Sunday, 31 May 2009

KENNEDY SOBER SHOCK

 
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DRUNK IN TEDDY BEAR SCAM

From the Daily Suicide-O-Graph.

Meanwhile, it was also reported the former Lib Dem leader Charles Kennedy claimed taxpayer-funded expenses for teddy bears and mints from the House of Commons shop.

He said the claim had been submitted in error and the money - £14.90 - repaid earlier this month.

"I receive regular requests for (non party political) fund-raising and other charitable causes. These I meet from my own pocket and am happy to do so. When this error was picked up, upon receipt of these invoices, both were repaid by me on May 11 this year, just when they were about to be made public." " I must have been drunk at the time" continued the gay Highlander, " I normally am, the booze, d'ye ken, in the house of commons, is subsidised, like my entire life and so-called career, by the bonny taxpayer, although not in Scotland, obviously, where there aren't any. Did I mention I was the youngest ever alcoholic in the house of commons?"

"Since, like most Jock members," chuckled cheery CharlIe, the wee ginger darlin', "I spend my life pissed, I cannot be held responsible for myself or any money-grubbing errors I may characteristically make, such as going on Have I Got Stale News For You, with those other smarmy cunts."

"I am clearly not responsible for myself and this is why you should have all voted for me as prime minister, when you had the chance."

Charles Kennedy made a similar bold and frank and courageous statement of leadership a couple of years back, coincidentally just five minutes before one of his chums was about to expose him as a can't-stand-up pisshead who didn't know his arse from a hole in the ground. Charles can always be relied upon to fess-up when he has absolutely no other option but avoid the truth like the pox up until then, a true parliamentarian.

Tomorrow, Charles Kennedy on his AA meetings - My name is Charles Kennedy and I am a politician........

Friday, 29 May 2009

FIRST THING IS KILL ALL THE LAWYERS

 
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Lawyer Cash – how sweet the name of a villain sounds – Bill, an Oxbridge pinstripe spiv, takes the biscuit, so far, for impudence and is currently holder of young Mr stanislav’s Up against the wall, motherfucker, Yellow Jersey. The Tour de Slime down at Le Palais des Felons is, however, still wide open and many may yet wear the coveted Jersey jaune (Fuck off with this frog shit, ed)

He always looked too vile to be true, a caricature of a braying, snorting Tory lawyer-cum-part-time MP, pin-striped to fuck and mouth always slightly ajar in case someone might stuff it with gold, the horrible fucking bastard, and so one allowed that he might belie his appearance and be a man of principle rather than shame; he was, along with the blabbermouth pearly queen diamond lady Teresa GorMouth, one of the bastards beloved of nice Mr Major in his idyllic English summer days of warm beer, bicycling spinsters and fucking Mrs Edwina Bicycle up hill and down dale. He certainly, at every opportunity, trumpeted his principled opposition to the SuperSized EuroState beloved of most of our masters and must be disappointed that, accordingly, his only appearance on the front bench was as shadow Shylock in the team of nobodies assembled by the Smith Twins, Iain and Duncan, the infamous volume turner-uppers. And voter turner-offers.

Alas, alack and malheureusement, Lawyer Cash is every bit as spivvish and unprincipled as he looks and must be, under the scramblingly self-protective ordinances of Dave (Who’s that stupid Boy?) Bully, bound for glory of a decidedly de trop nature. He may even have, as the Cameron argot has it, questions to answer.

To the question of Why the fuck he thought he should give my money to his brat, Lawyer Bill replies, flashing his winning smirk, that if it’s lawful, it is acceptable.

Bill Spiv, in his largesse with our money to his brat wannabee daughter, single-handedly makes the case for a one hundred and five per cent inheritance tax being applied to MPs, bankers and other serial criminals; let them and their vile spawn profit no further from their ill-gotten gains.

Most importantly, let not Cameron profit from this cross-party denoument. Any leader worth his salt should know when his troops, let alone his shadow cabinet and close advisers, are living beyond their means, isn’t that what the whips do, check up on people? Sniffing the wind, Cameron feigns ignorance, launching a languid crusade of questions to be asked. I put together a great team of talented Oxbridge individuals, whose bullyin qualities were unimpeachable, I didn’t know they were all thieves. How was I supposed to know. All I wanna do is be prime minister ? In his defence it must be said that he, too, mistakenly, over claimed his own expenses. But, once found out, paid them back swiftly.

The steely-eyed pretend outrage of CokeHead Cameron and of Labour’s Star Chamber is a showbiz farce, an insult. Lament and breastbeat as they may, Bill Cash personifies them all, smirking, unprincipled, shameless, greedy bastards, criminals who have managed to legalise their offence. Throw them all out. Questions to answer, my arse.

FROM THE MOUTHS OF THE BARDS TO THE PEN OF THE SCRIBE.

 
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WOTSONTELLY. TREASURES OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM, MICHAEL WOOD ON BEOWULF.BBC FOUR.

