Monday, 15 August 2016


She cried a little in the car,Yum-Yum, on the way to the vet's but responded to my many GoodGirls said, even so, she wasn't happy; not a car cat, her only trips had been to the vet and she didn't like me, anyway; she was mrs ishmael's cat, inasmuch as she was anyone's.

She and her brother, Co-Co, had just arrived one day, in the byre, their mother having been the second generation of feral cat to occupy that space,  they were beautiful, like all new-born kittens, she ginger with a hooped tail, he dark grey with a white  chest.

It has just become a fact of life, these past ten years, that we clean and renew their bedding, feed them, catch and drag them to the vets as and when and heat the byre on cold nights.  There's an old Rayburn in there but I haven't been well enough to sort it out and so there have been a series of electric radiators plugged-in, through the winter months;  crazy, but what can you do; anthropomorphy murders Reason.

When Buster passed away we tried briefly to domesticate the pair of them, have them indoors, and while I think Yum-Yum  wanted to, her brother certainly didn't and he howled like a banshee if they were separated.  I tried, one night, bringing him in to the kitchen but he ran around the walls and across the ceiling, like a demented cartoon cat.

We had compromised this last year by having  a cat-flap fitted in the new, £600 back conservatory door and before I knew it there were beds and litter trays and feeding apparatus everywhere, and I couldn't even get to my saw, never mind use it;  the whole place, packed with good quality, cased power tools, since my shed blew down in a gale, was impenetrable.  I may as well just have had  a wooden hammer with a loose head and a Quality Street tin of rusty screws.

I am however, relentlessly patient and where many blokes I have known would put, as they say, their foot down, big-time and evict the semi-feral animals, I just grumbled from time to time, well, probably more than from time to time but certainly not all the time. I'd never make a farmer, I squirm at the thought of poisoning wood beetles and since I stopped eating meat, a couple of years back, I have grown worse, if worse is the word, I dunno.

Yum-Yum, anyway, was diagnosed a year ago with something horrible in her mouth, after some antibiotics she picked-up for a while but had been almost imperceptibly going down hill for a few months; she still walked the garden, along the walls; she loved basking in the sunshine, she would still greet us imperiously when we arrived in the car and I had taken to buying her the very best cat food I could find, tiny little tins of what must have been the feline equivalent of Beluga caviar, at about a pound a gramme, which was varied with stocks of haddock and kippers from the freezer, dating from when we still ate fish.  I never begrudge those expenses, I may have mentioned previously an experience I had as a kid, working in a hotel;  the old battleaxe housekeeper, Margaret, every other lunch time, would buy from the bar a small brandy to take out; it was for her ailing cat, and I suspect a sip for herself, too.  You may mock, young ishmael, she reproved me, but them no point in 'avin' 'em, me duck, not if you'm no' gonna look after 'em.  I have never forgotten Margaret and her cat brandy.  And my old friend, Hodcroft, the poet; we had a meeting scheduled one night, some pretend board meeting of a pretend charity;  Hodcroft sent his apologies, which I, true to my then form, mocked;  he had to stay home with his beloved cat, Sampson, who was dying.  Sampson was one of those expensive -Ese cats, Siamese, Burmese, I dunno, who dominated Hodcroft, then a confirmed bachelor, completely, but he was right, of course he was, to comfort his companion animal as she died.  I have never forgotten that, either, my crassness. 

Yum-Yum's recent cosseting, therefore,  owes much to people she never knew.

I speak as though her care was all my doing but it wasn't, it was mrs ishmael who worried and tended and fed both the cats.  I think all I did was not be the sort of man I may have been if I hadn't met Hodcroft and Margaret and mrs ishmael and all those gracious enough to comment and guide here, down all these years.

Today's care, however, rightly fell to me.  I soothed her in the car and I carried her into the vet's antispetic little room. I had expected her to show signs of distress but either her illness had made her indifferent to her surroundings or my attempts at trancing her out had borne some fruit.  I learned some self-hypnosis from mrs ishmael, who, as well as papering the walls with degrees is a qualified hypnotherapist, and I learned some Zen just from being. Maybe it's just age but somehow I have learned how to share and spread a calm centre.

In any event, today's  was quite the nicest and best of those experiences.  I stroked Yum-Yum for five minutes -  something  she had never let me do - while the sedative worked, GoodGirling  her constantly and then just a few seconds after the intravenous injection she very quietly just stopped living.

