Friday, 15 May 2009

HOGG-FUCKED

 
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A MESSAGE FROM STANISLAV, A YOUNG POLISH PLUMBER



Is new party coming, can fucking see a mile off from here. Is obvious fucking consequence of public disgrace to re-group and call self-same gang of rotten bastards something else, New Something, Fresh, Re-focussed,Rabble to fucking Rectitude, Forward to Ruin, some shit and rubbish, more words, cobble-together in thinking tank by layabout workshy impudent coke-snorting wastrel pimply cocksucking bastard call Benjy or Will, good for fuck all and never done a day's work in fucking life. Is fucking rubbish, innit, fucking plague of thinking tanks, waddisthisshit? Every bastard get inside tank and float about, doing fucking thinking, is no wonder everything is bollocks and crap, should come out to fuck from tank and go in daylight and do decent thinking, like proper Christian bastard does. Or go on toilet with Viz Magazine. stanislav has best thoughts in little room, away from Mrs stan and dog, Buster. Maybe government should have thinking toilets. Get in there you useless fucking bastard and don't come out until this shit is sorted out. I'm looking more like a cunt everyday, like fucking Fagin, leading a fucking rogues fucking gallery of sticky-fingered arseholes who should all be in the fucking Scrubs, sewing bastard mailbags and see what they think of post office reform then, the thieving bastards. Time is for change, PeepulovBritain, follow me, follow us, hardworkingfamily and smallgoneoutofbusiness businesses, wrap up in Union Jack and eat bankershit, New Blue-But-Green Tory; New, New-But-Also-Old Labour; New Jock Tribesmen; New Plaid Taffy; New Democratic Unionist Sourfaced Undertaker Orangeman Bastard No Pope Here Party…..it is the right fucking thing to do, a New Vision, a New Party, a New Britain, fit for fuck all, Tory but Labour, building on all our strengths; Unionist but Nationalist, Honest But Bent As Fuck. Trust Us, We are Thieving Lying Degenerate Bastards. We also serve who only stand and steal.


Is time come for no more Tory grandee drunken, spanking-crazy layabout thieving merchant fucking banker and Q fucking C lawyer bastard only go down in commons when is no fucking work to be had telling lies in Court, like a cunt, Oh, Fuck me, your honour, m’learned friend, counsel for the plaintiff, can’t be here today on account of how, M’Lord, he is in the fucking jolly old slammer for robbing his constituents, as one does, as part of an ongoing career enhancement paradigm; he is, ahem, like most of us, Your Worship, a part-time member of, ahem, parliament and has been caught with his, ahem, fingers in the till; makes a change, I know, your Lordship, from being caught with his cock in the rent boy, Raimundo’s, arse, so to speak, if I may so crave the Court’s fucking indulgence, and who could throw the first stone there, Your Honour, at the relatively harmless pursuit among better-bred gentlemen of giving their good ladies the arse-pox and weeping sores all over the scented valley, as it were, m'Lord, caught off some beguiling and relatively inexpensive taxpayer-funded Brazilian ladyboy, like Lady Mandelson, as nearly was, chauffered around Europe in armour-plated limousines and helicopters as befits the fragrant, transgender plaything of a thrice-disgraced British minister, a bent EuroCommissioner, a wholly unpleasant individual who owes his prominence, My Lord, merely to the fact that he knows where the bodies are buried and not, may it please the Court, to any competence or personal qualities other than a facility with blackmailing and buggery and couldn't tell the truth even with a gun pointed at his head but Oh, Fuck Me your Worship, can I have an adjournment because I can see Inspector Plod has come to interview me and with the greatest respect, Your Honour, for British, ahem, law enforcement, which is quite rightly the envy of the world, mother of parliaments, British Bobby, thin blue line and all that, these bastards’ll shoot you, soon as fucking look at you, they will, and I put it to you, Your Honour, and Right Worshipful Brother, that it’s a case of case adjourned all round. Sine die, Judge, until further notice me and the right worshipful learned ones'll be out of circulation.