There was a lovely juxtaposition on BBC Four last night; it should, so very English was it, have been broadcast on St George's Day, on every Saint George's Day for in a two-programme combination of the British Museum, on the Sutton Hoo helmet and the historian Michael Wood, on the Anglo-Saxon poem, Beowulf, the evening, almost inadvertently, nonchalantly celebrated the art and the craft of England, neither of them native here to the manner born but now weathered-in, intrinsically English, celebrated wherever she is spoken, read or acted-out; there was no Elgar, no Henry the Eighth and praise God, neither the ghastly Simon Schama nor the obnoxious David Starkey, queened and preened throughout, their every line arch and rehearsed, comic book history. Michael Wood is of much greater refinement.

Most of them annihilate culture, the telly twitterati, the grammar school totalitarianistes nouveau, reducing it to just an ingredient in the endless sausagemeat of broadcasting – cogito ergo disseminare, I think, therefore I must be on the telly, arseholes – all of human history and culture merely a vehicle for their smug, emphatic, talking heads.

The tale from the Museum recounted the disovery of the helmet, now gloriously reconstructed, taken from an East Anglian burial mound, part of an enormous treasure trove and donated, quite properly and in an understated, English fashion, to the nation by it's finder, Mrs Pretty. It revealed how, until the find, Anglo-Saxon man was assumed a mead-swigging brutish dullard scratching around in the pigshit and how the dicovery of such exquisite craft stood that assumption on it's head. It was told with effortless scolarship by employees of the Museum and by film and stills from the 'thirties, when the treasure-laden burial ship of, it is presumed, King Raedwald, was discovered in its burial mound. The excavation took place against the commencement of the Nazi War and all, fabulously wrought gold and silver and gems, was, like much of our treasure, consigned to an Underground station for future restoration, once Mr Hitler had been sent packing by our trusty warriors.


Judged against scholars, restorers, custodians of Antiquity, Wark, the snarling harridan and Mark Potato on the BBC are irrelevant mouthy show-offs, trashy; Schama and Starkey crush enthusiasm and curiosity beneath a cavalcade of wordy, name-dropping, punning, put-downs; contrived, over-written, moribund, an hour watching either of these jumped-up irritants produces TV’s desired effect of making the viewer feel lesser, patronised, nobody-ised. The grinning, hairy, Jock hobgoblin, Neil Oliver, whining his way around the Coast or through mediaeval Scotland, like a Kosher Billy Connolly, makes one yearn for an Open University Closed.

Wood, though, blessed with boyish good looks, easy charm, a wondering enthusiasm and an unfaltering, seemingly spontaneous delivery had me up and running, or Googling anyway, reading poetry, planning a trip to Jarrow Monastery to walk in the steps of the Venerable Bede; to Malmesbury, where, Wood surmised, the pagan Anglo-Saxon oral tradition was enscribed and preserved - but, paradoxically, by latin, Christian clerks. I

In a few magic moments filmed with a man expert in ancient swordsmithing, Wood teased out the craft, almost alchemy, the ritual, the myth behind the Warrior’s magic, dragon-slaying sword, created originally by extracting ore from meteorites sent by the Gods, the fabulously sophisticated artisan twisting and beating and twisting together again rods of red-hot iron to produce the killing strength required, the enchanted ripples of it's melding unique to each blade.

Wood’s programme was interspersed with a telling of the epic Beowulf in a repilicated Saxon Hall. Performed by Julian Glover to an audience of period-dressed, wassailing Saxonophiles this demonstration harked back to an information technology predating even writing. In the beginning was the word. In a few simple phrases Wood linked the whole of English literature, story-telling, from Chaucer to High Noon to the oral tradition of the Danes, the Angles, the Saxons; our every literary nuance, the astonishing global impact of English deeply rooted in the myths, not of John Bull but of the Germanic immigrant tribes; it was deftly, lovingly done, it’s purpose to educate, inform and enthral.


Glover's raucous and dramatic performance to an enthusiastic, participating crowd was intercut also by an elegant, spare photography, landscapes almost Oriental in their singularity conjured, somehow, the rush of Time itself in a single, static frame; quietly, seditiously demonstrated the endurance of Earth, Water, Fire and Air, against which we are all, Warrior or empty, discredited politicians, Jock Tribesman, Eton Bully or fearful National Fonter, but performing fleas.


The poem itself, compassionate in its way to both hero and monster, is taught to English undergrads after the Epic of Gilgamesh and before Gawain and the Green Knight and many an Ishmaelite pays it scant, barely requisite attention, yet in Wood's homage it seems pivotal to the Pagan-Christian duality which forged our national culture during what we call the Dark Ages but which, for an hour, Michael Wood made Bright.

See both programmes, if you can, on one of the BBC's many portals to distraction.


There, Mr Verge, as you were saying, no man is an island, no monster either.

ETON TO BE DEMOLISHED

 
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SWINE FLU OUTBREAK LEADS TO CULL OF RICH KIDS.

(From the Daily Suicide-O-Graph)

It is the only Sol-you-shun, said Prime Minister of parts of England, Mr Gordon Snot, when these swine get out they go all over the place, causing me a pain in the arse. So after lengthy consultation with nobody else I am ordering its demolition. And that of it's pupils. There will, of course, be a far-reaching cover-up with powers to take evidence and kill witnesses and which will exonerate me of this and everything else. It is the right thing to do for homeless families, like Mrs Kirkbride's, and for small goneoutofbusiness businesses up and down the land which are all fucked up the arse by the American sub-primesters and nothing to do with me, fuck, no. My father was a minister you know, and I derive my moral compass from him. Do you want a punch in the fucking mouth, ye Tory bastard?