We will not, though, by her gentle passing, be completely spared Sorrow and Guilt.
Yum-Yum and Co-Co were like one animal, often curled-up together, tails entwined and although he would go roaming most days they were always reunited by bed-time. It's dusk, now, and he hasn't been since since lunch-time but I expect to hear him shouting soon. 

I obtained a sedative for him from the vet, to be sprinkled on his food, for a while, to calm his anxiety; but his loss will not, like ours, be alleviated by Yum-Yum's gentle death;  these two have been together every day of their lives and his loss, therefore, will only mirror that which we must all face, most of us, one way or another.
I'll go and look for him, try to ease his worried mind.
Some chance.

Wednesday, 10 August 2016


No, look, honestly, I might not know very much, although, on reflection, I don't know anything, fuck all, really. But look, honestly, what I do know is how to lose elections. And not just elections. Whole countries. It was me lost Scotland. And not nearly lost it.

Lost it altogether. Completely.  Lost it so badly we'll never ever get it back again. And that is why I'm just the man to advise on who should lead this great party, the party I love, the party I was born into, 

the party which I have worked so hard to destroy and turn into  the Tory party. 
Austerity, privatisation and more Austerity, that's what I've always supported. Smash the unions, especially the railway unions. In fact, any unions.  There shouldn't be any unions. It's not as though they've done anYbody any good. Well, not me, anyway. 
Yes, and TTIP or whatever it is, the right  enshrined by law of foreigners to strip the welfare state. 
That's what we need. 
And that's what the country needs.
 Now and forever. 
Or until we get the job done.
Whatever it is.
 I don't kinow very much about jobs.
More a positions man, me. 
And roles.

 And the man I endorse with my endorsement is Owen Who.  Jeremy Corbyn, you see, he can only attract members into the party - not that we want actual members - because he promises things which are consistent with a party for working people.  
Mr Who, on the other hand, our next leader and the next prime minister of England, he promises people the exact same things as Jeremy but everybody knows that he doesn't mean it. 
 That's what I call putting integrity back into this great party. 


Aye, us an' everyone else in the IRA're gutted, so we are, by the death of His Holiness the Bishop of Derry. Aye, fair play to him, he made monkeys, so he did, of them Paras, wavin' his wee hanky like he did, over yon dyin' teenager. 


Did wonders, so he did, for the cause of killing for peace. An' as for him bein' a part of a child-molesting organisation, sure, so's me 'n' Gerry, isn't that right?
An' we  in the IRA are all profound and committed Christians, so w'are, believin' devoutly  in the Lord Jesus Christ's teachings, just not that one about thou shalt do no murder. Or that one about thou shalt not do no  kneecapin' people.  Or buryin'  people alive.  Or nail bombin' people. Aye, an' torturin' people. An' sellin' them heroin. 

Apart from that, we in the IRA Cawnflick Resalooshun Movement are just pure, one hunnerd and ten per cent Christians, so w'are. Aye an' we'll all be prayin' for the soul of yon Bishop Edward Daly.

A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, so it is.

The thought of Marty Kneecaps praying, eh ?
Jesus fucking wept.


“Our American political classes, being themselves complicit in the well-financed banditry at large in the world, come and go talking of Hilary Clinton’s astrologer and the sins of children’s television, about the wickedness of the National Arts Endowment and Bill Clinton’s Penis. Their insouciance unnerves me. The barbarism implicit in the restless energies of big-time, global capitalism requires some sort of check or balance, if not by a spiritual doctrine or impulse, then by a lively interest in (or practice of) democratic government. The collapse of communism at the end of the Cold War removed from the world’s political stage the last pretense of a principled opposition to the rule of money, and the pages of history suggest that oligarchies unhindered by conscience or common sense seldom take much interest in the cause of civil liberty.” 

Waiting for the Barbarians, 1997. 

Tuesday, 9 August 2016


Been a wee bit under the weather and lying, like Hamlet's father, in my accustom'd place, I awoke to find the PBC news  playing mutely on the big telly, images of  a young, swarthy Leonard Cohen, intercut with that fucking nincompoop, 

Gavin Hollywood Esler, 
looking grim;  
Gavin Esler, an airhead even by PBC standards, the one who sits  with Mark Kermode, gibbering over the latest offering from TinselTown 

 - just one of the extravagances granted by the license fee, that we pay rubbish like Kermode 

Yes, Tom Cruise's eighth Mission Impossible reminded me of Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin or perhaps, more tellingly, Gavin,  Takashi Miike's Yakuza Apocalypse.

