Friday, 27 February 2015

WHO'S A BIG FAIRY? EXCLUSIVE. THE DAILY QUEERBASHER OUTS TEEVEE PRESENTER


IS THIS MAN GAY?
TOP QUEER PRESENTER, 
POUTING FOR THE CAMERA.

Some say that he is our most popular broadcaster ever, others that he  is an arsehole who personifies and is instrumental in the coarsening of our national life and its epidemic of 
xenophobia as politics, 

N-WORDS OUT! 
N-WORDS OUT! 
N-WORDS OUT!
 
knuckle-head stupidity as home-spun wisdom and cruelty as entertainment. 
All we know is that like so many other homosexuals, 
  he's called Jeremy,
just like  Jeremy Thorpe.

Some say he loves his mother, 

 rather too much,  
bringing her on his programmes, endlessly talking about her,
whilst unable, himself,
to conduct a normal marriage.
All we know is that this is 
just like Jeremy Thorpe did.

 
 Some say that he is robustly, blokeishly  heterosexual, always ready, perhaps too ready, to drool over some tits-out Hollywood slapper.
 All we know is that he clings tenaciously to effeminate younger men from the lower orders,  


taking them camping
and staying with them in hotels
just like Jeremy Thorpe did.
And William Hague. 


Some say his mummy sent him to public  school, 
all we know is that that's  just like Jeremy Thorpe's mummy did.

Some say that Clarkson insists on presenting Top Gear's Queer In A Reasonably Priced Car, himself, so's he can flirt with famous showbiz fairies and degenerates (i.e. all of them). 


Jeremy flirting with young bride-to-be, Steven Fag.

 being manly with some boy soprano


and drooling over this old degenerate.

All we know is that he is rather too raucously sexist with the minority of female guests but turns all temptressy and coquettish with famous queers. Like Tom Cruise. D'ya wanna know yer lap time? Do you? Do you really?
Playful and teasing. 
This is just like what Jeremy Thorpe would've done.

 Some say he works  at the PBC Centre For Excellence In Child Buggery Studies.
All we know is that he also hangs around powerful MediaMinsterite trash, like this, vainly hoping to be taken seriously, 



Murdoch employees at the works do. 
Yes, alright then, you can drive us there. 
But you'll have to wait in the car.

More Murdoch employees at the works do.
 
Jeremy grovelling to  Fleet Street filth.
 Just like Jeremy Thorpe did.

Some say that Clarkson's fellow PBC Jeremysexuals,  Mr Jeremy Vine, Mr Jeremy Hardy,  Mr Jeremy Kyle and Mr Jeremy Paxman all think that he's a jolly good Jeremy fellow, a member of the broadcasting Clan Jeremy.
All we know is that when we asked them they all said:


Jeremy Clarkson?
You must be fucking joking;


He's another fucking Jeremy Thorpe, 
he is, listeners. 


Only he's kinda scruffier, smellier and not as clever.

 
Nowhere fucking near.

Tomorrow in the Sun we expose London's Mayor.
Or should it be mayoress???!!!
BoJo the Homo. 

King Boris of London appearing on Top Queer.
Is he another one, showily  laddish outside but another public school  brown-hatter inside?
Don't miss the Sun, tomorrow, for all your Top Queer news.

Elsewhere, in TeeVee News, famous blogger, Ishmael Smith, asks: Why aren't there any car shows on telly, proper car shows, about proper cars. I love cars, why aren't there any programmes about cars? Why is there only this Clarkson shit, this fat, stupid, fag  cunt gobbing-off about impossible, million pound deathtraps, one going half-a-second faster than another and giggling  nigger-nigger-nigger all the time, up his sleeve, like a fucking half-wit? Cars, that's what we want, not racist panto.



Thursday, 26 February 2015

THINGS WE SELDOM SEE. POXY OLD SLAPPER OWNS-UP.

 Yes, without mystupidly flawed jusdgement and my need for publicity, Stoke Mandeville and |Broadmoor  wouldn't have happened.  
I am entirely to blame for Jimmy Savile assaulting, raping and irreparably traumatising hundreds of patients for whopm I was responsible.  