Thursday, 28 May 2009

A LEXICOGRAPHER SPEAKS

The Encyclopaedia Galactica has this to say on the subject of resignation:

Resignation is depart from job, or post, as posh people call job, and fuck-off quick, generally with immediate effect.

To tender resignation is to announce immediate departure, generally after some episode or episodes of bad behavious incompatible with the post which the postholder holds, so to speak, or held. Like stealing. And stealing in concert with one's equally post-holding husband. Or Mackay.

Mackay Trusted adviser to a man who trusts his advice, until he gets caught thieving and then has to be sacked, with gratitude for all the thieving advice.

standing down at next election means to get off Jock-free and is not resignation in accepted sense of word, especially since would have lost election anyway.

David Cameron means two-faced, career bully, mealymouth arsehole: eg thieving cow is not resigning in a year's time because of wrongdoing now, Oh, fuck me, no, it is because of media pressure which is intolerable and she has much to offer in future, although not as Treasurer. Which I fully respect.

JULIE KERFUFFLE. A CARDIGAN SPEAKS

 
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YOUNG MOTHERS WILL BE DISCOURAGED BY ALL THIS, NOT THAT I'D KNOW ABOUT THAT.


Ian Wannabee, speaking on the BBCWorld At One said that it was a tragedy, fighting back crocodile tears, Mrs Dale said it was a tragedy, and the feeling's gone and I can't go on, it's a tragedy. People of quality and mothers would stop standing for parliament after all this shit. Only not him, he was still standing, feeling like he never did, feeling like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid and would be happy to be selected for a Tory seat. Or a Labour one. Or the Monster Raving Lonnies. Anybody. I just wanna get my teeth around the foreskin of democracy and give it a right good chewing,

Mrs Dale's Diary is available at all bad bookshops and just next door to Mr Guido's Pizza place. Careful you don't step in the blood.

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

STANISLAV, AN OUTPATIENT SPEAKS

Go down local hospital today for laser surgery, on old mince pies, Fuck me, gently. Not hurt a bit says eyebloke. Cunt. Not hurt him a bit but is like some bastard hammer hot nails in stanislav eyeball, fucking dreadful. Is OK? says eyebloke; No, is not OK, is fucking murder, is on special extra fucking hot setting, eh? ten million volts? best leave off for a minute. Have had laser surgery before, few time, and never hurt like this bastard, is exfuckingcrutiating.

Edinburgh Royal College of Surgeon-Extorionists says that doctor working in Highland and Island is often alcoholic, drug addict or misfit; this bloke look like all three bastards. Scotland is best part of England and can see doctor very easy, is just that is maybe crap and dangerous; dirty, drunken mentalcase with hand shaking and bad breath full of garlic, often has huge beard and hair everywhere, like fucking Hobbit and would sooner cut own throat than wash hands between patient. Anyway, to start off with, eyebloke puts stanislav head in iron mask and is damning and fucking because nothing works, turns out he has the lens in the wrong way round; good job, says stanislav, it didn’t fucking work, else you’d a had laser in your eyes, innit, and serve you right. Maybe was wrong thing to say.

Anyway stanislav not want to be seen as ladyman or wuss but after few seconds is in agony, can’t see and both eye is streaming and head is exploding. Can do Zen shit, meditation and self-hypnosis, just sort of empty mind of Now and tranceout, feel no pain, or little pain, but not with this bastard. Have you got much more to do, maybe can put up with if nearly finished is? You've had 56 shots. And how many is more to come? Is a thousand altogether. Oh fuck me, nine hundred and forty four more bastard nails hammer in fucking eyeball, fuck that shit, can't put up with, is like some bastard set fire to inside of head and bombs going off in eyeballs, sweat like fucking Paddy Fawkes in confession box with noncing monsignor, another nine hundred will vomiting be and shit pants like demented old bastard on Tory backbench caught with fingers in till and cock in rentboy. Fuck it, can go blind and get dog, like Blunkett, Buster is dear old friend and best boy but is crap for walking about with, does great tripping-up even when stanislav can see, and even if didn't trip up and smash face on pavement would pull arm from socket in pursuit of other dogblokes. Can be blind plumber, stanislavplumbcheap4u in Braille. Anyway get money off government if blind is. Not fucking much, not as much as Mr and Mrs Balls or Mr Duncan, but is few quid and can always tune piano for living.