 Well, yes, I agree but I also saw nuanced shades of Gene Kelly's Singing In The Toilet.

 Rain, Gavin, singing in the rain.

to go to the pictures for us, as though any Hollywood shit differed from any other Hollywood shit, and then smugly tell us all about it,  how it compares with Karasawamoki's materpiece, The Seven Sushi Warriors; Kermode, after a paid career busking about watching make-believe rubbish, coming-on like he was fucking Einstein. 
Really, what is the point of an industry-salaried critic?

Lenny Cohen wasn't dead, though. 
 An old girl-friend of his, from the nineteen-sixties, has died. 
 Hold the fucking presses, must have shrieked the head of PBC pretend news.



Turns out that the old lady's name was Marianne and that she is the Marianne not from girl On A MotorCycle but from So Long, Marianne, one of Lugubrious Lenny's fretful, turgid love songs, the sort popular with student teachers, back then, before-before. 

 There  are a few of those songs -  So Long Marianne, That's No Way To Say Marianne, The Sisters Of Marianne and Like a Marianne On A Wire. All the same, self-centred song, really -  I loved you, baby, I've used you, baby, and now I gotta split and write my poetry,  baby. 
 A man's gotta rhyme what a man's gotta ryhme.

Distinguished only by their unleavened, emotionally monochromatic moodiness, accompanied by Cohen's dismally pedestrian nylon-strung guitar, these psalms to himself were overblown, angst-ridden nonsense, mainly;  
alright from a teenager, from Cat Stevens, maybe, or from Nick Drake but Lenny was a mature man when he churned-out all this desperate, undergraduate drivel. 
Maybe it was that smooth, older-man thing, which wet so many pairs of knickers, around the English-speaking world. 

And he was one of those showbiz Buddhists, as well, like Richard Gere and the unspeakable gargoyle, Annie Lennox, mewling, whining, demanding and  self-obsessive prima donnas, and Buddhists; probably vegetarians, also, schedules and locations permitting;  there'll be a special seat near the fire in Buddhist Hell for these showbiz vermin;  yes, poet, light entertainer and Buddhist, all in all a churning urn of burning pretension, is  Leonard Cohen.

As such people go, however, Cohen is relatively pleasant and decent enough and on a recent, octagenarian's world tour


 played those songs with great conviction and aplomb -  although I always find that  particular activity to be a sign of  mystifyingly stupid narcissism, old people singing songs they wrote and performed half a century ago, becoming their own tribute act;  
I simply don't know how they do it -  and playing them to an adoring audience which, equally and reflectingly, has not matured in fifty years. 

 I guess I have just never really understood the last word in the phrase show business - Yes, I will sing you this song which I have already sung ten thousand times and I will sing it as though it were freshly off my creative griddle, drawn from my creative well, forged in my creative fire and beaten on my creative anvil, delete as appropriate,  and I really mean it, this song, singing it directly to you, I will sing it really sincerely,  as long as you gimme money - that's-what I want - that's what I want - that's - what I want- that's what I wa-a-a-a--a-a-a-ant, yeah - that's what I want.
I love you all, all you people out there.

Esler, though, solemnising his arse off, on the PBC, behaved  like he was announcing the death of JFK, instead of that of an old Norwegian lady of whom no-one had ever heard.  
It seemed to last forever, this item, Esler was pumping some old geezer in Norway who had been the old lady's friend and was speaking for her umpteenth husband and then, right-before-your-very-eyes,
as our prime minister's husband might say,
Number Ten's First Gentleman,
Mr Arthur Askey.

 the whole News show had turned into an appreciation of Leonard Cohen, what a great guy he was, writing to his old flame, on her deathbed.  He was graceful, gushed Esler. Yeah, he was really graceful, truly graceful, in a truly dynamic and graceful sort of  graceful way, echoed Neil McCormick, 

showbiz  gossip and filth writer from the Filth-O-Graph, although both had meant gracious and not graceful, still,  they are only journalists, why expect them to be able to write when all they do is gossip?