The whole idea of entitled, greedy, smirking, part-time Torybastard MP is Hogg-fucked by this repulsive, bombastic shit, wriggling along the road, spouting piety and rectitude and trans-pair-ency, How very dare you suggest I would do something wrong, I, you stupid little person, am a fucking Viscount, my pater was a Viscount and his pater was the first Viscount. Whaddussaviscount do? Well, he helps himself to poor people's money, obviously, what else is the use of being a Viscount and going to Eton? Rotten smarmy cunt, no fucking point is to sticking-out fucking chest and coming with any of that Come now my good fellow, all men of the world shit, just as fucking likely is to get punch in fucking mouth as mark of constituents’ undying fucking respect, fucking horrible bastard. Anyhow, get chased off now from constituency gymkhana with fucking horsewhip; go in front of selection committee and come outsideclutching buttocks with new arsehole ripped-out, for free and He’s not a jolly good fellow, innit, sung in harmony by local, GetYerTitsOutItsForCharity Women’s Institute GrannyPornsters For Rural England and Noncing Bishop read sermon out in cathedral, Fuck off, Hogg, woe unto ye, for ye are an right fucking greedy bastard and an fucking abomination, your father, Quinton Barking-Hailsham-Hogg, was an much better man than you, even though he was a frothing at the mouth raving fucking lunatic-spanker and he’d be turning in his grave at you getting found out like this, go on, fuck off out of my nice cathedral, ya Godless heathen bastard motherfucker. In my Father's house there are many mansions and none of the fuckers has a a fucking moat around it you obnoxious jumped-up fucking sinnerbastard. No, no fucking way, we don't do that Hail Mary shit, mumble a few prayers and you get let off a lifetime of arse-banditing defenceless infants, no, once you're out of here you're fucking Hogg-history. Try the fucking Scientologists, they'll have anybody,

Hogg-fucked all their chances, that’s what this wretched, whining prick has done, setting out his schedule of self-importance; two homes I need, all the better to line my cuntish pockets, fucking revolting monster. Hanging, yes, too fucking good for the bastard. stanislav an abolitionist is all his fucking life but would stretch a principle a little in cases of this shower of felons, gangsters, conspirators, slags and pimps and string 'em all up from neck at lampposts or maybe even crucify the bastards in avenues of crosses, only stanislav is not member of Pope Nazi church, so maybe glorious necktie party is most best ecumenical sol-you-shun and make most effective deterrent, a few Hoggs dangling, swinging about in the breeze. Of course, Frog had best way of dealing in permanent manner with Viscount and Duke and so on, is just to take for ride in horse and cart, lay down on nice wooden board and chop head off from body with big bastard half-tonne razor blade drop on fucking neck from great height and thousand of assembled Frogs shout Bravo! Encore! and other Frog shit. Vive l'Empereur

Fuck me, Jesus, is grim times for unemployed pinstripe thieving Tory bastards, can’t all go on fucking telly like Portillo, the smirking Dago, who isn’t gay. Doesn’t fucking matter anyway, would be just as same a bastard if he was normal. Here is Dame Michael living with poor people for a fucking week, the cheeky cunt; here Michael eating dinner is with small tribe of media arseholes and getting fucking grease all over his chin whilst speaking to great truths or some such fucking pretentious rubbish, the horrible fucking bastard; here is Michael moralising, here is Michael philosophising, here is Michael feigning intelligent conversation with Diane Whale and Peter Stringpenis on the Jock Neil, good evenin’ all, lay off the Blue Nun, I’m a bit of a lad, me, even though I’m a bitter, greedy and unpardonably unattractive old age fucking pensioner who thinks cool is taking his fucking tie off show, the useless piece of corny unoriginal journo-shit; fuck me, who will deliver us from these arseholes, poncing a champagne and caviar living at the BBC? One thing certain is that disgusting old cock-waving Jock Neil can’t get all his Tory mates on the sofa, is very amazing how TV’s Well-Connected, Smirking Mr Politics missed–out on all this shit; still, hates poor people, does Jock, probably approves of Hogg & Co, BastardsRusUlike.

No more honest labourer MP, either, son of fucking toil, cloth cap, fish and chip dinner and immensely relaxed about thieving fucking bastards flushing country down shit hole. Stuttering alcoholic fuckwit apologist, Tony Piss-up Wright, Steve GissaJob Pound, Shalik Malik the thievingbastard Justice minister, all career horny-handed sons of toil, never have done a day's etc etc, just come in house of fucking commons for life and sermonise at poor taxpaying bastard and play at being lawyers on select committee of this and fucking that; Keith Vaz, fuck me, rottenest, vilest, oiliest bastard in the country in charge of home affairs select committee, mind fucking boggles. There they all are, up to their arses in personal corruption and failure to do their duty by grassing each other up and lecturing decent fucking plumbers on what's fucking what. Is right good day to bury the smkirking emblematically NewLabour arsehole, Steven Byers, poncing the cist of his bint's flat from you and me – influential former Blairite minister, until he got sacked out from government because of being fucking rubbish and lying useless fucking Trotskyite scumbag shithead dimwit fucking imbecile, even by standards of Blunkett and Clarke and that fucking shrew-woman Patricia Hewitt, can’t find hole in own arse, Byers, never mind sol-you-shun to UK-wide shit and rubbish transport system and as much chance of making a go of Rover car factory as has dog, Buster, and probably fucking less, most useless minister in the history of United Kingdom, apart from all his colleague useless, gravy-training, jumped-up, insolent, bad-mannered illiterate uncouth fucking cretins. Byers, Milburn, Clarke, Blunkett, Reid the Jock Dwarf, lest we forget.