As health minister I appointed him to a wholly fictitious, unnecessary and catastrophically misjudged position in an NHS establishment.  There was no precedent for such an appointment and I personally am entirely responsible for all these people being sexually abused and worse. 

 I will now, of course, shut the fuck up, withdraw completely from public life 

and donate my parliamentary pensions and the proceeds of my


dreadful, pornobook sales to Savile's and, I must say, my victims.

There is nothing I can say in my defence, except that as a minister and as a wife and mother I was kept busy with other matters of state. 

Like sucking the prime minister's cock.

HELP! I NEED SOMEBODY'S HELP.......

Anybody have experience of the Microsoft Surface Pro 3, the hybrid laptop/tablet?

It's main uses would be writing, strolling Cyber Avenue and digging the cool sounds and sights of the You-thing, although not Sir Cliff Richard. Or the Shadows, for that matter, his accomplices. One way or another.

 A Jova, that Hank Marvin; wish he'd come round here, doing his Jova calling. I'd show him the true meaning of Knocking On Heaven's Door. Lives with mr mike, Down Under, does Hank, not with-him with him but on the same  continent. That's how fond he is of Cliff and the Shads, Hank.

Anyway, tech advice gratefully received.. This Apple stuff is killing me slowly.

Monday, 23 February 2015

THE LEAST OF THEIR CRIMES.



There's no archiving, here, it's all too sporadic, too scattergun but if there was,  all the many Hissing Jack Torture posts and comments would be easily summonsed and make comfortable reading; we have known for decades, for all of his career, that  he is a horrible bastard and no mistake even by the filthy, sewer standards  of NewLabour. That Jack  has now been revealed in just one tiny aspect of his criminality is, I guess, better than nothing.

I watched Straw, lying his face off at the United Nations as Hans Blix insisted that Iraq was in compliance with international demands to decommission and permit the inspection of its rusty old shit bucket weaponry.  Hissing Jack knew better; relishing his role as international statesman,  


War?  Yes, great, I am minded to say, let's kill some niggers, 
present company excepted, in my judgement.

Jack knew that, for his career, his place in history, war was better than peace, knew that this was his big chance to lick the arse of Power.  
Some of the younger Labour women MPs let me fuck them, if I force them,  strictly in the interests of their careers, you understand;
I don't suppose you are minded to....

It is curious that the bigger the honourable member's villainy the higher is the regard in which they are held by their colleagues;  all then present in the House of Commons applauded the crook, Blair, as he left to collect his rewards from GlobaDeath - no wonder  they don't want the Chilcott Report published. The ghastly, cowardly wretches are now falling all over themselves to hosannah the career of the freak, Hague, as he departs, ahead of God knows what scandal; he and his late mistress, Whiskey Maggie, both up to their septic arses in institutionalised beasting and covering-up, in the widespread City corruption of Conrad and Barbara Black whom Hague, in his wisdom, ennobled.

I watched a select committee, discussing Hague's anti-democratic role as Leader of the House, refusing and sidelining debates, misleading and thwarting the will of the Commons, feeble as it is;  save for Jacob Rees-Mogg, it was as though all, even Bill Cash, were anxious to crawl beneath the tables and take their turns fellating the boy lover, the man who shares a bed with a relative child, purely to save money.

Even George Showbusiness Galloway, in a recent debate, stressed his admiration for Hissing Jack and his disappointment in him; most of us rumbled Straw 


back when he had his tongue up  Barbara Castle's ancient, scabby arse;
 it took Armageddon to bring George to his senses about Jack but then he's not the brightest of men, Sheikh bin Galloway.

Malcolm Shouty, too, he and his wife's misuse of MPs' expenses should have seen him thrown-out on his arse and kicked up and down the Mall 

Taxi? To the corner shop?
Yes, dear, the voters'll pay,
'swhat they're for

but no, to compensate him for his embarrassment,  they put a crook, a  noisy, bullying blackguard, in charge of overseeing national security matters, so that he might sell them on to the highest bidders. 