I turned it off eventually, Esler still singing Hallelujah to Cohen.  what sort of a person, or superbeing, he asked, writes to another person who's dying? That's just so special.

I'm gonna go straight home, viewers, and listen to Leonard Cohen until I orgasm. Or until I die. And he writes to me. 
 And I think that Leonard's incredibly graceful gracefulness  just goes to show how very much ordinary people can learn from celebrities.

 Later in the News we'll be talking about whichever posturing knuckleheaded athlete has won or nearly won something in the Rio Olympics,  they will also be telling us about just how much incredible pressure they are under but we definitely won't be talking  about Brazil's recent coup d'etat, which is one of which we strongly approve, and very definitely not talking about the people rioting over the eye-watering expense of the games, themselves.
  In fact, the PBC would go so far as to say there is no rioting in Rio, none at all, although there is, quite a lot of it. But only from left-wing supporters of Jeremy Corbyn. Well, not Jeremy Corbyn exactly, but people who don't agree that the world should be run for the benefit of the rich people. Yes, trouble-makers.

And our political editors will be telling us why it is vital to our British democracy, which is the envy of the world, although it isn't, that every right-minded person must get behind elder statesman, Ed Miliband,  and insist that Jeremy Corbyn stand down as leader of the Labour party; why the courts are wrong to uphold the claims of new Labour members;  why the democratic will of seventeen million people is just plain wrong and  our panel of economics experts will be explaining why it is vital to the economy that rich people pay no taxes. 
Join  us for that.

And in a special programme, later, our American correspondent, Jon Sopel, will be telling us why it is in Democracy's interests for Hillary Trousers to win the presidency, even if she has to rig the results.
It was just common or garden PBC tripe, the Cohen feature, showbiz and celebrity as news, the usual fucking rubbish but aimed, I thought, right at me, well, not me, I never liked Cohen, just m-m-m-my generation, baby. 
It was like one of those Michael-Parkinson-Is-A-Cunt adverts, 
the ones reminding older people that they're all gonna die. 
I am very definitely not gonna die 
but even if I was the very last thing I would want is a so-long letter from Leonard fucking Cohen.

Christ knows who leaked this non-news event but for all the decency displayed by Esler and his bosses Cohen may as well have posted it on the ugly, square-head mutant  Zuckerberg's Face-thing, for all the world to read, 
and I am sure he didn't.

Sunday, 7 August 2016


Well, look, lessbeperfectlyclear about this. 
I am absolutely one hundred per cent committed to those campaigning today on the issue that Spads Lives Matter, they do matter, they matter very much. 

I don't necessarily think they should lie down in the roads and stop people going on holiday but if I could just make a personal observation, in my own case, as Prime Minister Emeritus, I simply cannot under-estimate the contribution made to this country by - sorry, wossat?  

Over-estimate ? Not under-estimate?  
Well, woddever, let's not be pedantic. 
They do boith mean exactly the same thing.
 I simply cannot wossaname the contribution made to this country by Mrs Prime Minister Cameron's personal stylist 

throughout my time working very hard, 
being  in charge of you all.  

I mean, lessbeclear, she didn't have much to work with,  Mrs SamCam often resembling one of Mrs Brookses rather fine equine specimens, 

and although even after her stylist had done her job she still looked like a horse,  she was at least one with a nice frock and high heels.  

Walk-on, Dobbin, there's a good horse.

The idea, quite proply resisted, in my view, by Spads Lives Matter, that Mrs Scissorhands should not be rewarded with public funds and medals for doing my wife's hair, is frankly untenable. 
Yes, like I was, as prime minister, after BorExit, untenable. 

But that's all a bridge under the water, now,
I've always prided myself on being up to trend with what's happenin' on da street
and Spads Lives Do very much Matter.  

And although he wasn't quite a Spad, my right honourable friend, 

Mr Sir George Junky, 
to whom I have given the Order of Knight Commander of the Senior Common Room,
was of great special assistance to me in running the money laundry.  

Yes, the City of London, yes, and the property market, the money laundry. 
 Well, what happens is that our colleagues in Organised Crime, yes, Russians or Chinese, or anyone, really, who has stolen vast sums of money, or perhaps made fortunes selling drugs or arms, we let them know that the laundry is open to them, so they can clean it all up nicely, thank you very much, the stolen money, before stashing it in one of my father's offshore places.
 But lessbeclear, it isn't just foreign criminals, it's also our own very valued ontrapanooers, 

like Sir Phil Green, 

Sir Phil with Mrs Horse, 
I mean my good lady wife.