The Appalled Party

Jesus fucking Wept, says Bully boy Dave, I am fucking appalled at all this shit. All my hand-picked drunken bullies and for fuck’s sake its not like they haven’t got shitloads of fucking money, anyway; Duncan’s nearly as rich as my Mrs.

Me, too, says Gordon Snot, and just when I’d saved the fucking world by ruining it, all this shit starts flying everywhere, I’m so appalled I could shit myself, right here, at the fucking Despatch Box, only Mi-mi-mi-mister Spunker, I am too much of a gentleman, unlike your good, thieving self, who is becoming more of a case to be appalled by with every passing minute, I can’t for the life of me imagine what that cunt, Blair and his baggage, Imelda, were thinking about, making you Speaker, it was a Tory’s turn to wear the buckled shoes but no, we get you, a fat Mick, panel-beating, bagpipe-squeezing, redfaced, spluttering Weegie fuckpig who can’t even speak proper fucking English, shoulda been some shire herbert like Sir Patrick Wotsit, as though I dinnae have enough problems requiring my trusty Hastily Invented Right Thing To Do Sol-You-Shuns without this gabshite frightening the fucking horses. I am truly appallingly appalled.

But I was appalled first, says Dave Bully, I'm Eton, Oxford and Tory HQ, a most distinguised record, and I should lead any new party, which, frankly, I simply say to you, is something which will command the respect of the whole house a sit will prevent members and their families from going to jail. Now that everyone in the land realises that we are a bunch of thieving idle useless drunken degenerates a new party is the way forward. And we can all be in it. Oh there will be differences, fuck me, there are always are in a democracy but if we all pull together we can reflect the national mood. And be appalled. And I would nominate Ms Ruth Man Kelly, the famous self-flagellant transexual former minister as an example to us all of what contrition and repentance really mean only fuck off with that hairshirt and cat o nine tails, if its all the same to you.

It’s no good the honourable gentleman shitting himself now, says Mr Nick Haircut. We’ve been telling him to be appalled for ages and whadduzzedoo ? Takes the piss, reads us the riot act as though I was an empty-headed fop, which, If you are asking me Am I, well, of course I am and I make no bones about it and I take full responsibility for it, whatever that means in parliamentary terms Mr Deputy Spunker, and I suspect it means Case Closed, there I've accepted full resposibility now fuck off about it.

It's because Mr Deputy Spunker, it's because, he asks me the wrong questions all the time like -fumbles with papers- why am I a useless snot eating bastard? or, What is the point of me? Well, I'll tell him, if it wisnae for me and my clunking Claw of Ruin stood here at this Despatch Box, repeating things so much and so often that it causes a national nosebleed, Mr Splasher, then he and the right honourable Leader of thieving Opposition bastards would have nothing to do and not a chance of coming into office. It is thanks to me, Mr Spunker, that we have a very real possibility of a Conservative government, propped up by the right honourable Mr suit and haircut's assembly of copraphilacs, spiteful bisexuals, tearful, deranged old aged pensioner sprinters, gay ginger drunken Highlanders (he's nearly come oot, Charlie) and the famous Hungarian bandit, Sir Lembit Opek, a government which, may I say, Mr Glasgow ThugBastard I shall be happy to join and, in the interest of the world, lead; It's what I have worked for all my political life and I look forward with all other members of this house, Mr Deputy Spunker of spending my life on a very handsome salary and pension being appalled at myself and doing sweet fuck all about it. Now, now, Mr Deputy Sprinkler, now that we have all been Hogg-fucked up the arse, so to speak, in broad daylight, now is the time for us to stand together. Or sit gingerly on cushions. With me in charge. I commend myself to the house. Cheers, waving of order papers; exits chamber, singing in doleful brown voice, Gimme, gimme, gimme, a man after midnight.....

