First of all, Mr Tiny Speaker, I am sure the whole house will join with me in sympathising with Brother Knobinson, whose arse is this big at the moment. getting bigger and of course going smaller but mainly getting bigger......
hear-hear, poor old chap, put her to the sword
.......as further revelations emerge about the conduct of our former sister witness in Christ, Iris, the dirty, old slut. Being a young parent and married, as I am, to my official wife, Sarah-George, a well-known patron of muff-diving charities, I am unlikely, myself, to be similarly embarrassed, not that I am easily embarrassed, fuck me, no, embarrassment, me, you must be fucking joking.
But all is not lost, Mr Tiny Speaker. Indeed, my uh favourite, uh uh uh newspaper, Mr Tiny Speaker, the uh Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay uh Times, the, uh, Gay Times, Mr Tiny Speaker, is hoping to run a, uh uh uh uh, a uh uh uh, photo spread of the young man at the centre of the scandal, young Mr uh uh uh
shuffles papers, Claw of Doom bangs on Despatch Box
Mr uh Mr uh, Mr uh, Kyle McCock, Mr Tiny Speaker who is, as most members will agree, a right young vixen
cheers, waving of order papers, spitroast the young tart!!....
so all, Mr Tiny Speaker is not lost, although sadly it is for Mrs Knobinson, although she will receive the resettlement allowance due all honourable and right honourable members which she will be able to spend on young male prostitutes......
.....cheers, hear-hear, Gordon is a jolly good fellow, sort of...
as she sees fit, lucky cow, for the main thing is that Mr Knobinson is the only politician capable of delivering a Northern Ireland government consisting of unreformed, unapologetic, bloodthirsty gay gangsters like Mr Kneecaps and thieving, sash-waving, cuckolded, hypocritical, bullyboy cocksuckers like himself and I commend him and myself to the House.
.....cheers, hear-hear, Gordon is a jolly good fellow, sort of...
as she sees fit, lucky cow, for the main thing is that Mr Knobinson is the only politician capable of delivering a Northern Ireland government consisting of unreformed, unapologetic, bloodthirsty gay gangsters like Mr Kneecaps and thieving, sash-waving, cuckolded, hypocritical, bullyboy cocksuckers like himself and I commend him and myself to the House.
Mr Tiny Speaker speaks: I should just like to remind members who might have a few bottles of vodka and an hour or two to spare that Mrs Tiny Speaker
remains available for afternoon and evening parties with groups of discerning gentlemen. Mrs Tiny Speaker, members will know, is hopeful of becoming a councillor, rather like Mrs Knobinson, and is keen to make new friends. I now call Mr Ian and Duncan Smith.
Thank you, Mr Tiny Speaker and the whole house is indebted to yourself and Mrs Tiny Speaker, so I understand. But I am sure the house will agree with me that Mr & Mrs Knobinson prove my point about the validity of the God-fearing family as the one true means of corrupting young, recently bereaved young men; co-habitees, as they call themselves, simply cannot provide a platform for such overarching, self-serving, sanctimonious wickedness as has been displayed by the knobcrazed grannyslut, Iris, and her right honourable husband, Cottaging Pete; if ever a couple spoke volumes of the superiority of marriage over lesser arrangements, it is this outstanding political marriage, a union of ambitions if not genitals.
Mr Nick Clegg:
Well, Mr Tiny Speaker, I listen to the prime minister but nowhere do I hear the prime minister explaining for instance, which is of great interest to my party, whether the unhonourable and ancient lady, Iris Knobgobbler, actually defecates on the young man or he defecates on her, of if they take it in turns, like decent Liberal Democrats do. All very well the prime minister scoffing but these are questions that simply must be answered if he expects me and my turdbandits to form a coalition with him, after the erection, I mean election. Put simply. Mr Tiny Speaker, is the former member of this house and former member of the devolved Ulster parliament and former member of Castlereagh Council a scatslutbitch, or not. The people demand answers.