Have had blind piano bloke come in gaff and tune-up Joanna. Is all horrible miserablest fucking bastard ever – this piano, Sir, is very out of tune. They all say that, like was crime against disabled bastards. Yes, is out of tune, that’s why stanislav sent for you in first place, you pianobloke is, if stanislav could tune piano, you wouldn’t be here, innit, can do most thing, but tune piano is job for blind bloke with fuck all else to do but listen, innit, is shit job, is only fit for blindbloke with special listening skills, so maybe it just SEEMS so out of tune because you is listening like a bastard and to me is just fucking out of tune, I mean, it doesn’t matter if is one note out of tune or eighty-fucking-eight out of tune, is same difference, piano sounds like shit, only takes is one note and whole thing is fucked, unless of course piece of music doesn’t have that one note in, which it might not, if was Three Blind - no offence – Mice, but can’t sit and play Three Blind Mice forever and ever, people come round for dinner and you say Oh Fuck me, guests, I’ll just play you Three Blind Mice, a few times, like last time, pretty soon run out of dinner guests, who wants to come and hear Three Blind Fucking Mice, year after year, and here in Scotland can only really invite expatriots because Jock is savage and no fucking manners has got and would smash gaff up if only was Three Blind Mice by way of post-prandial diverissement, so really either piano is in tune or is not in fucking tune, can’t be very in tune and so can’t be very out of tune either, and, matey, have had hard day with head down toilet so not fucking me about be anymore with this Piano Is Very Out Of Tune Shit, like was Blind Boy Monty Python and Parrot, only piano instead; have got topjolly Yamaha keyboard and never go out of fucking tune and sound more like piano than piano. Have got Yamaha acoustic guitar and Yamaha electric guitar, is like fucking Yamaha factory, could have fucking Nipponese orchestra in here and don’t fucking care if you tune piano or not, is only affectation, acoustic piano, Yamaha is much better. Don’t need all this shit, got plenty of shit without bad-tempered accusatory pianobloke coming in here and giving me more shit. Do you wanna tune out of tune piano, like it says in Yellow Pages or have you come round here to bully people? What is it with you blind fuckers? ‘snot my fault. Try to give you some work to do and is better than weaving fucking basket and only can whine about piano out of tune being, as though stanislav took front off from Joanna and twist all the tuning pegs with fucking molegrip just to piss you off ? Honest, not invent, is true conversation.

No, mate, don’t care if you is doctor or not, stanislav is not coward, has had loads of this shit before and is OK, sting a little bit and eyes water but this fucking torture is, you from MI fucking 5? Can take laser and shove-up arse of BMA, is fucking rubbish, come in NHS to get rid of fucking pain, not get fucking torture to death, can go on waterboarding vacation in Cuba and is not so fucking bad as this shit, can smell fucking eyeballs burning.

You done this before ? Oh yes, am consultant, if is hurting you like fuck I can give you local anaesthetic. You mean needle in fucking eyeball, innit, is not good day for stanislav, nearly have eyes blown out through back of fucking head and now is fucking get eyeball stuck with hypodermic syringe, like in fucking nightmare, you know how Jack Nicholson says I Would Rather Stick Pins In My Eyes Than whatever it is? Well stanslav has had pins stuck in eye, or needle, which is same thing, only worse, and is shit thing to have, can't even, obviously, close fucking eyes and hope for best because is looking straight at needle coming towards eye in shaking hand of drunken misfit dope-fiend called Sandy or fucking Angus. Want local anaesthetic and carry on scorching eyeball ? No fucking thank you very fucking much. Got enough doctorshit with mad bastard wants to stop heart and rip to pieces and patch up like fucking inner-tube on bicycle, scar down front like Grand fucking Canyon and is only little bit of angina and can live fine with few pills and just as long as poor eviscerated surgery victim and probably longer and don't want some fucking eejit sticking needles in my eyeball, today.

Hooligan-Sadist doctor not apologise, Fuck me, no, not say Just relax, be better soon, was pissed off, bureaucratisation of NHS has no room for individual, hyper-sensitised patient and says stanislav can go in day clinic, fly to big hospital, still get needle in eyeball but can do it in more caring environment than grubby little office, and lasershots won't hurt so much, is only pain and fuck all compared to what Afghani Wedding guest gets from Uncle Sam, but he is wog, innit, and doesn't matter, stanislav can go in bed afterwards with nice cup of tea and Jock nurse, big like elephant, keep check on observations and say There-There, Hen, There-There. Scotland, best part of England.

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

ESTHER RANTZEN: I AM THE NEW EDWINA CURRIE

 
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I WANNA BE ELECTED, MS RANTZEN, 71.

It's all quite appalling, said toothy old dog, Esther, a fierce self-publicist, I haven't been on TV for ages, despite my thong and everything, at least this way I shall be on TV all the time, again. Wanna see my teeth, big boy ? I'm a widow, y'know.

Fuck me, no, said the Luton voter, first Mags DryRot and now this brazen old minger, shouldering her way in. Next thing it'll be Wotsername, the old drunk, FagAsh Lil, Germane Greer, the female bollock, her, off the telly. It's the BNP for me, lads.

THE SIX O CLOCK NEWS FROM THE BBC WITH HUW WELSHMAN

 
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INBREEDING WILL OUT.


CAMERON TO ABOLISH POLITICS




Good evening, this is the six oclock news from the BBC with me, Huw Welshman. Abolish himself, that’s what he says, isn’t it, Cameron the Bully, look you, if his gang wins the next election, which,lets fucking face it viewers, he ought to but probably won't, isn't it. Here’s Nick Robinson, the BBC’s amazing self-fellating gabshite. Yes, Huw, I interviewed Mr Fuckwit earlier and here’s what he had to say. Well, Nick, as I go around the country meeting homeless Labour voters and small goneoutofbusinesses this is what they say to me: Why don’t you just fuck off, Lord Snooty, you useless, braying, coked-up nincompoop ? And d’you know, Nick, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. When I’m prime minister I will abolish the Tory party and all its works and just have ordinary people getting all the expenses, starting all the wars, fucking-up all the services, exactly as I tell them, and if they don’t, well, you can see what happened to my fiddling bastards, nothing.