Now that  millions are burned, dead, limbless, refugee  and now that innocents, at home and abroad, lose their heads to Jack's creatures, ISIL, now that Northern Labour is rightly seen as the beast-friendly, vote-rigging corruption that it is, now that the Rednecks are revealed as the hallowed home of tax evasion and money-laundering, the Filth-O-Graph and Channel Four  now take some pains, now arrange some subterfuge in order to tell us what we already know about this pair.

It is true that in the US, Mr Al Capone, a minor gangster by Straw's standards, was finally arraigned and imprisoned on charges relating to his income tax and some might now think that as a result of these similarly relatively minor crimes, Straw and Rifkind will see their uppances finally come, they won't.


Both of these filthsters, unlike Dennis McShane, are in the charmed circle and aside from a little discomfort nothing will happen to them. 

Anyone else, of course, would go to jail on charges of bribery and corruption in public office.   
Geoff Hoon and Patricia Hewitt should have gone straight to jail in the last such cash-for-access sting, nothing happened then and nothing will happen now; haven't both of these criminals referred themselves to a committee of their chums, hasn't Hissing Jack Torture suspended himself  - what is this shit, suspended himself, is there any point whatsoever to Ed Miliband? - from the Labour party? 
 And isn't all this just a measure of how very right honourable these gentlemen are, how fortunate we are to have criminals of such distinction and nobility shitting in our faces? 

Gosh, if only common burglars and bank robbers could temporarily suspend themselves from their guilds, until things blew over. 

No, no, the drug dealing was just boyish high spirits, not as though he was working class, living on a council estate, one of the Underclass. 
And I was the home seckatry.
Yes, a working class kid would have quite properly, in my judgement, gone to jail. 
He was a good kid, actually, Will. 
And I'm minded to say that he'll make a splendid Labour MP. 
A bigger cunt than me, even.

Rifkind, like so many Tories in parliament,  is just a grubby, gobby crook, three years in jail would settle his hash. Straw, though, however lawyerly his excuses, smug his demeanour, superscilious his sneer is a nonce-protector, a vote-rigger, a major war criminal, a thief and a torturer and on his rapsheet this lobbying stuff is neither here nor there;  we should not be sidetracked into thinking that this is important, Jack Straw is no mere hustler;  Jack Straw, alone, without any assistance from MediaMinster's crime family, makes a compelling case for Up against the wall, motherfuckerism.

Monday, 16 February 2015

THE BOOK REVIEW. DOGSHOOTER BLUES. JEREMY THORPE, BY MICHAEL BLOCH


No less a critic than AN Wilson describes this as the most perfect biograpy imaginable.


Jeremy is born of an obsessive, adoring mother.  Mummy sends Jeremy to Eton. Mummy sends Jeremy  to Oxford. At Oxford,  Jeremy is flamboyant, as they used to say, his only female visitor his Mummy. Jeremy plots and cheats and steals and blackmails his way into the Presidency of the Oxford Union. One of his victims and rivals, Robin Day, is so disgusted by Jeremy that he calls the cops.  Not for the last time, the cops are unable to prove Jeremy's crimes.  Using other students' notes and essays,  Jeremy scrapes a bum third in law. A lawyer himself, author, Bloch, dazzled and sympathetic throughout, concludes that Jeremy didn't really do much harm. Not as though Jeremy was working class. I don't know and I care  less whether Bloch was a Bullingdon boy or not, but he thinks and writes like one. However repulsively crooked Jeremy demonstrates himself to be he is redeemed in Bloch's eyes by his great political gifts. And his love of parties.

Jeremy is popular with the homos and child molesters in the Liberal party and succeeds Jo Grimond as leader. 

Some electoral success follows and Jeremy, like so many of his fellow travellers is invited, in this case by the Cottaging Grocer, Heath, to enter coalition.  Unlike his successors,  the revolting Steel and Clegg, Jeremy declines, playing a longer game.

