Friday, 25 September 2015


When shit happens, so the prophet, peace and blessing be upon his name, says, it is the shit of Allah, His will be done.  

If that is the case then the old boy must be deeply offended with the House of Saud, for, twice in a month, He has defecated upon the place most revered by His adherent believers;  if, in swift sucession,  two similar disasters befell St Peter's Square, the faithful would be calling for the excommunication and branding of Pope Nazi Emeritus and probably of Pope Frankie, too;  somebody'd have to pay for all this shit raining down from Heaven, cranes and stampedes crushing the faithful to death.

Contrarily though, the CEOs of Islam, the Sauds and the Iranians, are all talking not pious acceptance but Snotty LessonSpeak, just as though they were Christian or Jewish Godlessheathebastards.  Gotta learn some lessons, make enquiries, improve our procedures, find sol-you-shuns.  Now, either these jokers are fucking muslims or they're not.  If bad shit happening is the will of Allah, like they say it is, then surely it is monstrous blasphemy to try to short-circuit His will by improving health and safety regulations around His holy place.

I have always been drawn to the fatalism, the acceptance by muslims of  the fact of death, just really an adaptation of how the original Abrahamic Lord giveth and taketh away  and of His prophet, Jesus, saying that to believe in Him is to be granted eternal life;  the suicide vester, like the Kamikaze pilot, somehow, shaming we who worship our own existence far more devoutly than we worship our own version of God.  I am genuinely disappointed, therefore, to hear prominent muslims bewailing this loss when, surely, for the good muslim, death in pilgrimage to Mecca must be a consumnation devoutly to be wished;  how better to please God, who knows all and sees all, than to perish in His pursuit.
 I mean, is nothing sacred anymore?

Monday, 21 September 2015


  • I   did not have sexual relations with that woman, I mean pig
  •  and lessbeclear  about this:
  • Tory politicians would never stoop to putting their right honourable members in pigs, not while there are children's homes full of filthy little sluts just gagging for it.
  • Mrs Thatcher would never have stood for that and nor shall I.
  • And while we're here, I never smoked cannabis at Oxford with James Delingpole, how could I, I am the prime minister.
  • And fucking a pig, anyway, is better than fucking a dog, like Mr Corbyn did.
  • At least the pig was white-ish, if there had have been a pig, which clearly there wasn't.
  • That's  enough pig stories.
  • Damaged my reputation?
  • No, I shouldn't think so.  I trust the British people implicitly not to raise their eyebrows should Mr Lord Ashcroft fall in front of one of Mayor Boris's omnibuses.

Saturday, 19 September 2015


I know nothing of art, precious little about anything, really, yet I loved to see art critic, Brian Sewell, ripping into Pomposity and Stupidity, however grand their  costumes.

 It wasn't just the jumped-up dauber or the sluttish, soiled bed-linen artiste who found themselves skewered on his  rapier;  I remember hooting when, as Sewell chaired the grisly charade, a politician or some such vermin on Have I Got Stale News For You proclaimed that We Needed Less Of These Things, fewer, said Sewell, almost to himself, alone amongst barbarians, we need fewer, not less.

I loved his  irreverence, his scholarship, his language  and his alert, curious,  mischievously queer face.

Brian Sewell has been missing for a while now and he has just died at 84.  
I hope he was in Queer Heaven, alongside Quentin Crisp, half an hour before the joyless, scowling Devil of Gay knew that he was dead.


I caught a delayed flight from Orkney to Aberdeen, last Monday morning. 
 In front of me sat  Big Al Carmichael, 

currently the local MP, now facing a legal challenge to his election  in May last. 
 Carmichael, by his own admission, lied when he insisted that he had not leaked  misleading information about Nicola Sturgeon, MSP,  but maintains, lamely, that this was a political lie, not a real one and so he should not be unseated; 


 a crowd-funded campaign, however, supported by many of his constituents - although not by myself - has taken the matter to an Edinburgh court.

A couple of rows behind me sat Lord Jim Wallace, 


formerly LibDem holder of the seat which Carmichael now considers his own property.  

As an MSP and deputy leader of the Labour-LibDem Holyrood Coalition, Wallace was a disastrous justice minister, memorably, for her hurt feelings, paying a Scottish police sergeant three-quarters of a million pounds of my money. Wallace had presided over a bungled forensic criminal investigation which attempted to rewrite the laws of science, implicating the officer in wrongdoing of which she was entirely innocent, as well as subjecting Scottish criminal justice to worldwide derision.  (see Shirley McKie, wikipedia) 

When his  Holyrood coalition fell to the Tribesmen, Wallace's brain-numbing, grinning incompetence saw him rewarded with a seat in the Lords 

and yet another paid ministerial position, this time  in  the Clegg-Cameron axis. By local standards, indeed by any standards, Wallace is fabulously wealthy, grandly enriched by the taxpayer.  Now that he has helped put LibDemmery  in the political swillbin, along with the NF and the BNP,  Wallace only manages to claim from us three hundred pounds a day, for showing-up at the Lords, and then doing as he pleases.  With his fees in mind, Wallace was obviously anxious not to be delayed on his Monday flight-to-work.

And so, too, was Carmichael, for no sooner was  he aboard than he was reminding the  stewardess of his importance, 

of how he had to make his connection, it was vitally important that he get off first, as befitted his stature as a disgraced politician.  Catching himself in full arrogant flow Al added that it wasn't just him,  there were other passengers, too, with connections to make;  he meant his mate, Lord Wallace.
 Carmichael continued  throughout the flight to remind the stewardess of his personal eminence.

 I couldn't quite hear all of it, so I don't know if he asked her to kick the pilot's arse but I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that he had.

Now, it is well known locally that many of the morning flights from Orkney to Aberdeen carry NHS patients, bound for the city's Royal Infirmary and given the size of the tiny aircraft that is clearly visisble;  some appointments are routine, some, like mine, are for specialist treatment and some are for those clearly, visibly  in serious distress and discomfort; all, given the stresses on NHS Grampian and Scottish NHS generally, are time-dependent, at least as important, anyone would think, as the diary appointments of a non-ministerial, disgraced MP,

 or a superannuated parasite. 