You know, Nick, one of the young hoodie gentlemen approached me at a dinner party the other evening, How would it be, like, he asked, if I was to, right, stop burgling people’s ‘ouses in like, a year’s time, right ? That would mean that nuffin else would ‘appen to me, like, for all the uvver burglaries wot I already done; like standin’down from being a burglar, that would, like, be my punishment, right, like them Wintertons and them geezers Steen and Conway ? Absolutely, old boy, I replied, just like me, pay back the money you mistakenly stole, or a bit of it anyway, for form’s sake, mustn’t embarrass the party, that’s the main thing, even though I am going to abolish it and stand for PM as Dave, the Nowhere Man, You Know Where You Are With The Nowhere Man, Nowhere, that’ll be my new logo thing. So, anyway, I thanked the young hoody gentleman, paid him for the drugs, and,assured of his vote, went back to my dinner guests, all of whom will be abolished.

Nick, he sounds barking, a mental case, he wasn't talking all this shite a few weeks ago, before they all got caught with their cocks in the till.

Huw, that's right, he is barking, worse than the other one, makes up some new initiative every five minutes, it'll probably be abolishing the monarchy tomorrw...

Nick, does it matter what he says ...?

Huw, not in the slightest, mate, not in the slightest.....and nwo back to you in the studio.

THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE......

 
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.....WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?


FROM THE BALLS BLOG:


Ed Balls is Member of Parliament for the Normanton constituency
Working hard for himself, sorry, Sharlston, Normanton, Altofts,
Stanley, Outwood, Wrenthorpe, Ossett and Horbury.


“In the run up to to the second annual Veterans Day later this month, I presented medals to over a dozen veterans at Parkside Methodist Church in Outwood on Friday.
I have now presented medals to some 200 veterans who have served our country in years gone by - and I was particularly pleased to meet 95 year old James Thompson (pictured here) who was the oldest veteran at the ceremony.
Anybody who thinks they are entitled to a veterans badge but has not yet received one can contact my office. As well as those who served before or during World War II, the badge is now available for all men and women who enlisted in the Armed Forces before 31 December 1984.
The annual national Veterans Day takes place on Wednesday 27 June with events across the country. In the Wakefield District there will be a service at Wakefield Cathedral at 11am, which will be preceded by a parade from the cenotaph on Laburnum Road down to the Cathedral. “


FROM THE SUICIDE PRESSOGRAPH

MPs' expenses: Ed Balls's claim for Remembrance Sunday wreaths.


Ed Balls, the Schools Secretary and one of Gordon Brown’s closest allies, claimed £33 for two Remembrance Sunday poppy wreaths — and had the bill disallowed by the Commons authorities.


Yes, that's right. Ed Scumbag Balls presenting medals. To veterans. Oh, brave new world....

Monday, 25 May 2009

THINGS MUST CHANGE

 
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REFORM, A POSTMAN WRITES



Alan Johnson, a government postman, said today that in order for the people to work harder for their rulers – him and his mates – they had to be given more choices to make about things.

We plan to offer customers in our hospitals a range of options tailored to their individual knees, I mean needs, they should be able to go into hospital with a full range of choices as to the manner in which they meet their ends thus ceasing to be a burden on the public finances, unlike myself and the lads in guvament.

In future customers will be able to choose between death by surgical incompetence, over-prescription of heavy-duty drugs, starvation as a result of nursing neglect, as well as the traditional range of hospital acquired infections such as C –Difficult and that other one, the alphabet one, MP3, whatever.

In offering this range of choices we will deliver our customers a health service fit for the fourteenth century.

It is by reforms such as this that NewLabour will secure an unprecedented other term, with me as Head Postmaster. And Gordon in the loony bin.

(ABRAHAMIC) FAITHSULIKE, A PICTURE ESSAY FOR PENTECOST

 
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I'M BEING FOLLOWED BY A MOONSHADOW. GENIAL MOHAMMEDANS PREPARE A CO-RELIGIONIST FOR A CELEBRATION OF THEIR FAITH.

 
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IN MOSLEM COMMUNITIES DIFFERENCES OF OPINION ARE FREELY AIRED


 
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A NEW NAZI BROOM SWEEPS CLEAN, OR UNDER THE CARPET.


 
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BLESS ME, FATHER, FOR I HAVE NONCED;
THAT'S OK, SON, GO AWAY AND DO IT IN ANOTHER PARISH.
ALL ONE BIG, HAPPY, NONCING FAMILY, IS MOTHER CHURCH


 
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JUDAISM STRIKES BACK AT THE NAZIS.

 
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SHALOM. ISRAELI DEFENCE FORCES ELIMINATE ANOTHER TERRORIST. WINNERS OF THE GUIDO FAWKES HUMANITARIAN PIZZA AWARD.

IMELDA: RECEIPTS? DON'T BE FUCKING STUPID

 
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YES, FIFTY GRANDS' WORTH OF RECEIPTS SHREDDED, YES, WONDERFUL ISN'T IT? FAB GEAR.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

WOTSONSUNDAYTELLY

 
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THE BBC'S SIR ANDREW MARR, SERVING DEMOCRACY.




