsy Leatherface Hewitt, former Kinnock Babe, married to a judge, son's a junky; gobby, patronising, useless career shitbag, jointly responsible with the Postman for national epidemic of HAIs, deaths of hundreds, thousands. Couldn't even see to it that the hospitals were as clean as the local chippy. Wouldn't wanna eat round her gaff. Now working full-time for Boots the Chemists, honest, not invent, and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP. 

 
They do remember it and they now try to bluster it away.  You would think that any decent person would automatically eschew, would run a mile from the notion that twelve-year olds could consent to being fucked by adults.  That's what you would think.  That Harriet and Patsy didn't is enough, in my judgement, to have barred them from public office, at the very least.  Harriet, despite her silence, her oversight, became a cabinet minister, and grizzly old boot, Patsy, is still hoovering-up health company money, flogging contacts and information she gleaned as Health seckatry.

They are a uniquely tarnished bunch, New Labour, we could be here all night, chronicling their sins, their deceits, their crimes, their Hellish blitzkrieg in Arabia.

It doesn't  matter how Harriet and Jack and Patsy bleat and bluster;  I was an ordinary citizen in Coventry and I knew the PIE was seriously bad news, why is it that they, arrogant and conceited enough to want to rule the country, did not?   

They will all be most grateful to Gay Vlad, president of Russia, for shoving them off the front pages;  they will be hoping it all goes away, which, of course, it will, into the same trash compactor which the PBC uses.  All a very long time ago, now, move along, please.

CARRIED HEAD FIRST DOWN THE STAIRS TO THE CELLS.

The last post was almost but not quite correct in every prediction - even my fitful dreams could not conjure a gang of temporarily licensed racists erecting a gallows and baying,  

 

Bee Enn Pee, Justice For Lee; apart from that 18th century apparition,  the post was spot-on.  (In passing, it was obviously wasted on the BNP lynch mob that the two convicted were actually British themselves.  Nigger British don't count, of course; Jew British, Paki British, Irish British, they don't count; there's only a tiny brave remnant of true Brits left, actually, unreformed, grunting, knuckle-dragging, pissed-up, face-stomping  skinhead Nazis, bless them.)  So keen was MediaMinster to further damn the two Michaels that all  the hacks continued their spermy dribbling as the chants of the fascist mob crescendoed, MediaMinster raisng its voice ever louder,  pretending that the vile background noise  wasn't happening, or pretending, even worse, that these were the voices of a raucous compassion. Shame on all of them, focusing their limited, bought-and-paid-for minds on -  how does it go? -  the beam in their own eyes.

In the scale of these things, were we to ever examine them rationally, the killing of Lee Rigby is a tiny footnote and compared with how  these atrocities  have usually been  conducted, it demonstrated  an internally logical heroism, altruism, even. 

Whatever Mr Justice Slag said 

- and one cannot see him risking his comfy, pompous life for anything on Earth, much less for Justice; doesn't this arsehole know that Justice, our Justice, in a system where the lawmakers pray daily to Jesus, demands a consciousness of the possibility that all may repent and reform and be forgiven, does this cunt of a judge think that his court trumps that of God - these two felt themselves to  be soldiers and were more than  willing to die  for their cause.  Their target was not a civilian, he may have been in civilian clothes but he was a squaddie and in Afghanistan - or anywhere else - Fusilier Rigby would not have refused orders to kill any number of civilian women and children - go on, when's the last time that happened ? -  it's not as though the modern BushBlairGlobaCorp war is conducted according to the Geneva Convention;  countless Asian mothers will have wept that they did not expect to see their sons killed on their own streets by the likes of Lee Rigby, why is their  loss meaningless to us?  And isn't our indifference to our foreign policy the true cause of the drummerboy's death?  Why is it OK, noble and brave for us to kill Muslims on their home streets but not OK for them to reciprocate, to return the bloody favour?

There is always a distortion of logic when a cop or a soldier gets killed but the unglossable truth of the matter is that both have chosen to join-up, both are, compared with most of us, well-pampered and pensioned, in return for which they are expected to insert themselves between Trouble and me;  that is what they get paid for, better, therefore,  that they die than that I do.  Lots of fishermen, oilmen  and construction workers die on duty, generally as a result of failure in those pesky, profit-hindering  health and safety regulations, nobody gives a flying fuck about that, nobody offers a silent prayer over their fish'n'chips, well, nobody but me. But a squaddie or a constable, Christ, you'd think that the sky had fallen-in, should one of their number die.

If the IRA, anyway,  had carried out this  grisly killing, they would not have stood, talking to women and waiting to be killed by the cops; no,  not  the HardNancyMen,  they would have planted booby-trap bombs to maim those women as they knelt to assist the victim, would have attempted to kill and maim their children and then they would have run away, sleekit,  to a network of safe houses and maybe eventually to friends and supporters in the United States.  The only bravery, the only willingness to die ever demonstrated by the IRA was displayed by Bobby Sands and the rest of the hunger strikers, Gerry Adams, the nonce and Marty Kneecaps always kept themselves well out of Harm's way. And, thanks to Tony Blair, they still do.  I do believe that they, Marty and Gerry,  are among a handful of - well, I was about to say Brits, but they're not Brits  - a handful of people in Britain who are allowed to carry concealed handguns, purely for self-defence.  We may not defend ourselves against terrorists but they may defend themselves against us.  Y'see, it's the logic of Ruin.

The Birmingham 'pub bombings  were truly cowardly; unlike the two Michaels, the IRA deliberately targeted  young civilians, killing and maiming scores of them and the West Midlands cops - scum, even by police standards - framed the first six paddies they got their hands on.  Lord Denning-Slag, among others, crushed their first appeal on the basis  that it didn't matter if the police had lied, it simply would not be good for public order, public confidence,  if he upheld the overwhelming evidence that they had lied their arses off.  Best in the world, envy of the world,  British justice. 

Doubtless for political reasons those guilty of the Birmingham 'pub bombings have never been convicted.  But if these cowardly bastards had been they would never have received a full-life penalty  and whatever sentence they did receive it would have been  hugged away, there-there'd by the ghastly Mo Mowlam and the rest of the NewLabour filth.

Yesterday was a sorry day. Mr Justice Slag's sentencing remarks run to about four pages and are pure Judge Jeffries' rhetoric of wickedness -  Me Good, you bad.  Translated, they mean, OK, I've done what my masters, the politicians and their masters wanted me to do.  And I have done what the tabloids wanted me to do. Now promote me.

Other societies do not, via their courts and media,  blitz and immolate themselves with rage and hatred and vengeance;  the Norwegians, recently, in the face of multiple terror killings, a slaughtering of their young, behaved with great dignity and decency, we will not let the savage make us savage, they said unanimously.  Mr Justice Slag, in his frock and wig, the negligent keeper of Justice's feeble flame, would laugh at them supersciliously, vengeance and hatred, he would scowl,  c'est moi.

This miserable, woebegone affair has resulted in the ruination of three young lives and judicial and prosecutorial backslapping, whilst to be expected, is a bitter draft for Sense to swallow.  The true authors of this horror will cruise still, in armoured  limos, LearJetting contemptuously above us, laughing at the two Michaels, at the ghost of Lee Rigby and at bewildered, grieving families and children on all sides, although it is, of course, only those on the Rigby side who are damaged by all this.  The black children, the black parents?  Well, fuck 'em, they shoulda been white.  BEE ENN PEE, Justice For Lee.  Aye, right.