Rumours circulate about Jeremy. Nasty journalists compile a dossier. Jeremy has solicited political donations which he trousers and pays to the eventual dogshooters, that they might rid him of his former rentboy, Norman Scott. Having done their best to protect Jeremy the authorities are left with no choice but to prosecute him for conspiracy to murder. 
The only funny part of the book is that brief section in which Bloch describes Liberal worthies fleeing from Jeremy at the speed of light, 
Cyril Smith, of all people, declaring that he wouldn't touch him with a barge pole and the arsehole, Boy David, telling him he wasn't welcome at party fixtures.

At his trial, the judge famously ordered the jury to  acquit Jeremy on the grounds of his status and reject the evidence of poor Norman, a man whom lawyer-writer  Bloch describes as a parasite; his subject Jeremy, of course, having ponced his entire life off his mother, his wives, his electors, party members and donors was spared this calumny, even though he the more richly deserved it; Norman Scott was a hysterical dissembler, one who traded as best he could on the then anti-homosexual climate which victimised him far more that it did Jeremy Thorpe, no reason for public schoolboys to attempt his murder.  The concept of justice for all seems entirely alien in Bloch's partial and snooty book.

The last section of this comprehensive biography deals with Jeremy's decline after the trial. Many "bravely battle" not only one but multiple chronic illnesses; it is not a matter of valour but of necessity and desperation, who would not rather live than die? Thorpe's contraction of Parkinsons's Disease is - as by now you would expect from this book- uniquely tragic, suffered as it is by a gobby, idle, worthless tosser, but an Oxbridge one. After his trial, Jeremy seeks and expects prestigious appointments, unable to realise that even though acquitted, his trial revealed him to be utterly rotten and completely dishonest. Amnesty International board members resign in droves at the thought that he might be given a senior appointment to which he felt entitled; Robert Mugabe, yes, him, fucked Jeremy off from some position he sought in Zimbabwe; at one time Jeremy was confident of standing again as MP for North Devon and had to be persuaded of how ridiiculous an idea this was. Steel & Co rejected him. In his last years Jeremy hustled for a peerage - purely to get back into parliament, y'understand, and display his dazzling gifts of gabshitery; when his claim to a nonsensical Mediaeval  baronetcy evaporated he lobbied unsuccessfully for a life peerage.
|The nerve of some people, who do they think they are?

I generally feel some sympathy for human villainy  as long as there is  an element of remorse in the villain. Thorpe was as much victim of parental expectation as was Scott of parental neglect; both were fantasists,  both, at that time, criminal deviants, abiding in the demi-monde of rough, urgent buggery and showy - flamboyant - I Dare You masquerade but from those to whom much has been given, much is expected and in this as well as in his lifelong denial of his criminality, Thorpe disappoints. He has enough sympathisers I was never one but Bloch's book, well worth borrowing from the library, comfirms my hostility to he and all of his ilk.

It might be worth noting that Thorpe's perverse acquittal - one of the jurors later said Oh, he done it, but he and his wife had suffered enough - and  shamlessness set a new benchmark for dastardly conduct amongst politicians,  none now resign, all now, like Cameron insist that they take responsibility whilst doing nothing of the sort, 

 

all trouser others' money, all serve wealthy benefactors rather than the nation, many are gleefully, audaciously degenerate and decadent
 - flambolyant, in Thorpe's time. 

 I saw Chris Underpants, MP, on Question Time last week. 
mrs ishmael was amazed, this is that bloke who posed in his pants and sent the picture all around the world, seeking casual gay sex 
and now he's on  Labour's front bench and here on the telly, moralising at us? 
Yes, dear and before that he was an Amglican priest.
Still, at least he's not a Liberal, doesn't go around trying to murder his embarrassments, like they do.

THE STATE OF DENMARK.


DANISH PM,
 HELLIE VAN BACON-RASHER VAN KINNOCK.

I vood just like to say zat ze Jewish people are ass Danish as ennyvun else in Denmark; zey are a strong part off ze community. And in order to keep zem safe from ze nutterbastards ve vill round zem up and send zem on ze trains to Germany. Yes, just like before. Iss for zare own good.  Denmark hass ze fine record in looking after ze Jewish peoples. 
Heil Hitler.