Sir Jockie Stewart of the Ford Motor Company and Ms Selena Scott, a deceased newsreader are the latest celebrities to join Andrew Marr in his battle for Democracy.

With Mr David Thing of Moats‘n’IslandsRus all expressed the view that things had to change drastically if they were to stay the same as they have always been.

Now, said Mr Thing, that everyone in my party has been found out and we can no longer keep it in the dark I am going to do my best to move on and draw a new line in the sand on my private beach, only not with Mr Osblow, the YachtBoy, and the very best thing to happen is that I become prime minister, it is my turn and I went to Oxford and Eton, this is what people expect in this country, after all, this is the sort of change that people are gagging for, so to speak, me as prime minister, an effete coke-snorting layabout and congenital bully.

I agree, said Sir Jocky Bouffant, you know I make lots of money advertising expensive rubbish and that’s what the people want to carry on happening, only with me not paying so much tax and them paying a good deal more, after all, I am a Scotchman.

And me, I am, too, said Andy, license-payer cheques in the post all round.

Shall I get my tits out now, enquired Lady Selena of the Famous Four, or later?

chorus: Shut Up, bitch!

SUNDAY CLASSIFIEDS

ETHICS FOR SALE

 
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BUY YOUR ETHICS FROM KEITH


Few MPs have any ethics and in these days when those fickle voters seem to be clamouring for them this can be a bit of a career-stopping embarrassment.
But don’t worry honourable, ahem, colleagues, Keith has never had any ethics and look at how far he has travelled, never off the box, the smarmy, lying, thieving git.

Keith’s company, VAZ-O-LIES can help you improve your image on the ethics front. For those who have not the faintest idea, like the late Jock MP Robin Cock, what an ethic is, here is a dictionary definition from stanislav’s Useful English As A Second Language, Innit (Sonoffuckingbitch publications, Cracow, 2008):

Ethic: is not steal off taxpayer every fucking day; not buy rentboy with taxpayer money; not spend whole life thieving, poncing, lying like worthless piece of shit.

It’s a heady, cutting edge concept but members don’t need to do it all at once, in fact you don’t need to do it at all.

Instead, just let Keith instruct you in the technique of VAS-O-LYING; learn sneering condescension, smirking evasion and bare-faced impudent lying and cheating, all with a thoughtful, lawyerly cuntish air. Keith’s courses are expensive and can, of course, be charged to the taxpayer.

Ride out the Ethics Crash in comfort, style and luxury, learn VAS-O-LYING today, it’s the best taxpayers’ money you’ll ever spend.



TESTIMONIAL: Fuck me, I was all set to top meself, until I gave Keith some of my constituents' money and now I have almost completely stopped talking bollocks.( Mrs Dorries, Westminster.)

THE LEADER COLUMN

LOVE THE SINNER AND HATE THE SIN



There will be a torrent, in the cybertabloids and the Heritage Press, of fucks and damns, as though raucous, baying disapproval will amend, console, heal, resurrect; sweary dictionaries will be rifled; see, readers, how righteous I am, not only would I not treat a child so but look how fluently I excoriate, was there ever any so moral as I; this will make things so much better, this will; this will prevent further child abuse; some poor, tortured terrified waif, bound and gagged, beaten and buggered, some infant smashed against the wall will learn of my thundering disapproval and be soothed, saved, renewed; hasn’t it worked ever so well thus far? Gosh, ever since the McKenzieites and their ilk raised circulations by regularly damning Myra Hindley, prodding the wounds of those sickened, accursed by grief and rage, there have hardly ever been any cases of child torture and murder, have there? That’s what we should do; leave it to Fat Kelvin and his admirers. Yes, and Page Three and Tottywatch, sexualise the infant nation, Tits and Ass everywhere, that’ll help keep the little kiddies safe.



Before the coming of Blair and Straw and Boateng, of fat, scruffy Clarke and cock-waving, Blind BullyBoy Blunkett, of the thug Reid and of Schmidt, the shameless, larcenous, sourfaced mediocrity; before the war crimes, the surveillance, the oppression, before the serial plundering of the nation by pinstripe spivs and thieving slag politicians, the old probation officers said that, it was their axiom, Love the Sinner but hate the Sin; sound, realistic men and women, modest and self-effacing, patient, going alone where Old Bill would rightly want company or back-up, engaging with those from whom the rest recoil, sought not to succour Villainy but to make us all safer by easing disadvantage and inequality and Poverty’s ensuing criminality among those made hopeless and delinquent by circumstance and by successive governments, and in graver, darker corridors it guided them, helped them make sense of the horror, the wretchedness, the despair, the wickedness that men do, helped them try to prevent, in a rational and effective manner, the violation of yet more children, which, more than increased circulation, is what we all want, isn’t it - isn’t it - or is every vileness perpetrated an opportunity to increase traffic, circulation? Love the Sinner but hate the Sin, that’s what they used to say, the people half-way to an understanding of this shit.



We need to know what makes him tick, the nonce, in order to spot him, prevent him developing, networking, proseytising, and your nonce, let me tell you, Mr Blogger, for you obviously don’t know, is not only far more numerous than you think but far more complex, keeps secrets even from himself, wears a suit, has proper jobs, businesses, careers, just like you, they are not all, as are these Baby P Three, children of darkness.