And with myself, the prime minister, 
getting our stories straight.

Sir Philip, owner of clothing retailer Arcadia Group, will scrutinise government  expenditure from the past three years to try to identify where savings can be made.
The conclusions from the external review will feed into the Comprehensive Spending Review due to be completed in October.
Announcing the appointment, Cabinet Office minister Francis Maude said:  

"We are extremely fortunate to have Sir Philip, with his immense commercial experience and of course his fantastic track record at managing large organisations, on board.
"Sir Philip has made clear to the Government the importance of his business remit which has always been that efficient operating is different from cost cutting and removing jobs."

One of our hereditarty MPs, Maude, even among collegiate filth like Lansley, Hague, Letwin and Fox, had a superior knack for talking pompously out of his arse. 
He has been honoured for the clarity of his judgements - Sir Philip's fantastic track record -  with a seat in the Lords, amongst so many other thieving filthsters.

what they do, our laundry customers, 
 is steal very, very large sums of money from their own countries, yes, money which should have been spent on schools and hospitals, yes, taxpayers' money, and then they hide it, I mean invest it in British properties. 
Well, yes, of course, it cranks-up the price of housing for ordinary people like nurses and teachers but who gives a fuck about them? 

If they'd wanted to have a home or two of their own they should've gone to Eton, like decent people do, and had their father, quite proply in my view,  invest money for them in a tax haven, instead of having it stolen by the govament and given-away to wogs and single mothers.
.And yes, the only alternative is to build millions of cheap homes but who in their right mind would do that? I mean that'd simply take us back to the bad old days of full employment, proper wages and council housing.  I simply say, what would happen to those people working so hard in the food banks, if we went back to proper employment and affordable housing?
There's no telling where that would lead.
You might see privately owned utilities, like the railways and water and shortly the NHS being run for the benefit of ordinary riff-raff, and not for the wealth creators.  
Yes, alright, if you will, by and for Organised Crime.

And if I could just offer a word of advice to Mrs Askey, 
not that I'm a back seat driver or anything, it would simply be not to worry your old head, too much, dearie, about the Stinky Point power thingy, whatchamaycallit,  the nuclear boiler.  
It'll never happen.  
One of the things that she'll learn as prime minister - if she doesn't go into a diabetic hypo and die, the poor old dear, when the going gets tough  - one of the things she'll learn is that quite often, nearly all the time, in fact,  a govament announces all sorts of shit that's simply never gonna get off the starting chips.What?  Get off the starting gate? No?  Get out of the starting gate?  I wish you'd make your fucking mind up. I quite clearly said that Stinky Point was never gonna get off the starting gun.  Yes, exactly like the child sex fuck buggery torture'n'murder enquiry.  Yes, it does keep stalling. Yes, exactly, yes, it was meant to.  
Yes, long grass, quite right.

Yes, I know the Breferendum was meant to keep us in EuroCrime. Yes, I know it did the opposite. But that's not the fault of me and Mr Sir Junky George, now, is it;

 'snot as though it was anything to do with us.  

Yes, they are all unintelligent, the people who voted disobediently, yes, just like they say on the PBC, all day long, there  does need to be another Breferendum. And this time the stupid people, from Northern, and places like that, they jolly well better do as they're told. Yes, by the journalists, and the Trannies, them too, quite proply in my judgement.

 But there's a case in point, here, about the honours; just take Dame Louella, the outgoing chair of that now sadly stalled enquiry, yes, the Kiwi bint, with the specs.

 I mean, she's only earned about a million and half, plus exes, of course, and quite proply, in my judgement, so there's a shortfall in her  earnings of at least a coupla mill. Wossat?  No, of course I don't think she should pay it back. She has, lessbeclear, done some very valuable work, going home on holiday and so on, before abandoning it altogether because of some awkward questions.  

And I think the very least we can do to compensate her is make her a Lady, or somesuch. Make her Lady Dame Louella. 