Well, yes, of course, it is the first time a Kinnock has been prime minister but not for want of trying, I can tell you, boyo. And let me just say this,  to set the record straight, after I got stuffed the last time, when I said I would go back to the people of Islwyn and represent them for as long as they'd have me, well, of course, what I really meant was until a better job came along.  No, no contradiction at all. And Glenys, well, what can I say, pure coincidence, pu-u-ure coincidence, pure coincidence and personal merit being the only factors, the only factors in her being given a safe Labour seat,  that  she also was able to come to Europe and  fiddle a fortune from her expenses, too.  No, no, we are delighted to have a prime minister in the family and let me just say, she is doing a grand job. Well, of course I help her out, now and again, that's what families are for, isn't it?  

The general election, yes, with my help I am fully expecting Labour to win,  and win resoundingly, resoundingly and convincingly.

 

Young Ed takes my advice and let's face it, I have some experience in general elections.  Yes, yes, I do fully expect to be Foreign Seckatry, no, it's not a matter of entitlement, it's just that I deserve it; yes and there will be a role for Glenys, too, it's the very least she deserves from the people of Britain; yes Home Seckatry'd be about right.  

 
Lord and Lady Kinnock, there's proper socialism at work for you, proper socialism, I tell you, none of that egalitarian nonsense. 
We're alright! We're alright! We're alright! 
Me and the Mrs are, anyway,  and the son.
What, expenses and a pension? For being related by marriage to the Danish prime minister? 
Well, yes, of course;  that's how aristocracy works, isn't it?


Yes, freedom of speech, it matters a great deal to me, it really does, ay great deal,  ay very great deal, and to my daughter-in-law, the prime minister, as she made clear in her remarks, crystal clear, indubitably and beyond doubt, remarks which, I might say, bore the hallmarks, bore all the hallmarks of a family at one, truly at one  with the people who serve them; it's a wonderful thing we're fighting to defend, the freedom of people to say things of which we approve. And that's why I sacked the accountant who blew the whistle on me when I was commissioner. I mean, it's just nit-picking, isn't it, of the worst kind, the very worst kind, nit-picking and rabble-rousing, expecting the books to balance and the accounts to be accurate. 
 I mean, where would we all be if we were expected to  be honest?

God bless the Nazi-loving, pig-farming Danes, eh,
 married into this shower of shit.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

GNASHER OVER LONDON.

GNASHER SETS OUT HER TERMS 
FOR A POST-ELECTION PACT.

SEE YOU, EDDIE?


Haggis boiling out of her ears, Gnasher Sturgeon arrives as the five-yearly festival of competitive promising comes again upon us; all its dire celebrants, 

the hobgoblins, 
 

the ladymen
 

the ponces and pimps 
Adam Lard, here, of sky news.
I know everybody.
I'm actually married to most of them,
anybody who's anybody.
All you nobodies,
you should stick with my election coverage. 
Sgt Robinson-Bilko
PBC's quarter million pounds a year politics hustler.
My sources say such and such but I couldn't possibly tell you who they are.

and the carrion dogs
 
I'm Kay Bully with sky news, stay tuned
 or I'll bite your face off,
you fucking bitch.

In the red corner, Brawling Burley

It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry.


they have all started their scribbling and gibbering, hoping to engage us for a season, not in the carnival, itself, 
 
 Oh, do keep up, it's not Newsnight, you know, 
I'm doing this one for Sky. 
No, of course it's not my take on World War One.
It's the election, which some say is the most important since whenever.
No, the PBC is dreadful, much better working for that Australian,
Murdoch, is it, damned decent chap.
Pay's a darn sight better, too

but in them, in their worn, jaded monkey-thoughts, pilfered, one from another, some of them passed, like holy relics, from one generation of compliant monkey-broadcasters to another and like all the previous festivals of lying which I have witnessed in my lifetime, this, they all do insist, is the most important, ever;  
roll-up, roll-up, the magical mystery tour is coming to take you away - your pensions, anyway, your jobs and your health service; gotta be fit for purpose, gotta move with the times.