We could embrace head-chopping, woman-hating Sharia consciousness and dismember the Beast publicly, mediaevalise the criminal justice system with whips and tongs and barbs and blades and flames but it wouldn’t stop whatever it is which makes molesters, that requires thought, not ranting; considered sentencing, treatment, research; requires that we attempt to understand the repellent, acquaint ourselves with nightmare. For your average nonce proves that those to whom Evil is done do Evil in return, often, your nonce does not know that he does wrong, believes, no, really believes, that the eight-year-old tart led him on, that, McCannesque, he is the victim and not the child; your nonce, like Mr Guido Pizza, does not recognise that all children, even wogchildren, need our protection, this is a truism beyond the guilty catechisms of the noncing monsignors, this, motherfucker, is an evolutionary diktat; there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Mr Tabloid, than are dreamed of in your noisy philosophy, such as it is, vengeful, discordant, without grace or humour, chorusing disapproval without remedy, inflaming, infecting, corrupting; lynchmobbery, kill anything that begins with paed. And then the homos, kill them, too. Is right-wing libertarianism an elaborate phrase for Nazi? Let’s find groups to hate. Follow me, lads. We’re so pretty, oh, so pretty vacant, and we don’t care.



If we really care about children then we need, far more than to damn, to find out. And prevent. Those who see horror as entertainment tub-thump, shriek their own virtue at times like this, these people are double-dodgy, firstly, in that those genuinely, decently shocked and hurt by such things have no need of public display - that is what the Judge does - and secondly and more importantly, this cheap rabble-rousing keeps children at risk, drives those with monsterish urges into darker places, into developing ever more sophisticated, plausible subterfuges. It is overlooked by ranters that in the mob, even the nonce can disappear: also conveniently overlooked is another axiom - that as we have seen recently, in le palais des felons, Those who shout the loudest often have the most to hide.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939, BY WH AUDEN

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Friday, 22 May 2009

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, HOUSE OF COMMONS ON SUICIDE WATCH

 
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FROM THE MADEUPNEWSANDFILTHOMAIL.

SUICIDES, FUCK ME AND HALLELUJAH! DROPKICK ME, JESUS, INTO THE SAMARITANS' OFFICE.

DON'T IT MAkE YOU WANNA ROCK 'N' ROLL?

WOTSONTELLY, THE TALKING POTATOES

 
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ONE POTATO. IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE NICE THAT PEOPLE COME TO ME FIRST, FOR THE NEWS. IAN HISLOP POTATO


TWO POTATO. ACTUALLY, READERS, THEY GO TO HIM FIRST, GUIDO PIZZA POTATO.



THREE POTATO. BUT FOR THE ARTS THEY COME TO ME, MARK LAWSON POTATO



Mr Ian Potato of the BBC and editor of Private Eye was talking to Mr Mark Potato of the BBC about how much money they both made from the BBC and how that enabled them to be among its fiercest critics.

Great satirists, squeaked Little Potato, pulling one of his funny faces, Ken Livingstone, Boris Johnson, Anne Widdecombe, great people, all of them, and we love to have them on the show, Boris will definitely be back, he’s great to work with. You know, there really is no business like show business.


Yes, I know, squeaked Big Potato, isn’t it great ? Tell me something else that’s wonderful about you.

Well I went to Oxford…..

And..?

Well, that’s it, doncha know.

Ian Hislop, it’s been wonderful sucking your cock.

Yes, I know.

And the cheque'll be in the post, from the license payer.

Yes, I know

And mine will, too.

Yes, I know, great isn't it, money for old rope.


Throughout a nauseating edition of Mark Potato Talks To..... neither of these two BBC/Establishment stooges made mention of the impact on popular political consciousness of the cybersatirists, especially that of Mr Guido Pizza, who has, with huge industry and perseverance, almost single handedly enabled a new, popular, largely unexpurgated people's forum; tumultuous, discordant, angry, profane and scatological. Vital, often chaotic, always irreverent, it is actually to order-order that people go, now, for hard political news; if it is a case of Hislop's weary Private Eye or Fawkes's fierce and urgent Public Eye (www.order-order) there is no contest. The one seeks to educate, entertain and inform and the BBC cabal doesn't.

Thursday, 21 May 2009

FAT MAN TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH HIS DINNER

 
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I WANT MY DINNER!

Mr Lord Fatty Rennard, a very large Liberal Democrat, is to resign his post as the the party’s Chief Fat Executive.

"It is impossible to exaggerate Chris's immense contribution to the Liberal Democrats expenses bill over the years” said Mr Nick Haircut, Chief Toileteer, "Without Chris's unique skills as one of the country's most astute and effective expenses fiddlers I doubt that the party would now have the largest number of clapped out, overweight, alcoholic, bisexual, copraphiliac MPs in decades."

Lord Fatty is reported to have claimed over £40,000 for a second home when he owned a flat near Westminster, but his announced resignation was nothing to do with criticism of him being a thieving bastard, just like all of them, fuck, no. In a statement announcing his planned departure, Lord Rennard said he wanted more time "outside the Westminster bubble" for himself and his dinners. And his breakfasts and lunches and afternoon teas and elevenses.