Some of the passengers looked as if  their lives could depend upon their appointments;  they were the sort of people to whom anyone, absolutely anyone,  would say, No, please, you go first. 
 Not our democratic representatives, 
not Carmichael and Wallace.

We must ask you to remain seated, squeaked the stewardess over the speaker, while we help other passengers make their connections.  Thank you for your patience. 

Wallace came barging down the aisle, eyes fixed on his feet, brushing past the inconvenient sick and the impudent lame - his neighbours and former constituents -  as though they didn't exist;  Carmichael, at the front,
 lumbered off the plane without a sideways glance at his seriously ill constituemts.   I felt lucky that neither had felt the need to horsewhip us.

A few minutes elapsed while calls were made from the cockpit and the cabin to check on the progress of our statesmen and then the paying passengers and the sick patients  were allowed to alight.

I missed my appointment by just five minutes and I don't know what happened to everyone else, maybe their clinicians juggled things a bit, just as long as it didn't impede Wallace's progress towards his money or Carmichael's  urgent attendance at whatever it is which his party of eight MPs  finds urgent.
We few, we precious few, we band of brothers-in-bumming...

During round one of the Neverendum, Carmichael's inept handling of his role as Scottish Secretary resulted in the demise of his party in the following General Election. Campaigning for the Union, Carmichael proved to be a Scottish Tory lawyer revealing his true colours.  North of the border, his shaky and deeply unsettled constituency - his majority was almost eliminated -  is now  the only Scottish seat in LibDem hands, so he is probably as welcome among LibDem Westminster survivors as is Ed Miliband at Labour HQ. 

Maybe I misjudge them both, maybe theirs is not the insolence of office but the ardour of late middle-aged men, running  late for a tryst with boyfriend or girlfriend, in some second home, provided and furnished by we, their lessers.  
Whichever is the case I shall not easily forget the naked, brutal self-interest of this pair of political cocksuckers and I cordially invite Brother Corbyn to add them to his growing list of candidates for the Big Shiny Guillotine of State. 
The people of Orkney, of course,  should pelt them with rotting turnips.

Friday, 18 September 2015


Only seems five minutes since we said that, soon, a harsher welcome would await the designer-migrants, flocking to Europe, seeking la dolce vita Islamiste.  Guns, we said, would be turned upon them, should numbers multiply, encouraged by airhead sentimentalists.  

Since then, Auntie Angela's guilty conscience has fled, its arse in its hands;  

the Shengen Treaty has disappeared as though it never was and down at the sharp end, in Hungary, 

forests of razor wire are now augmented by teargas and water cannon, laying down a revised welcome mat which stops short of lethal force, but only just; it will come, the shooting, it has to, for this is not a handful of Huguenots, a train carriage of Jewish kinder, a few thousands of Asians, fleeing Field Marshal Idi Amin, VC's, crazily murderous regime;  this is a juggeernaut of humanity and unchecked it will overwhelm Europe, where, already, housing and public services are at breaking point and governments, GlobaTheft's servants, are determined to squeeze further, those, who, in HamFace's words, choose to be jobless ( odd, isn't it, how MediaMinster failed to notice that remark and concentrated, instead, on Corbyn's presence and demeanour, such as they are.)

The Swedes and the Germans have much for which to rebuke themselves, but then the Swedes are insufferably smug and the Germans, well, what can you say about a nation which inspired the deaths of sixty or so millions and honed  Cruelty to a sharpness never seen before? Both nations have peddled the dangerous nonsense that all-may-come, only a week ago the sour-faced hausfrau 

was trumpeting that nearly a million could come, that her Germany had Lebensraum fur alles, her people were waiting at railway stations, not, this time,

 to rob the gold teeth, prosethetic limbs and spectacles of filthy Jews, 

but  with food and toys and spare rooms,  for refugees consumeriste; the whole of Germany was a free-to-all Michelin-starred gasthaus, her industries desperate for the well-behaved, highly-skilled employees which all these designer-migrants claim to be, although, if they don't get their way, they will throw concrete and bottles at lawnforcement, bismillah, it is the will of Allah. 

A shame, incidentally, that these pilgrims didn't  have the opportunity to demonstrate their manners to London's Metropolitan Police Service, who could probably teach the Hungarian thin blue line a trick or two about crowd control.

What is most interesting about these events is the disconnection which they highlight, between ordinary people and the career moralists who so plague us.  In Orkney, all the usual smug sermonisers have been screeching that we simply must all adopt a migrant family, as though they were puppies,  take them home and love them;  traditions of inernational caring are manufactured in an instant, hard-faced, greedy, incomer-hating councillors, happy to slash local jobs while increasing their own perks are become Northern Mother Theresa and a handful of worthless  bien pensants  picket the ancient Cathedral, waving impudent  placards of ethical instruction. 

In real life,  though, the local newspaper opened a Save the Refugees page on its website and it crashed almost immediately, overwhelmed my messages of sincere migrant-fuck-offness from  ordinary people, who would feel the most impact from a gang of noisy, beardy fuckpigs besieging their   surgeries and schoools, demanding their rights, appearing at their isolated doors, clutching an empty bucket, saying, I am refugee and come to wash your car, look have bucket and only needing is hot water and shampoo and very good job will make from car  and is only twelve pounds.  Have master's in software design from University of Damascus but enough money cannot earn, so give me now twelve pounds and will wash car.  Am refugee, isn't it, and you must help.......good, is good, I come every day and clean car, see, is great benefit to local people, to having refugee come and work hard. Allah akhbar, God is Great, you will learn good from refugee.

My old friend's son visited a while back;  from a lifelong middle-class Labour tradition, Sam is now firmly a Kipper;  it's the Rumanians, he said, they go through my fucking bins.  Down in the Black Country, moralising Councillor Cunts have decreed that in order to save humanity all the little Victorian terraces must have three giant wheelie bins roped outside their already tiny front windows, into which citizen-suspects must ethically sort their refuse upon fear of condign punishment.  The Rumanians, apparently, regularely root through Sam's bins, discarding rubbish for which they have no use all over the front garden and street;  on his way to work, his car, stopped in traffic, is besieged by the bin-scrabblers, demanding that Sam pay them to wash his windscreen.  I was always afraid, down South, that events would lead me to open my front door, even in leafy Worcestershire, armed with a sharpened stick or a bucket of bubbling caustic soda solution.  The Armageddon which I feared was the collapse of the national economy and an outsurge of hungry anger from the festering city ghettoes,  that is partly why I live here.