Prime Minister Snot: Uh, uh, uh, uh, I am happy, Madam Deputy Spanker, to inform the house that Brother Robinson has decided to get his head down for a few weeks in the hope that this shit blows over - but not, unlike the Liberals might wish, over him. Elder Peter has received the support of all of his colleagues and that is why he is fucking off for six weeks. A full and far-reaching cover-up will be conducted by an eminent Orange QC at the end of which Mr Robinson will resume his position as Grand Master, Worshipful Master and Cocksucker-in Chief, whilst Mrs Knobgobbler will be, in the way of these things, airbrushed from history. Elder Robinson has asked me to remind colleagues on this side of the moat that he asked for the inquiry into himself himself and so therefore must be exonerated, rather as I will be exonerated by the Iraq inquiry, and everybody else too, I obviously won't, Mr Tiny Speaker, request an inquiry into myself, because I am doing the right thing for the country. Yes, it is permissible for lavishly-paid public employees to absent themselves from work should members of the press discover that they are worthless, thieving arseholes, perfectly proper, where would we be if we had to stand and face the flak? The main thing, Madam Deputy Spanker is that we keep Mr Kneecaps happy, or else he might kill us all, like he nearly did the mad old lady, Baroness Thatcher.
Dons Presbyterian Orange sash, dances wee jig up an down the aisle of the chamber and sings "....and on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore."
A group of Robisonites prepares to march through neighbouring Catholic streets, frightening the children, in the name of God.
----------------------------------
From the Belfast Telegraph
Thank you, Mr Tiny Speaker and the whole house is indebted to yourself and Mrs Tiny Speaker, so I understand. But I am sure the house will agree with me that Mr & Mrs Knobinson prove my point about the validity of the God-fearing family as the one true means of corrupting young, recently bereaved young men; co-habitees, as they call themselves, simply cannot provide a platform for such overarching, self-serving, sanctimonious wickedness as has been displayed by the knobcrazed grannyslut, Iris, and her right honourable husband, Cottaging Pete; if ever a couple spoke volumes of the superiority of marriage over lesser arrangements, it is this outstanding political marriage, a union of ambitions if not genitals.
Mr Nick Clegg:
Well, Mr Tiny Speaker, I listen to the prime minister but nowhere do I hear the prime minister explaining for instance, which is of great interest to my party, whether the unhonourable and ancient lady, Iris Knobgobbler, actually defecates on the young man or he defecates on her, of if they take it in turns, like decent Liberal Democrats do. All very well the prime minister scoffing but these are questions that simply must be answered if he expects me and my turdbandits to form a coalition with him, after the erection, I mean election. Put simply. Mr Tiny Speaker, is the former member of this house and former member of the devolved Ulster parliament and former member of Castlereagh Council a scatslutbitch, or not. The people demand answers.
Prime Minister Snot: Uh, uh, uh, uh, I am happy, Madam Deputy Spanker, to inform the house that Brother Robinson has decided to get his head down for a few weeks in the hope that this shit blows over - but not, unlike the Liberals might wish, over him. Elder Peter has received the support of all of his colleagues and that is why he is fucking off for six weeks. A full and far-reaching cover-up will be conducted by an eminent Orange QC at the end of which Mr Robinson will resume his position as Grand Master, Worshipful Master and Cocksucker-in Chief, whilst Mrs Knobgobbler will be, in the way of these things, airbrushed from history. Elder Robinson has asked me to remind colleagues on this side of the moat that he asked for the inquiry into himself himself and so therefore must be exonerated, rather as I will be exonerated by the Iraq inquiry, and everybody else too, I obviously won't, Mr Tiny Speaker, request an inquiry into myself, because I am doing the right thing for the country. Yes, it is permissible for lavishly-paid public employees to absent themselves from work should members of the press discover that they are worthless, thieving arseholes, perfectly proper, where would we be if we had to stand and face the flak? The main thing, Madam Deputy Spanker is that we keep Mr Kneecaps happy, or else he might kill us all, like he nearly did the mad old lady, Baroness Thatcher.
Dons Presbyterian Orange sash, dances wee jig up an down the aisle of the chamber and sings "....and on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore."
----------------------------------
From the Belfast Telegraph
Iris Robinson's lover, Kirk McCambley, becomes instant gay pin-up
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Kirk McCambley was aged 19 when he had an affair with Iris Robinson
Iris Robinson’s young lover Kirk McCambley has become an unlikely icon for the gay community.
Members of the homosexual community were left outraged when Mrs Robinson described their behaviour as “an abomination”.
The UK’s best-selling gay magazine Attitude has asked the 21-year-old to pose on the next edition of its front cover.
Attitude editor Matthew Todd revealed his magazine has been trying to contact Mr McCambley.
He said: “We would love to see him on the cover of Attitude.
30 comments:
Gadzooks man you've been busy. Brilliantly funny - thankyou as always.