They are very big shoes to step into, said David, Lord Steel, the party's smiling abortionist-in-chief, but I think I'm up to the job, what's the exes like?

WOTSONTELLY?


YOURS FOR A ROLEX

Mr Michael Mates, a senior MP in the spanking party, was formerly the plaything of an exotic Cypriot businessman, one Mr Asil Nadir


MPs BOUGHT & SOLD

but now he is a respected backbencher again, his days of renting himself out a thing of the past, unless, of course, the price is right - our elected representative, toiling at Democracy’s coalface, must not sell themselves short. It is a grand thing how the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act, meaningless usually, works nowhere so well as in the Houses of Parliament, as Mr Oily Vaz and many others will attest.

Flanneling his arse off on Newsnight this week Mike exonerated all concerned in the 7/7 bombings, except, of course the British Muslem suicide bombers who, mysteriously, were shot by the cops at Canary Wharf - perhaps on their way to Paradise having already suicided, as it were, on the trains which it was impossible for them to be on.

Unfortunately, the CCTV cameras, so often our guardians, were, on the trains and bus concerned, not working, unusual, because the Israeli security company which owns and operates our self-scrutiny community observation equipment is normally so efficient. Unable to provide the incontrovertible visual evidence of the four bombers’ presence, the authorities were forced to make up one still frame with the aid of some computer programme. On this occasion the Israelis more than deserved the Pizza showered upon them customarily by Mr Fawkes, the parliamentary expenses monitor, in recognition of their slaughter of women and children but modesty forbade them claiming any credit, bless.

Mike was adamant, in the way that only Tories can be adamant, that all had been done to investigate what had happened on and leading up to the terrible events of 7/7 which so vindicated Mr Blair’s Iraq Legacy and that nobody was to blame, apart from the people who blew themselves up on the trains and were subsequently shot to death some miles away by the Split-Second-Wrong-Decision-Squad. Nobody was to blame, he thundered, puce-faced in a way that only Tories can thunder puce-faced. And if people, families and such, keep complaining they might find themselves on the top deck of a diverted ‘bus which blows up, twice, to be on the safe side.

In 1993 Mike Mates was forced to resign as Northern Ireland Minister due to his having with great integrity accepted bribes from Mr Nadir for asking questions on his behalf. There is no suggestion that Mike was anything other than dishonest and lesser men would have resigned their parliamentary seats in shame. We should not, therefore, assume that anyone paid Mr Mates to whitewash the 7/7 affair because, as we know, he is for sale. Victims and relatives of victims of 7/7 should believe everything Mike says, shut the fuck up and go away. Who could not be reassured by a slag like Michael Mates, MP, PC ?

Further holiday reading: 7/7 Ripple effect at:

7/7 ripple Effect#
video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8756795263359807776 -

STAY TUNED, WE'LL BE BACK AFTER THIS SHORT BREAK

WANTED: CORRUPT MPs.

TOO BENT EVEN TO BE A MINISTER AGAIN ? WHY NOT CHAIR A SELECT COMMITTEE ?


SCRUTINISING LEGISLATION OFFERS GREAT OPPORTUNITIES TO RESOURCEFUL MEMBERS - BRIBES, JUNKETS, DIRECTORSHIPS AND GOVERNMENT APPROVAL ARE JUST SOME OF THE BENEFITS.

APPLICANTS MUST HAVE A PROVEN RECORD OF DISHONESTY, NO SENSE OF SHAME OR DECENCY REQUIRED AS SUCCESSFUL APPLICANTS WILL BE FULLY TRAINED BY EXPERTS LIKE MR VAZ IN POURING OIL IN HONESTY'S FACE, THE CUNT.
 
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A-ONE-TWO-THREE, FOR HE'S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW...

Mr Speaker, as Leader of the Liberal Democrat Toileteers I am often asked 'Oo are you then, Cock, or me old China ? I am Mr Nick Haircut, Leader of the greatest little political party in the world and your next prime minister, is my usual response to such friendly enquiry and so I would not want, Mr Speaker, to go down in history as a twisted political monster who could only make a name for himself by publicly humiliating and destroying a doddery, pathetic old cunt, such as yourself.

So I am happy to place on record my thanks to you for the many kindnesses you have shown me, and indeed everyone you have met in your most distinguished decades of service to this House, it's members, the general public and the world at large, all of which - or whom - are touched by your generosity, teased by your gentle wit and instructed by your deep wisdom, that very wisdom which has equipped you to so ably resolve these present difficulties which only yesterday I accused you of fucking monumentally up.

But we Liberal Democrat Toileteers mean nothing if we don't mean what we say, especially when we don't mean anything which we say and I am proud to be in that proud tradition of not believing a word of what I say,in order to cling on to the pathetic little power which I have over the honourable Sodom and Gommorahites sat on thse benches behind me, sharpening their penknives and I really truly and sincerely don't mean what I say no more so than when I am firing a round of fucks into the old gentlemen of this house. So, there it is, Mr Speaker, if I don't believe a word I say then why the fuck should you. It was only business, nothing personal.(sings) If I ruled the world, every day would be the first day of Spring....

Cheers, Hats off to the Speaker, For he's a jolly good Mick bastard. Oh Ye tak the High road an' I'll tak the low road and You'll be in Scotland afore me....etc