 Whaddayamean, she already is a lady? 
No, no, forgive me, but I think you're entirely wrong, there. 
Dame is just her name, like Dame Kiri Tikanawa, they all have three names, down there, in the arsehole of the planet;  I think you'll find  that Dame's quite a common Christian name, among Kiwis.  All around that part of the world,  Australia and New Zealand, yes, commonwealth places that we no longer trade with, preferring the Frogs, with their over-priced and unreliable nuclear boilers, and the Hermanns, with their filthy Volkswagens. 
But no,  I mean, there's this Dame Louella of the kiddy-buggery enquiry; there's Dame Kiri, who's a sort of music hall turn and there's Dame Edna Everidge, the famous hissing old tranny. 
 See, it's just a name, Dame,  like Sheila. If Dame Louella was really a Lady, she'd be called Lady Dame Louella, wouldn't she? So the very least we can do for Dame Louella is  actually give her a title.  

Yes, for services to people pretending to have been assaulted by their betters.

And lessbeclear, after I wasn't able - most unreasonably - to send  his father to the House of Lords, the very least I could do was give Mr Will Straw a knighthood 
for his utter cuntishness.

Yes, and while I'm here, this isn't the first time I have been wrongly accused of bringing the honours system into disrepute. Only the other day, that chap,  Ishmael, he was saying quite unpleasant things about one of my other appointees to the House of Lords. Honestly, you'd think it was part of the  legislature or something, and that people used it as a business address;  that they dined extravagantly on the very best cuisine, and all for thirty-five pee a head.  Yes, and anyone'd think they claimed three hundred quid a day, just for turning-up, signing-in and then fucking off to their favourite bondage parlour.  Lessbeclear about these figures; it's only a grand and a half a week, plus dinners, hardly anything to get excited about. It's not even a hundred grand of public money; peanuts, when you think of how disabled people defraud the rest of us.

Anyway, here's what he said, that Ishmael chap: 

Isn't it sexist, to keep-on about the Dancing Queen,  Mrs Askey, being a woman? 

Gender doesn't colour my loathing of politicians, you have to treat them all equally, they are all filth;  thieves, fraudsters, blackmailers, drug addicts, murderers, rapists, extortionists, embezzlers, money launderers, war criminals and child rapists; slags, pimps and sluts, shit-eating degenerates, all of them, repeatedly criminal  either in commission of the acts or by default in not reporting them in others; 
gender is irrelevant.
 But that's just me, one of God's liberals. 

When it comes to MediaMinster unctuously reminding us that this is the first female PM since Whisky Maggie one cannot help but retort, Well, why do you mention her gender?  Next, you'll be  bitching about her not having any children. 
They really are scum, aren't they?
It is sexist if others dwell on the prime minister's  gender, outrageous to question her fertility, although  fine if the hacks do so. 

 Many of us actually had women as mothers, and sisters, and even aunts; some of us are married or otherwise affiliated to women; some of our daughters are women; some of us, here, even are women; how about that?  It doesn't matter a fuck to me that Mrs Askey is a woman. 
It's the filth in MediaMinster for whom a woman's place is an issue. 

People like Kelvin Teenage Tits McKenzie, 

If yer sixteen you can gerremout, girls.

thinker, commentator, liar, beast, bully and regular paid guest on the PBC. 
Kelvin thought that young women's place was in his rag, with their tits out, Phwoar!!!

And people like Lady Brooks of Chipping Sodom.

And this is our chief phone hacker, prime minister.
Jolly good show, keep up the good work.
There'll have to be an enquiry, of course, usual nonsense, some old whore of a judge, he may make some recommendations but we'll just ignore them, we always do, No, no, not at all, glad to be of help;  we're neighbours, y'know, Lady Brooks and I.

And people like Tory peer, Karren  Brady, Dirty Old Lady. 
 Brady, right-hand woman, so to speak, of porn-dwarf, David Sullivan, 

worked for him during his take-over of the British dirty mags industry

 until he made her, firstly, a director of the uber-sexist Sport newspaper

 and then boss of Birmingham City Football club, 
which he then owned. 

Sullivan's former mistress, 

Mary Millington, 
committed suicide after appearing in many of Sullivan and Brady's blue movies. 
Brady's fawning biographies in the press and online rarely mention her unsavoury past, describing  her mainly as a star of The Apprentice, a Cruelty TeeVee show and a successful business director. Sullivan served a sentence for living on immoral earnings, David Cameron honoured Brady with a peerage. 

  Lady Brady, Dirty Old Lady.