I have always known that the hungry and war-torn would eventually see that Europe was the Promised land, the posh end of the global village and I always thought any border or coastline would be hard to defend against determined people, thinking they had nothing to lose;  I thought it would be hard but European politicians have made it almost impossible.  I do not understand why Germany is not demanding the resignation of the idiot, Merkel,  and her government of nitwits for having encouraged this insatiable tumult.

It isn't only here, in the North,  that Joe Public is in such unreported dispute with His Master's Voice;  a look at any of the comment threads on any of the nation's newspapers reveals the same story, nobody but the chattering moralist wants anything to do with these designer migrants, everybody notices their relative affluence,the fitness of tne predominantly young men, the cynical, reckless, exploitation of the children and now the lawlessness of these same young men, bricking and bottling their way triumphantly through perfectly legitimate border controls;  many have commented on   cowardice of these shouty young bastards, the thousands of dollars spent on their passage would have funded many's a squad of Kalshnikov marksmen, why don't they stay and fight for their country?  There was a show, the other night, about Brits and Germans and Americans, civilians, 

who had joined the Kurds in fighting the headchoppers of ISIL.  They were a surprising bunch, some former soldiers, others not, some mature men, educated and altruistically philosophical, some young and adventurous, all stating that they just felt that they had to do something to fight the headchopping cultist bastards,  the amputators, the burners alive;   you had to love them, noble warriors, priest and poets,  risking their lives, if they were lucky, public mutialtion and torture if they were not; many of the comrades were young Kurdish women, not cheeerleading or burbling managementspeak, but up-front taking shrapnel in the gut, fatal rounds in the head;  later, seeing these cowardly bastards storming Hungary, cheered-on by some crooked, overpaid  wanker in the UN, by some simpering  prelate

and his congregation of touchy feelie morons, you had to wonder why anyone bothers risking their lives for  a region and a faith in which  the fit, healthy natives can't wait to fuck off out of it, come over here and build more fucking mosques. 

Perhaps the cruellest stupidity visited upon humanity by these accursed, showboating ethicists, clergypersons and filthsters  is the legacy of outrage, disappointment and violent confrontation which must follow hard on the heels of Merkel's mewlings and pukings.  All over poor, starving, thirsty, unmedicated Africa; all over a Middle East rendered pacific and stable by PeaceMaker Blair,  all across the 'Stans, domesticated  by Gordon Snot and Mighty Wee John Reid, millions, maybe tens of millions will be charging their i-things, trimming their beards and haircuts, packing their Korans  and setting-off  to a suburb near you, where, undocumented,  they will be welcomed into the homes of caring Europeans, happy to give up their own idyll consumeriste, that Ahmed and Fatima may have it. 

When, as will very quickly happen, even the dumbest of dumbfuck sentimentalists realises that national borders define everything - culture, jurisprudence, economic systems and levels of taxpayer-funded public services - the cry of the weeping bien pensants will be for sharper barbed wire, stronger teargas, bigger rubber bullets and eventually for a killing ground, 
just beyond the Borders of Plenty.

Rational minds would entreat the US Sixth Fleet to chaperone these people to a place of safety, not to their own choice of consumer heaven, to a place where they would be fed and housed and schooled  and  cared-for, by the UN, the Red Cross,  the Red Crescent, by those insufferable smugsters at Oxfam and Save the Children, by Medecins sans Frontieres, 
just  as though they were real refugees.

The fortunes of the coke-snorting Saudi families should be confiscated, the Qataris, the Bahrainians, the Jordanians, all those close friends of Queen Brenda should forfeit everything in order that a Free State be established for their footloose co-religionists.  Tony'n'IMelda; SpunkyBill'n'Hills;  George Dubya Chimp and his gang,  they should all suffer the seizure of their war fortunes.  Maybe Basher Assad needs nuking, maybe he needs working with, I don't know, but while our supposed allies in the region are also funding our enemies and fighting proxy wars in Syria and Iraq, the whole fucking shooting match looks like it was dreamed-up in a group therapy session, down the local loony-bin.

Sunday, 13 September 2015



Well, all I can say to people - Real People, mind, not socialists,  Real People, who know what side their bread is Flora-d  on - people who care deeply about the Labour party, people who care as much as I do, yes, and as much as other great men like myself care, people like my fellow noble baron, 
Lord Peter Mandelstein,  he was born to rule, you know, pure aristocracy, Lord Peter is, rather like myself and Lady Kinnock, the great Lord Peter, who helped me form NewLabour,

 Kinnock, The Great Navigator.

from a disgraced and irrelevant workers' movement, hampering business and govament at every turn, Peter and I and all the other founders of Workers' Neglect, we are all deeply and profoundly, quintessentially and unequivocally gutted, yes gutted.  We didn't betray every single principle of  Workers' solidarity and co-operation and the so-called welfare state - a state, I might say, which concentrated wholly and entirely and exclusively and entirely erroneously in my view on the needs of irrelevant poor people.....wossat?  Workers Educational  Association?  Me? No, no, no, boyo, I never worked for them, never, never would have been involved in something like that.  I think you'll find that was that Ishmael chap, the communist. 

 No, I just always wear gold cufflinks in solidarity with rich people;  yes, all of us in NewLabour do. Well, in time, we hope that black people will be able to wear them, too, but it's a long struggle we're engaged in;  first we have to make ourselves rich, you see, and then we can........ well, then the problem will be solved.  I mean, how would it be if everybody could afford gold cufflinks -  the foodbanks'd go out of business, for a start, and think of all the unpaid jobs that'd be lost if that happened. I mean, I didn't come into politics to stop people working for nothing.  Only not nobility, like myself, of course, and Lady Kinnock, our time is valuable.

No, I am Baron Kinnock of Islwyn and Brussels, the first Kinnock baron in a thousand generations, no, a million generations, that's how grand I am, and I have Margaret Thatcher, 

Baroness Thatcher, to thank for that, and so much more.  I mean, if it wasn't for her, people would still be expecting the state to build homes for people to rent and everybody knows there simply isn't enough money for that sort of thing. 