Actually, as two-and-a-half party politics eats its own putrefying corpse, this is probably the least important such election, it's purpose being little more than the reading of its own  last rites; nineteenth-century parties are irrelevant to all but themselves and their symbiotes, GlobaCorp, in the case of the Tories and the besuited, hundred-grand-a-year fuax socialistes union managers in the case of Labour;  I dread to think what is the natural constituency of  LibDemmery;  a party enthralled by the likes of David Laws, Danny Alexander, Straight Simon Hughes, Chris Huhne and Nick Clegg must consist only of the smug, the degenerate and the unwholesome. Besieged and berated by their own dying memberships, gnawed upon by their own fretful backbenchers, ignored by the NewPeople  and loathed like never before by the rest of us, the only deathbed turn they can make is towards each other, honouirable and right honourabling themselves into oblivion.  These institutions, as if we didn't already know, are revealed by the current  PBC show, Inside Parliament, is it, Inside Westminster, whatever it's called, it demonstrates what a truly ghastly bunch of fuckpigs wind-up elected, what a crew of sycophantic dimwits - from the cleaners to the doorkeepers to the ludicrous, overpaid, jumped-up fathead, Black fucking Rod, I ask you, Black fucking Rod - serves them and how utterly up its own arse is the entire legislature, its customs and practices, its nauseating self-regard and its luxuriously pampered and insulated existence.  Were there a need to amplify MediaMinster's rottenness the case of Huhne serves that purpose; a man who very recently served a prison sentence for lying to the cops, to the Commons and to the nation has been given back his parliamentary pass, entitling him to heavily subsidised haute cuisine and Napoleon Brandy in Westminster's bars, restaurants and knocking shops; to free use of parliament's facilities, the library, the gym, the terrace but most importantly Chrissy has  full frontal access to every single member of our all-too-corruptible legislature, he can now bribe them at their own place of work. Now, I'm liberal but to a degree. I believe in my bones in the rehabilitation of offenders but Chrissy doesn't think he's done anything wrong, apart from getting found-out and neither, in the light of his readmission, does the House of fucking Commons. Cunts, all of them, every last one of them; why aren't they rioting, over Jailbird Huhne?

 They are all just in it together; Ed Balls has far more in common with George Osborne than he does with you or I,  they are acts on the same bill, unless they hang together they will hang apart. 

But they, like many of us, are overtaken by a technological and concomitant informational revolution far beyond their ken. Oh, they tweet and email and are seldom without some device which we have bought them, keeping their idiotfinger on our pulse, as they would have it, even though most of them don't know what technological day it is.  


Witness this. One of the NewPeople, a young male, still experimenting with facial hair, tried to boobytrap Sid Faridge of the Poundlanders, outside his own ReichsBunker; it was part of a documentary for the Kids' Channel, PBC3.  He went along, Jolyon Somebody - what sort of a name is Jolyon, anyway, I wouldn't call a dogbloke Jolyon - he went along with a fake lie detector, hoping to embarrass Sid, as he exited his HQ, with some questions along the lines of Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Nazi Party of Great Britain?

Driven by his personal bodyguard, Sid's blacked-out Leader-Rover made several attempts to collect the Leader from the front door of  Berchtesgarden, W10,  but Sid was too canny to allow himself to be asked fool questions by a juvenile on his doorstep. No, he launched a diversion, sending some mad old biddy down to engage the child in matronly badinage whilst he donned BobTheBuilder camouflage - honest - and slipped out through another door.  
Here he is, the leader of the Poundland Party, in cammo, fleeing a kiddy-journo with a toy lie detector. 
And this cowardly arsehole wants to be an MP. He has all the makings.  Gorris 'and on the nation's pulse, has Sid.
As much as anything else, the popularity of Sid Faridge illustrates how utterly redundant and contemptible is parliamentary democracy, how out of touch its practitioners, how venal its purpose. For many, Sid is the answer; how unthinkable must be the question, how vile must be incumbents whom some would replace with the likes of this? 