Following Cameron's hooking-up with Brady, she Sullivan and another porn-dwarf, David Gold, did surprisingly well, staggeringly well, out of a bizarre arrangement gifting them an Olympic stadium for West Ham FC, the club which they own.

‘A real disgrace’: Critics slam British govt over West Ham’s Olympic Stadium deal

© Toby Melville
West Ham United's move to the Olympic Stadium in London has caused a major row in Britain, with the Premier League club set to pay just $3.55 million per year to occupy the facility, with part of the deal funded by British taxpayers.
The London Legacy Development Corporation (LLDC) has signed off on a deal that will see the Hammers move into their 60,000 capacity home at the start of next season.
The club has agreed a 99-year lease at the Olympic Stadium, which is being converted into a Premier League venue at a cost of around $386 million – with West Ham contributing just $21.3 million towards the costs.
The LLDC must cover stadium expenditure such as pitch maintenance, undersoil heating, security, cleaning and a variety of other running costs.
The deal does however include performance-related payments, with a top-five finish in the league costing the Hammers a further $1.4 million. Success in Europe would also generate further revenue for the LLDC.
West Ham's annual payment to the LLDC amounts to just 2 percent of the annual TV income they can expect from being in the Premier League, but the club says the deal benefits all parties.
"While someone renting the stadium for 25 days a year cannot be responsible for 365 days' running costs, going by our performances this season, we hope to deliver additional revenue to the stadium via extended cup runs and big European nights," a club statement said.
"This will secure the international exposure and additional usage and revenue that may now be more challenging for the stadium owners to find elsewhere as a result of this ruling."
While West Ham are clearly delighted with their new stadium, critics have slammed the deal, with many questioning whether it is right that the club's owners should profit from the British taxpayer if they decide to sell the club.
If David Sullivan and David Gold sold the club in the next 10 years for more than $177 million, the LLDC would get just $17 million if the sale price was $355 million.
Respected journalist Mihir Bose says the deal is a public scandal.
"That British politicians make such deals is the real disgrace," he said. "Politicians pontificate on how they are always looking for the common good.
"But where is the common good in this West Ham deal? Other clubs have to raise millions to build a new stadium, West Ham are virtually gifted one yet no one is consulted on the deal.
"In America when such deals are done there is a city-wide referendum. Should we not have had one before the West Ham deal was done?"


 A gruesome threesome, Cameron's Tory peer, Brady, with the two porn-dwarves turned soccer moguls.
Sullivan describes himself as a Freedom Fighter. 

We do not know if any of this crazy, inexplicable  taxpayer-gifted bonanza will find its way into an offshore former prime minister's account but Cameron is such a cunt that one would stake one's life on it.

Well, lessbeclear, 
pornography, it's a perfectly respectable profession these days. 
Oh, gosh, no, not being in it, that's just pants, that is, or rather that's just no pants, 
eh, Lady Brady? No pants? Geddit?
Yes, prime minister.

No, not being in it, just making money from it, yes, selling degrading pictures of other people's daughters. Yes, and wives. 
'Swhat the Big Society's all about.

And as for me bringing the honours system into more disrepute than it already was. 
Well, I simply say that I love my country, have been proud to serve my country and can modestly claim to have left my country a good deal more rotten than it's ever been.
Wossat?  An earldom?  
Well I would only accept it on behalf of all the lesser people;
yes, the ones whose wheelchairs we've burned.

He's a piece of filth, Cameron, always was, but livng, breathing proof that Eton's villains are merely over-confident thickos, too stupid to know Shame. 
All the  pretend  outrage and shock, it's just skymadeupnewsandfilth, that,  his so-called honours list;
it's just Ruin, sneering at us, pissing in our faces, as usual, blinding us to the real shit they're doing.


As for Corbyn's Folly, 

well, we always said that Chakrabarti was the latest in a  line of faux-left  career moralists which attached itself to Islington Labour - horrid NCCL monsters like Harriet Soursister and Patsy Leatherface. 

Hatty Harman  and Patsy Leatherface,
standing up for paedophilia. 

Patsy, after being a NewLabour  Health Secretary, immediately went off to take bribes from Boots, the Chemists, as a marketing adviser. It's a civil liberties thing, selling contacts one makes as a minister.