Lady Glenys Slag, MEP.

And I say to you, today,
that MEPs sinply cannot do their jobs without a massive increase
 in pay and conditions and expenses.
Yes, and pensions, too.
And I must echo, for the Commissioners,  
what the noble lady and member for Mugsborough says on behalf of her colleagues;  if ,as Europeans, we pay our people peanuts, we will get monkeys.
Yes, like me and the missus.

Yes, now we get three hundred pounds a day in the Lords. 


Each, that is, me and Lady Glenys. No, look you, we're not motivated by the money. It is the opportunity to run our business from such a grand  address.  What is it?  Oh, well, it's not working by hand or mind, that's for sure; it's never been about that for her Ladyship and my noble self. No, it's more in the line of taking bribes.  
Yes, for attaching our names and titles to any old shit, really, any scam which needs the imprimatur of senior legislators, those who have distinguished themselves by unstinting service to themselves, like Lady Glenys and my noble self.  Yes, whoring for money, the greatest task to which a NewLabour politician can apply himself.
As well as the protection of eminent and distinguished Labour members like my fellow noble  Labour lord, the Lord Janner of KiddyRectum.

But Jeremy Corbyn, no, I mean yes, we are as a family, as a dynasty, in fact, absolutely gutted, yes, disappointed is another way of putting it, dismayed and disillusioned, yes it was as a wordsmith how I distinguished myself.  Well, you might call it windbagging my arse off, like a ginger hobgoblin on drugs but the people of Islwyn, yes, that's in Wales,  the location of my first business, they loved it, no matter how much I betrayed them, they still voted for me in their thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, they love a good windbag, they do, in Wales.  And that's why I said, 

 We're not alright,
not with me in charge, anyway.

why I said, after my election defeat, yes,
 Thank you, Neil Kinnock, thank you
and Arise Baron GreedyGingerBastard

I was defeated by Johnny Underpants, after that, I promised  that I would stay and serve them for as long as they wanted me, but in fact they all said to me, Lord Neil, boyo, we really want you to go and serve us in Europe;  boyo, that's what they called me, and I never rebuked them for their informality in the presence of my nobility, go to Europe and represent Islwyn on the matter of the continent's transport, be a  Transport Commissioner for Islwyn, way to go, your Lordship.  

Yes, and sack anyone who blows the whistle on the crooked accounts. Well, what could I do?  Mind you, it was a month or two before Lady Glenys was able to be at my side, as an MEP, but it came good in the end for us.  And we want it to come good for everybody.  Oh, not hundreds of pounds a day just for signing-in and immediately fucking off out again , nothing like that. But we had hoped that our son, 

the Viscount Kinnock, 
would rightfully have inherited the leadership of my party  - cos, you know, inherited wealth and position, that's what made this great party of ours -  and we deeply regret the fact that  not only was his Grace, the Lord Steven,

 not nominated but that voters, most of whom had no business in voting at all, being poor and working class, the fact that voters disobeyed our orders and voted not for a  proven arsehole like Ms Cooper or Mr Bubbles but for someone who simply wants to rock the boat, steer HMS Gravy onto the rocks of redistribution, someone who dosen't even have a title, much less a coterie of backers in GlobaCrime pulling his ginger strings, well,   I mean, that happening, it beggars belief.

All I can suggest is that, as true democrats, we await the opportunity, and it cannot come too quickly, to overturn this democratic result.
And install my son, His Lordship, the Viscount Steven Kinnock, MP, in his rightful place.

 Giving ordinary people the vote,see, 
it was never a good idea.
Not when they use it just as they please
 and not as they're told, by their betters; 
yes, of whom I happen to be one.

In other NewLabour news, below is an artist's impression of the proposed Big Shiny Celebrity Guillotine, to be erected in Downing Street, upon Citizen Corbyn becoming prime minister. 


Suits your Lordship's smug, thieving neck nicely, sir.


Lord Blind Boy Blunkett,  
elderly, cock-waving Murdoch stooge and  the unacceptable face of disability, said the other day, through gritted teeth, No, I'm not saying that Jeremy Corbyn is a thug, cos he's not, I'm just saying that many of the people around him are.....

Blunkett, readers may recall, when home seckatry, set home office spooks on his recalcitrant mistress, Kimberly Bicycle; hoped to celebrate the death of serial killer, Harold Shipman, with a bottle of champagne, doubtless to be purchased by us, and raged at being unable to turn machine guns on rioting prisoners.  A bit of an authority, therefore, Blind Boy, on thuggish behaviour, as are most of his kind, not blind  people,
 NewLabour filthsters..

Tonight he is probably dictating a piece for some RedTop ShitSheet,  Blunkett, predicting the ruination of everything he and his clan of thieves and bullies and pimps and slags achieved, i.e. a minimum wage which officially wasn't enough to live on;  war, torture and kidnap; the deregulation of Usury;  licensing the Muslim  Brotherhood of Noncing Labour Voters; the Private Finance Illusion;  the pardoning of the IRA and the UDA  and the valiant but failed attempt to introduce us to the reforming effect of Identity Cards and ninety-day detention.

I am not  quite sure why but I do expect better from disabled people, something along the lines of those who have suffered the most being the best-connected; Blunkett, however, a bully and a moron, an industrial strength hypocrite, reprehensible and unwholesome in his personal life, is a contemptible bastard. 
The other, misunderstood and misrepresented  aspect of Blunkettism is that, like his fellow cock-waver, 
Lord John  Pies, 
Tellya what, chuck, just finish us chips 
an' I'll gi' ya one, on't desk of deputy prime minister, like

Dave thinks that he was appointed on merit, when he was, in fact,  just a token blind man, one of Blair's Babes,  but with a beard, and a seeing-eye dog;  Prescott there to reassure the working class, Blunkett there to represent Otherness. 
No places on Tony's Sofa of Swing for Dave and John.
They were just there as window dressing.