 Enough of the scum, augmented by new scum, Greens and Jocks and Poundlanders, will cling-on and form some sort of Govament of National Unity.  There is fuck-all separating  most of them, a windmill here, a border crossing there, a seventeeth-century nationalism across the road. All of them hate us - probably, given our forebearance of them, rightly so, for as long as we participate, even one of us,  in this black charade, we deserve the shit they so enthusiastically spatter in our faces.  I'm with Wussel Bwand on this, rather, he's with me, I was saying it before he was born. 


Well, never mind all that Ishmaelian cynicism, where DOES he get it from? Welcome to some real commentary. And here on the Daily Politics, we're joined by Scotland's First Minister, Ms Gnasher  

 


 
First Minister Gnasher, you lost the referendum, didn't you?

Well, Andrew, I think we won but that's a debate to be had. But not here.

Why not here?


Well, Andrew, as I said, and as the Scottish people so clearly said,  in the referendum, that's a debate to be had but not here.

But they didn't....

They didn't what, Andrew....

They didn't say anything about a debate to be had, not now, not anytime. You lost the referendum...

Well, Andrew, that's a debate to be had. Un-preeec-edented numbers of people voted for Independence, un-preeeec-edented numbers...

Yes, but more voted against Independence. Doesn't that mean anything to you, the fact that you lost?

        Well, Andrew, lose, win, that's a debate to be had but not now.
Woddawoodsay, though, Andrew, is that, setting the result aside, the numbers of votes,   we clearly won the referendum, un-preeec-edented numbers of people voted for Independence and it's only people like you English who refuse to acknowledge that fact.

But I'm not English....

Well, Andrew, let me put it like this.  Did or didnae ye vote for Independence?

I didn't have a vote. Either way. The SNP didn't allow me to vote. Nor millions like me.

 

There ye are, Andrew, that makes ye English by my reckoning. In fact, woddawoodsay, Andrew,  is that anyone who isnae in the SNP is English and therefore not entitled tae vote in the next referendum.


(breathes heavy sigh) I'm too old for this nutter shit.

Alright, then, you're not gonna answer my question. What about the oil price, you all staked your political souls on the fact that it could only go up.  It has gone down, massively, the economy of Aberdeenshire and indeed of the whole of Scotland is tanking. Do you wanna take this opportunity to apologise?

Well, Andrew, that's a debate to be had but, quite frankly, now is not the time to have it........

Are you, First Minister Gnasher, are you unable to apologise? 

 Well, Andrew, not only can I but I can't, gggrrrrrrrrrr,  not only should I but I shouldn't as well,  it is a debate to be had but not here,  oil is just.....ggggrrrrrrrrrrrr, gnasshhhhh gnassshhhhh, ggrrrrrrrrrrrrrm, grrrrrrrr.... nhs scotland in meltdoon,   ggrrrrrr, gggrrrrrrr, ggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, SNP ruling for some  but not the majority,  grrrrrrr-gggrrrrrrrrrrrrr,  Trident, over my deid, nasty, wee body  gggrrrrrrrrrr-grrrrgrrrrr, coalition wi' Miliband  ggrrrrrrrrrrrr not only will I but I won't, yadadadadada,  I demand a half a per cent per whatever increase in whatever to bring aboot nae austerity, ken, aye and balance they books  ggrrrrrrrrrrr-grrgrrrgrrrrrr aye, an' Scottish votes on English matters gnashhhhh-gnassshhhh-gnasshhhh, the Scottish people voted in un-preeec-edented numbers for Independence and it is only the frankly discredited Westminster politicians, Andrew and lickspittle journalists like yourselves who are denying us our historic ggrrrrrrrrrr......ggrrrrrrrrr
 

That was First Minister Gnasher, there, and as we used to say in Glasgow University, did I mention I went there, as we used to say, she's as well raving there as in bed, because she'd only fall out of bed. And Oh, that lipstick. Looks like what sticks out of a dog, sometimes, Gnasher's gob.

I'll be here this evening, with the Weekly Daily Politics,  tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening, the day after that, the day after that and on Sunday, with the Sunday Daily Politics. And I'll be flying somewhere exotic to make a documentary about something.
It's what they pay me for. 
Lots.