 Doesn't matter which set of rights these charities are defending - prisoners', women's, black persons' - they all wind-up being run by vain, hard-faced, careerist shitbags like Chakrabarti, stomping on the faces of their clients in their personal march to glory.  A moment's thought on the grimy subject of Imelda Blair is enough to forever obliterate the idea of  the human rights lawyer

 Cherie Blair has been accused of accepting money from repressive regimes after her legal consultancy signed a deal with the Maldives government – which faces international condemnation for human rights abuses.
Omnia Strategy, the London and Washington-based consultancy that Ms Blair founded and chairs, is to advise President Abdulla Yameen’s government on “democracy consolidation”.
The value of the contract, which was signed this week,  has not been confirmed. 

Lady Imelda, telling lies for money.

But the deal has sparked an outcry in the Indian Ocean archipelago, where the current regime has been accused of suppressing political dissent. The leading opposition movement, the Maldivian Democratic Party (MDP), condemned Ms Blair’s decision, describing the consultants as “unethical and profiteering” people who were being employed to   “help wash the blood” off the President’s hands.

Funny, isn't it, that no matter how much money she grubs, Imelda always looks like shit; that's an expensive suit, in the top picture, it will have cost the blood of many tortured souls, even so, Imelda wears it as though she'd just been in a dangerous dogfight. She's always looked like shit, even when she had her own lifestyle guru, Carole,  who went clothes shopping with her, massaged her and placed crystals on her, even then she looked like she'd been rolled down a hill and was staggering about with her shoes on the wrong feet.  Must be the Devil, her master, taking the piss.

 Chakrabarti, her beastly little face, all screwed-up and indignant about the lives of people for whom she quite clearly couldn't give a fuck, is just the latest incarnation of fictional civil liberties executives such as Imelda Blair.   

 I always thought that Swami'd be parachuted into a safe Labour seat  and then straight on to the front bench, in the style of Mr Harman, the oafish, bent, fuckwit  bullyboy, Jack Dromey;  maybe, though,  there are no longer any safe Labour seats;  Corbyn's U-turn on Lords' appointments may well increase the danger now faced in many of his constituencies.

If anyone disputes my charge of vanity, just take  a quick look at  google images, 

Chakrabarti lives every moment of her life posing for the camera, her only equivalent, in my experience, is the rotten bastard Sir Malcolm Shouty, 


who, not conent with innumerable posed photographs, has himself captured in portraiture, most likely paid for by us.

I cannot comment on the veracity of Swami's report on anti-semitism in the Labour party; 

any questioning of Israel's brutal ethnic cleansing of occupied Palestine is shouted-down as being neo-Nazism, the laying of foundation stones in a new gas chamber complex. It has become impossible to voice any criticism of Israel, an investigation of anti-Jewish behaviours in any organisation, therefore, is doomed to controversy. 
 If Corbyn had any sense he would  never have ordered an inquiry, would he; he should simply have said, if you have evidence of breaches of the race relations act or of hate crime, by anyone, you must report it to the authorities, let them investigate.  Otherwise go and fuck yourselves. As it is he simply made a rod for his own back, and an ermine robe for the poisonous Chakrabarti's. 
What is unavoidable, though, is  that many, myself included,  see Swami's so-called report and her peerage as  a sleazy quid pro quo, sleazy enough to temper any enthusiasm felt for supporting a  cleansed, reinvigorated,  Corbyn-led  Labour party. Counter-claims, by Corbyn zealots, that Chakrabarti's intergrity is infinite, that never has so much been owed by so many to just one, that she is beyond reproach, these may as well be readings from the Tory Manifesto; to the newly-arrived yet hard-boiled Corbyn convert, these claims will be seen for what they are,  shit and drivel, barrel scrapings, turds of wisdom. Corbyn vowed never to appoint to the Lords, Swami Gob vowed never to go, what's the difference between that and the Coalition raising VAT after it had vowed not to; implementing raised student fees, when it had vowed not to or down-fucking the NHS, when it had vowed not to? With the Tories playing the electortae like trout, this was not a time for Corbyn to shoot himself in the foot, to absolutely no discernible purpose.

I daresay that the ghastly little wretch will, like Lord Roy Hattersley, insist that she is only entering the Lords in order to bring it down, and not for the dinners and the showing-off and the business opportunities;
will insist that she is there only as a hand to the helpless, a friend to the fearful and a voice for the voiceless.
Aye, right;
fucking  monster.