 Even by the dismal standards of NewLabour,  Dave was spectacularly incompetent and most of his work, at Education, the Home Office, from which he was sacked,  and Work and Pensions, from which he was sacked, simply must have been overseen by others.  There is only so much a blind person can do, and running national security couldn't - and certainly shouldn't - have been left to him. 
 He was and remains an oaf, Blunkett, a greedy, immature, disreputable, unpleasant buffoon, only granted a platform because of his disability, something which, sadly, he has never risen above, being as mean, nasty and self-regarding as Mandelson, Hain, Straw, Miliband, Brown and the rest of them, probably worse.  The only thing which can be said in his defence is that despite his endless policy gobbing-off he was only ever allowed to do what Blair told him, how would he know when the wool was being pulled over his eyes, when his colleagues were mocking him, with gestures he couldn't see; when his staff were rolling their eyes at his incompetence, his disability?
Blunkett has no political achievements to his credit, he was a laughing-stock, an amusement to which he enthusiastically added; his paranoia, his priapism, his delusional grandeur, his fictitious friendship with Tony'n'Imelda, as if they gave a fuck about a dozy old blind geezer.
Not the stuff of statesmanship, Blunkett, not even of middling-fair ministership, a clown, comical yet pitiful.
His bullying of Kimberley, his reactionary outbursts, his work for Murdoch and his dodgy business ventures, these are Blunkett's legacy, he is very welcome to it.

As for me, on this night of upheaval,  I shall part-fill a nice glass from my only bottle of good brandy, and raise it to Blind Boy Blunkett's continued distress.

Eat shit, and die, 

Friday, 11 September 2015


He was at the next table to me when his lungs rebelled. He ran from the refectory, coughing and spluttering. Returning a few minutes later, he said:

I hope I didn't put you off your lunch.....


Only I have lung cancer.


Aye, an' there's a bloodclot, just behind it...

Behind the tumor....
And sometimes it presses......


And I start coughing-up blood...

Yes, I said, smiling and nodding, furiously benign, abandoning my lunch.

Most people here have cancer. I am staying in a cancer patients' hotel, close to the hospital;  always the outsider, I don't have cancer; even in a home for the damned I am the exception,  the one who doesn't fit.

Most days, I just get the minibus, carrying only me, to the National Hyperbaric Centre's  Tank of Healing, don the Helmet of   Accursed Perpetual Itch - it happens within a couple of seconds of the helmet closing and lasts for two and a half hours, an itchy, untouchable nose or eyebrow - return and sleep for the afternoon.  I only have to walk amongst them, the cancerous, in the refectory, and even then, I try to  eat my M&S readymeals outside the conventional rush hours.

Invisibly printed on my tee-shirts are the words I am here for treatment, not society; the same rubric is invisibly tattooed on my face and arms.  I am never openly rude, I just avoid eye contact and conversation, save for Good morning and Excuse me, please.  It is just that,  like most people, I cannot stand the sick.  I don't want to catch whatever it is that they have.  I am sure that I can catch lung cancer from this bastard at the next table, spraying our shared air with his ancient, now bloodied cigarette smoke, coughing his filthy disease all over me AND eliciting my sympathy.  He should have stopped fucking smoking, yet even now, bussed, daily, for chemo- or radio-therapy he limps outside for a fag.

Oh, I know, all men are brothers, there but for fortune, no man is an island but I have a good stab at being one.  I have a liberal's theoretical empathy with the ill, I have been ill for thirty years with an incurable disease, not self-ignited, just hereditary and I know that sick people can't or shouldn't be judged by the same yardsticks as those which measure the healthy and I am always amused by the sniping at those who miss doctors' appointments, as though they were Ruin's fifth column. Sick people miss appointments because they're sick, maybe they are grown forgetful or confused, maybe their medications mess with their minds, maybe they are depressed and amotivational, who knows, but that they are sick,  their shortcomings forgivable; instead, Dr SmugCunt, a busy GP, blames them for being his customers, for being messed-up by his careless, mercenary over-prescribing, by his nine-to-five contract, which transfers their care to a call centre.

There is a lot to forgive, when it comes to health, among patients and practitioners and I do forgive this man his stupidity and his loneliness and  his urge to share his icy misery with complete strangers but I don't forgive him enough to be his friend, to engage with him in his death.
I never can understand this hospice business, either, dying is as personal as living gets, the idea of a place in which to go and do it, among strangers, ministered-to by trained mortality symbiotes “is wholly repugnant, the ultimate commodification, something which, so long as I have any physical agency, I will never do.
If I had known how grim was this cheery charity flophouse I would have done something different. I can't bear institutions at the best of times, existing, as they must, entirely for the benefit of their staffs, guards and faculties. An institution for those teetering on Death's slippery tightrope is a bad place to be, when you haven't set foot on the ladder, and even, I guess, if you have.
I am only here for three nights a week so I shouldn't grumble and I am not, really, only about this further  manifestation of Britain as a nation of carers; even in illness and approaching death we are encouraged into unseemly, indiscreet and ill-mannered behaviors, like monkeys, picking fleas from each other.
In sickness and in health, it seems, we are a nation of caring, sharing, a Big Society, noisy and hectoring, uber paedophiles demanding our money for Children in Need;  three grand a week charity bosses demanding our money for their business, fuckwit gabshites like Bob Geldof, demanding our money for the IMF and the whole McMillan Nursing scam letting government off the cancer care hook.
Caring, it's your democratic responsibility, dig deep.

Some may remember, in the days of the Great NewLabour Scam, Imelda the Divine, Tony's Consort, as she described herself, having a paid best friend, one Carole Caplin, a colourful lady, adept in the adjustment of chakras and auras and the dispensation of aromas but mainly in being Imelda's official girlfriend - and, if legend is correct, giving Prince Tony the odd handjob. We do not know if Carole travels still in Tony'n'Imelda's court, nor what she cost us while in Downing Street, all the receipts for her services having been shredded by Imelda,  the efficient housekeeper.  Anyway, I see these McMillan nurses as a refiguring of Carole, the Immaculate Wanker, as paid best friends, their role not to walk you through important social occasions but through the Valley of Death, something which is, properly, God's job. Prayer, that's the thing, reflection, contemplation and such atonement as we can muster,  that our souls not trouble those remaining; instead, we have TeeVee campaigns, reminding us that the McMillan Angels need paying for, govament is too hard-pressed, what with bombing niggermen and everything, to hold people's hands, when they are standing at the North Pole in their dressing gowns, and remember, if we forget to pray for the angels, then the angels forget to pray for us.