13 comments:

Anonymous said...

Fucking brilliant.

Goodnight Vienna said...

I think you covered most of it there Stan - great stuff.

lilith said...

Christ he looks like that Anthony Hopkins bloke from Hannibal.

Old Holborn said...

Thank you Stan.

an ex-apprentice said...

Dear Mr Ishmael,

There seems to be an unwritten rule hereabouts that a comment cannot be longer than a single sentence, if indeed it stretches that far, so be it, I'm not, as you know, one to go against the flow; I agree with the very concise Mr Anonymous, who makes up for being shy by being brief but beautifully formed, and it is very good of you to allow the much-missed and enormously talented Stanislav out for a bit of healthy competition, it speaks well of your lack of ego that you are clearly not put out by the obvious risk of being left trailing in his wake; the only slight query I would have with Mr Stanislav's post is with his nominating Byers as the most incompetent Minister of all time, Byers does of course more than hold his own in a very strong field of contestants for this honour within the present government (I use the term very loosely), but for my money John Prescott surpasses him, particularly when you add up the monetary value of the damage done to the country by his blundering, half-witted incompetence; of course, this competition is now rendered a case of no contest, as Gordon Brown has become the undisputed world and olympic fuck-up champion, and has accordingly flogged the trophy off to the Japanese, I would write more, but I'm running out of breath.

Dick the Prick said...

Shellshocked - giggled out. I vote Hoon as the worst or Blair - hmm..... not a fan of lists.

Dick the Prick said...

13:13 - ffs - tits.

call me ishmael said...

Dear mr an ex apprentice

It was just so we don't forget the pinnacles of filth brought to us by the NewLabour coup.

Prescott is a disgrace to organised labour, to the backbone of the labour movement which, regardless of its new variant disease incarnation, brought much we wrong-headedly take for granted.

Prescott was given more to fuck up and so his catastrophic incompetence is more visible; Byers, however, personifies not even the arriviste class traitor which the unions have always thrown up but the career apparatchik who would be happy in any party as long as he had power over others; the wall, against which they should get up, is long, and needs to be.

My friend, stanislav, who needs, incidentally, no permission but just shoulders me aside, sees, as you know, no meaningful difference between any of them but I would grant you, since it's my turn, that the Prescott betrayal and naked pie-scoffing, cock-waving self-interest is the more hurtful and insulting; Byers, however, like Milburn and Hewitt, is the more sinister.

Mr Hoon does deserve special mention, Mr D the P, if the bereaved and maimed and burnt of World War Three were to band together in sorrow and rage to form a religion, Geoff would be it's Devil.

woman on a raft said...

so maybe glorious necktie party is most best ecumenical sol-you-shun and make most effective deterrentSeconded. Evidence came from Diane Abbot looking scared on the late-night show. "They want politicians hanging from lamp posts" she squeaked.

It might not even be necessary to do anything physically unpleasant - a manequin might have the desired effect "You see that scarecrow hanging, that's you, that is."

call me ishmael said...

Yes, Mrs woman On A Raft.

Strange Fruit, hanging from the poplar trees...That is a delicious thought.

I think Abbott is too stupid, too insulated by luxuriance to accurately guage the public mood, she's always eclipsed by Dame Michael and he's no Einstein. But I hope you're right and that the greedy useless cow is scared, even a little.

FrankFisher said...

Plane trees in London, not poplars. But then a young Polish plumber might not be expected to know this. The London Plane, Platanus × hispanica, is a hardy hybrid, adapted to harsh soils and regular dogshitting. It abides, while more elegant breeds die. Dull, a little plain, but sturdy. An English tree, for Englishmen. The kind of tree you can take cover behind from a hail of police bullets, CS gas would hang clouding in its leaves, and yes, strange fuit could cluster quite happily among its branches.

Elby the Beserk said...

You fucking took the fucking words off the fucking tip of my fucking tongue, Stan, you old bastard. Welcome back. What a to do, eh?

Mr. Fisher, Sir. I would add that the London Plane is very resistant to pollution. Unlike the House.

call me ishmael said...

Dear Mr Fisher

Thank you for the correction, although you must permit a plumber such artistic license as he can muster in these dark times; the line, as you well know, relates to that Good ole boy redneck custom of nigger-lynching, now all but forbidden.

Mr Elby
I have mentioned to you previously that we do not care, here, for filthy fucking language.