 I didn't crawl from the sea, climb the trees, hunt'n'gather, revolutionize agriculturally, industrially and information technologically just to go and participate in a public, community die-in, caring my arse off, about refugees, about the sick and the dying, about all the causes which Sisters of Mercy, plc, insist are my concern. Kids Co, Oxfam, Cancer Ree-surch, they are all the same.  Fortunes are made, funds trousered, reputations burnished;  caring, it's the new Gold Rush.


Tuesday, 8 September 2015

EVENSONG. Jackie Oates • One Minute Lullabies #3 : Sleepers Awake

This is an abridged version of a Mike Heron song written before-before, in the days of the Incredible String Band. I had never heard of Jackie but trawling through her youtube stuff found re-workings of fine English folk songs, tastefully arranged, gently tendered.

It is good that young performers eschew the imperative of singer-songwriting, the culture is rich in what was once, before Billy Bragg and the rest of the vermin, properly called folksong and it should have new life breathed into it.

Anything, by the way, which included the exhortation, Sleepers Awaken, would, in my view, usefully replace the infantile tedium of Long to reign over us......

Sunday, 6 September 2015


I don't know about anybody else but I am utterly fed-up, on behalf of Germans and Hungarians and Greeks and ourselves, of all these people just barging-in and demanding that they live here,  just because they want to, just because, what is it  that they pout so indignantly, I have nearly completed my degree and I want to do my master's in London, cheeky cunt. No, I do not need to register with the authorities, here, in Hungary, I need to go to London or Berlin or wherever I wanna go to, my cousin is there.

As for the tearful father of the drowned child and its bleating auntie in Canada, somebody ought to bring charges against him and her  for recklessly endangering his family. Oh, but I had no option, I had to get them to London and then to Canada, because that's where I want to be.  No, it doesn't matter that I had been denied asylum by the Canucks,  they simply have to accept me, because that's what I want, that's my human right. And because I have the little children.  Or I did have.  He needs a punch in the gob, this joker, he put his family in the sea, nobody else did.

Oh, sorry, it's the people smuggalers, yes, course it is,  they're to blame for people pressing thousands of shekels or whatever they use into their hands and saying Please drown me, anything is better than  fighting for my country.  

I watched a triumphant cohort of a thousand, marching into Germany and I couldn't fill the fingers of two hands with women and children,  they were all gobby, young geezers, with Peaky Blinder haircuts and elaborately sculpted beards.   There seems to be enough of these bleating, hysterical headbangers, fit young men, wily and determined, muscular  and resourceful, yet screeching and throwing themselves down, all Luvvie-like, on the railway track, more than enough of them to form a fair-sized army and resist what and whoever it is which drives them North but No, having participated by default  in the fuck-up of their own region  they want, not just want, but demand that they come here and fuck-up mine,  that they bring their whoremongering, barbaric, hostile, uncompromisingly savage religion into our blessed Consumerist New Presbyteria and spread it around, in the name of Allah, peace and blessings be upon his sexist, sadistic, homicidal head, and raise ugly buildings to him,  there to corrode the land and culture which gave them refuge.  Fuck me, Jesus, it's enough to make a man vote Poundland.

I am not what anyone would describe as hard-up, I am not affluent, either,  as are some here, I am  not even what one would comfortably call comfortable, not with Gnasher and Co. wanting to take what little we have and gi'e it tae Jock, d'ye ken, on accoont a they Clearances;  my income, however, is not that of a supposedly peniless refugee and yet I cannot afford a Smart phone.  I have the money for a Smart phone but I have other things to do with it;  gasping, his lungs filling with salty water, Ahmed doesn't, have better things to do with his money.   His Smart phone, Ahmed's,  like his mad impulse  to colonise Germany without let or hindrance, is his right, given him by his God, that one, the Great HeadChopper, up in Decapitating, Wife-Stoning, Child-Raping, Virgin-Filled Heaven. I don't know what an AK 47 costs where he lives but it won't be as much as he pays to Apple; if he must have a portable phone, he should buy a ten-pound Nokia, like I do, down alTesco, then steal one of those rusty Toyotas and stand in the back, firing his AK at  those whom he says are driving him away, to Dusseldorf, and  Tower fucking Hamlets.   He should at least have a go.

It's five o'clock, now,  and time for PM, with Eddie Mair,

 he's like Sir Terry Wogan, 

only for people not requiring radio-narcotics.
Just say No to Wogan

Yes, this is PM, with me, Eddie Mair. 
 As listeners will know from the relaxed warmth of my voice and the smile which you can hear but  can't quite see, even though you just know it's there, I care a good deal about things, about my colleagues, about the show, which is your show really, not mine, about the stories we  cover and about you, the listeners, who are what it's all about really. 

And lots of you have been 'phoning and tweeting about the tragic images we've been receiving from the Mediterranean. 
 Gilly's on the line, now,  from Leicestershire,

Gilly, you're one of our thoughtful and  responsible and caring Radio Four listeners, and I bet you watch Monty Don's Earnest Gardener's World, too. 
What's your take on all this? 

Yes, well, Eddie, good evening, and like most of your listeners, I do care a very great deal about a great many things  and I am utterly disgusted at David Cameron denying all these poor people the right, to which they are jolly-well entitled, to come here and live in my conservatory,  and everybody else's,  and keep us company; I mean I could easily accommodate a small, young family, as long as they were nice and quiet. And grateful for me caring about them. You know, as those Jewish people were in the war, hiding in people's cellars.  People cared a good deal more then, I feel.........

But what about if they weren't nice, Gilly?  
What about if you woke up one morning, in leafy Lutterworth,  having taken-in some refugees and found  an angry, menacingly unshaven young man shouting at you, y'know, along the lines of:
 'Ey, missus, did you know that yo' internet  was dead slow and like it is presentin' a challenge to me contactin' me cousin, back in Syria, an' givin 'im yo' add-ress, so 'e can come 'ere and crash for a bit like, wif  'is mates, while he sorts 'imself out;  
you 'as lots of room what you ain't usin', innit.  
So, if you could contact yo' internet provider, like, an' get 'im to speed things up......
Wot? Yeah, course it will cost, but like charity begin at 'ome innit, an' I'm guessin' you isn't short of money, Gilly, is you, an' while I is 'ere, like, be OK, wunnit, for me an my girlfrien', like,  to  sleep in yo' bedroom, an' you 'ave the conservatory, only we ain't been in  a proper bed for a bit, wot wif all the travellin'.  An' fleein' from the persecution an' everyfin. An' I neeed to like get me leg over in some comfort, an' not on some camp bed wot I'm only gonna fall off of and hurt me leg, innit, or worse, knowharramen, Gilly? Yeah, right, I bet you went a bit y'self, when you was younger, like.
Oh, yeah, an' I nearly forgot, we don't want you eating no more bacon  or nuffink, only it's like against the law. Now.  In this 'ouse. You can just 'op on the bus, like, to Leicester, where there is 'undreds of proper halal butchers will keep you right.
An' is couple of other thing, yeah? 
I will be needin' to 'ave yo' Volvo, like, just for a mumf or two, only I 'as gorra visit me cousins, like, up in Rovverum, an 'elp em out, like, wiv a birra business.
 My girlfirend can stay 'ere, like, an' keep you company, an you can maybe buy her a new wardrobe, only from, like, Harrods, or somewhere, don't want her being dressed cheap, like a refugee, do we?
Is just one more fing, missus Gilly, an' then you can go an' make my bed. Only I 'as an uncle, an the 'Ome Office is, like, givin' the ole boy some 'assle and fretnin to frow 'im out, an' we was finkin', right, that since you is a widow woman, he would marry you, which would obviously 'elp you out, an' would also get the 'Ome Office off 'is back, an' then we could all live 'ere in this 'ouse, like, which would then be 'is, and not yours no more,  an' be like one big 'appy Muslim family. You would 'ave to convert, like,  to bein' a Muslim but I am finkin' that there wooden be no problem, like, wiv that, am I right......?

Gilly?  You still there?  Gilly?  
Seems as though we've lost the line to Gilly. 
 But we do have David Cameron on the line. 
Prime minister, you've been shamed by that photograph,
 haven't you.

Well, good evening Eddie, 
and lessbeclearaboutthis, 
shame is an alien concept to me, 
I simply don't do it, so you won't catch me with that one. 
Y'know, how Tony Blair didn't Do God, even though they were colleagues, he and the Almighty,
well, I Don't Do Shame. 

 But look, 
like most prime ministers, well, like Mr Snot, anyway, I, too, have a dead child, so I know exactly what this boy's parents....sorry, the mother drowned, too.?.......yes, yes, they are uppermost in my fawts'n'prayers.....and the brother?......but his father is still here and I know just exactly what he's going through,
 patickuly at this time. 

He'll be saying, as we all do, Mr Snot and I, that because of my dead child,  the NHS is entirely safe in my hands and there is no way that I would sell it off cheap to Mr Lansley's friends, no way I would impose a top-down bargain basement sale, I mean reorganisation, 'course I do, top-down reorganisation,  even though I am.
No, I do feel I have a special kinship with that economic migrant who lost his son. 
The one washed-up on the shore, yes, that one, and quite wrongly, in my judgement, photographed and seen all over the fucking place.
Yes, I do know how his father feels.
But I'm here legally.
But look, Eddie, listeners will wanna know what we are doing about the people smuggalers, who, in my judgement and in the judgement of the parliament which  I have the honour to lead, are the real villains here.   

Bukkake Boy. what we're gonna do is.....
squeak-squeak-squeak............crack-down.........squeak-squeak-squeak....on criminal people-smuggalers..........
squeak-squeak-squeak....who are the real cause of the problem....squeak-squeak-squeak.....and stick to our long-term economic plan. Squeak.

Dancing Queen.
As home seckaterry, I will be introducing anti-people-smuggaling legislation  without delay.  
Yes, like the Dangerous Dogs Act.
Yes, and the War on Drugs.

The Amazing Warty Lady.
You do know, sonny, don't you, that none of this is the fault of politicians, but is down to those wicked people smuggalers? Actually, you know, politicians, whoever they are, have only come into politics to help other people.

That's right, Justine, 
we all care more about other people than we do about ourselves.

Although  caring is like equality, 
some of us are a bit more caring than others.
Not that I would stoop to criticising these other cunts.

And so, Eddie,  as long as we keep reminding people of this, this curse of the people smuggalers,  everything will be alright.
But, no, I did say that we wouldn't be taking any more refugees than we already have  and that remains not to be the case.  We will be taking many more refugees.  But not really. You see, it's all a question of where you take them from, if you take them from camps it's different, it's like not really taking them at all, see?

But, prime minister, isn't that a contradiction in terms?  You will but you won't but you will?  Listeners will be confused. As, I am sure, will be Mr Sid Poundland, leader of the Poundland No-More-Wogs  Party. Who is in our radio car, now.

Well, yes, Eddie, and it's good to be back, although technically I'm still on a well-deserved pimp-holiday after our success in the General Election but no, the nig-nogs, swarming, as for once the prime minister rightly says, swarming over my beloved Europe, destroying our European culture, it's just what I've said all along, we have to stand together with our European brethren against this Islamic invasion. So there.  A European army and a European police force and border patrol, that's Poundland policy.  I shall put it to party conference and I think you will find, quite frankly,  what with us being a throroughly democratic set-up that they'll do what I tell 'em.  I'm the boss, after all.  God Save Europe! 
 Freude schöner Götterfunken
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder
Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

That was Sid Poundland, there, singing from Schiller's Ode to Joy, the themesong, as it were,  of  the European Union. To which we all, here, at the PBC,  are committed.

But the Wichita LineMan  is still on the line, I mean the prime minsister.  Mr Cameron, how do you respond to the charge that yours is a mixed message.

Well, Eddie, that is because they can't see the bigger picture, which is why they elected me, because I can't see it either. 
But I can sort of fine-tune things for them.  
Yes, and I suppose because they hate that little Scotch rodent-woman, too, Mrs Gnasher, that's why I was elected,  and quite frankly, Eddie, who can blame them?
I mean, did you see her, up in the Scotch Parish Council, up there, banging her shoe on the desk, she was, like Mr Kruschev, telling me how to run the country. Saying that she would only settle for us taking ten million of the bastards or else she'd declare UDI? 

First Minister, 
Mrs Nikita Gnasher
 delivering SNP immigration policy.

But no, I am sure that this is simply a matter of people having got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I mean, your caller from Lutterworth, if she stopped and thought about what she's suggesting, an open door to millions of people and an open-ended commitment to putting them up in her home, well, quite frankly, Eddie, where would that end? I'll tell you where it would end, it would end with us shooting more millions, on the beaches and on the landing grounds,  as they over-ran Western Europe, threatening  the collapse of civic, religious and economic society as we know  them. And all because of some elderly lady with her head up her arse, caring. Yes, and Archbishop Dallas, him too, wittering away about our moral duty, can't see him throwing wide the doors of Lambeth Palace to a bunch of fucking sabre-wielding Muslim devils, can you?  And that is why I am happy to welcome back to Downing Street, although she has never been away, my good friend and neighbour, 

 Lady Rebekka Witch, who has done nothing wrong but even so I am prepared to give her a second chance, Yes, as I did with her boyfriend, Mr Coulson, the Jailbird, 

whom I have never met and who has never set foot in Downing Street.
Mrs Brooks, with the help of all of us in Chipping Sodom, will soon have the nation thinking properly about this dreadful business, whatever it is. I mean, her captioning of the photograph  would have probly been much more helpful, something like Gotcha! TerrorBaby Plot Foiled.
That's how she is, really concerned about children. Wouldn't dream of hacking their phones. Not personally anyway.
And, I shouldn't wonder, Eddie, she'll probly soon be running the BBC. 

If only HamFace  had stuck to his guns and continued to say No; instead, like all of them, he was blown off-course by a headline and a 'photo cynically deployed to fuel  the empty-headed sentiment of millions of Gillys from Loughborough, beating their breasts in a frenzy of something-must-be-doneism.

Something must indeed be done, it's just that this ain't it;  this, as the night follows the day,  will lead to Fortress Europe as tens of millions of people, more desperate than the crowd besieging Hungary   - which, if it was really the fusilades of War which it fled, cannon, shrapnel,  bayonet and mustard gas, would gratefully accept food and shelter and refuge in a  safe camp established for  that purpose by the first country they came to; instead,  refugees consumeriste,  they demand an unfettered journey to and residence in the  city and country of their choice -  millions of people facing not only martial depotism but famine, too and plague, people genuinely running ahead of the Four Horsemen, will, following this example, having glimpsed some fat, stupid,  guilty-conscience Herman buying clothes and food and bicycles for his migrant guests, fling themselves, too, aboard matchwood or rubber boats,  careless that some will drown, hopeful that they will reach a promised land glimpsed on their SmartPhones, but facing successive mined and fortified drawbridges necessarily drawn-up against them.

Things are so stupidly bad, presently, that one expects the media resurrection of Sir Bob Geldof,

 Lord of Goodness, 
only not to his family, obviously. 
 Maybe Bob and his mates could put something together.

OK, Bob, but I haven't sung in public for a while, although I do consider myself God's musical instrument of Peace,

 Save the whale, 
Save the trees, 
Knit some blankets for the refugees,
 Why don't we Feed The World,
 Some more Bob Geldof LPs? 
 Y'know the White Man's Burden
 Gonna bring me to my knees.....

Them folks, them so-called migrants, 
they's bad folks, we need to get them down there in Gitmo, waterboard their nigger asses...
You're so quintessentially and profoundly and iconoclastically  right, George Dubya,
how about me and  Saint Boneo, here,
how about we write a song about it? 
And the proceeds could go to the IMF,
like last time.

Maybe Dr Brian Badger

of Queen fame will take his half-band on tour to raise money (from others, he gives his time, don't forget)  for the badgers or the migrants. Or whatever.

 Status Quo,

 are they still alive? we go-oh, migratin' all over the world.

Fab Macca?
Like, if he were to sing Hey Jude to them, and they all joined-in, the refugees'd just, I dunno, feel so much better about themselves.  Cos, y'know, All You Need Is Love. It's really true.

If ever we needed our stars, now is the time.

But back here, on PM, the caring news magazine show, for caring listeners, the big question is how and why Uncle Sam has managed to wriggle out of any responsibility for this clusterfuck of mad invasions and occupations, most of which have been instigated by him.  The US has, in the form of its Sixth Fleet, the mightiest concentration of military power in history, which could either resolve these conflicts or expedite the safe evacuation of those fleeing them; she also has vast unpopulated tracts of lands which could accommodate many refugees. Our Washington correspondent, Jon Sopel,  has been putting these  questions to President Obama.  Here's what he said.

Jon, through the PBC, I would like to address our many friends, back there, in Limeyland.
My fellow Limey motherfuckers. 
 Amerka is a great nation. 
The Amerkan people are a great people.
And we stand beside you at this time, like we always do.
The Amerkan people have always welcomed the refugee and the persecuted,  the fearful and the friendless.
But fuck all that shit.
These folks is niggers
More or less.
And Black Lives, like President Hillary says, Don't Matter.
And they worship a DevilGod.  
These people struck at the very heart of Amerka.
And they eat fuckin' goats.
With their Goddamn  fingers.
And all the babies got handgrenades in their fucking diapers.
And all them nigger bitches got moustaches.

And I would just remind people, Jon,  of what the words on the statue of White Anglo Saxon Protestant Liberty really say:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
NotMother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide unwelcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Don't give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Don't send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I extinguish  my lamp beside the golden door!"

God bless Amerka, Jon,
and God bless the decent white people of Limeyland in their hour of need.

We must pity the poor immigrant for one way or another we are all such but we cannot absorb him by the million, not unless we abandon the idea of the nation state, of a Judaeo-Christian cultural and political  identity and system of jurisprudence, of a viable welfare state and a relatively cohesive system of education and iof lawnforcement, not unless we fling our all into a sudden, unwonted melting-pot in which the strident, the punitive and the savage will temper our now largely liberal civilisation with fanatical cruelty.

There is something ruinous about this outpouring of hysterical compassion without reason, something which, unless it is sharply arrested will bring unimaginable harm  to both pushy designer-migrant and careless host, we needs must extinguish the BushBlair fires in the Middle East, Southern Asia and North Africa, not, well-meaning,  fan them into life in Europe.