Yes, definitely. Many thanks, as ever, Mr Ishmael.
What a horrible cast of no-good thieves and fiends. One wonders if Mrs Robinson's ever met Mrs SlotGob, the other Imelda.
Blimey; lorra lorra links there at the end - would the correct collective noun be a clusterfuck?
Yes the Blair comparisons are clear, I would never do anything wrong and I want as much money and free stuff as I can get.
The links are there, Mr Verge, because we forget, I feel, that Northern Ireland is a place and not just a hateful nightmare, albeit that its preoccupation is itself, rather like a nation of a million Alec Salmonds, smug, po-faced, obnoxious, know-it-all parochial wankers; their needs, their wants paramount. I hate to think what this shithole has cost in lives and money and it is depressing to see that for all the pain they've had they chose to be governed by more of the same, by shit like the Robinsons and Kneecaps McGuinness, clusterfuck, I feel, far too moderate a term.
Tis a balsamic vindication to have "clusterfuck" deemed insufficiently immoderate.
I believe we are supposed to find it endearing when Mrs Paedosin repeatedly asserts how ignorant, dense and inexperienced she is in the field of political chicaney, like, Oooo, I'm just like you ordinary people, nothing special, aren't I lucky? Hell, a politician who is an amateur interior designer constructing her very own Versailles while dandling her little boy lover seems entirely appropriate for this entropic world of decay and degeneration.
£30,000 of tax-payers' money claimed in allowances for their FOOD! that's me working for 10 years, just to buy the Robinsons' food.
why aren't these parasites chased through the streets with pitchforks?
it's a fucking joke.
"doctor, doctor, my eyes have gone all red"
"well Peter, it looks like you've had something in your Iris."
Yes, hanks,pitchforks. One winds up in a vortex of rage and exasperation - why don't we lynch this filth? - and then skymadeupnewsandfilth plucks other of our strings and we go off on another tangent of angry frustration, pointless and self-defeating and yes, Iris does seem emblematic of Ruin, her faux suicide attempt, her acute psychiatric care the stuff of the Big Brother House, insolent, wretched and threadbare as they are, enough people believe in the Robinsons to make them safe from any meaningful reproach, much less punishment; this, grannyknobbing, larceny and hypocrisy, this is the way it is.
Do we know that it's made up, Mr ishmael? Has she been seen sunning herself in the Bahamas?
They have, like all decent God-fearing folk, at our expense, a holiday home in Florida, mr mongoose, where she is said to have been recently and his and her tellings of her supposed suicide bid have all the consistency of Gerry and Cilla McCann's account/s of young Maddy's disappearance.
I guess that we must just accept that they are all fuckers. I try still though to give the benefit of the diminishing doubt. Somebody has to.
Heard this one? It seems apposite.
Yes, 'fraid so, less talent even than Marrianne Faithfull, Nico.
Talent is not the point, Sir. The noise made is the point.
Alright, then, All Tomorroews Parties was a marginally better offering but whatever she was doing Nico made a horrible fucking noise. Nobody liked her, especially not the Velvet Underground, vastly over-rated, anyway, the VU, especially by me, Waiting For My Man is the only thing I can bear these days -feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive - there's poetry for you. Bill Burroughs made rock 'n' roll.
Granted she never sang a note that wasn't flat. Well, never sang a note at all - spoke 'em in a flat drone. But, hey, a girl's gotta eat. (And the song is/was just a joke.)
Bill Burroughs? Wasted old fraud.
Dear Mr Mongoose, how come a fraud?
Granted, he cheerfully took the piss with his "shot-gun art" towards the end but that's all you're going to get in your grant. If you just mean you don't know much about him and what little you do has been filed under "ugh", you & Edith Sitwell's lofty nose are welcome to each other.
Mr Verge, he was not devoid of talent. I have read a few - "Junky", "The Yage Letters", "Naked Lunch", "Dead Roads something soemthing" come to mind. This was when I was pretending to be a rounded intellectual. My Attorney was heavily into him and so I read them. Half-a-dozen, maybe. More than Edith would have managed, I am sure, but I can offer no meaningful mitigation for this position of relative ignorance.
As ever, it seems, the early, honest, non-clever stuff is the best. After that he was an off-to-the-races, I'm-a-Beat-professional, almost-was-but-am-now-a has-been. It is all very well to sit around, decadent and depraved, getting wasted and scribbling down the endless swirling of the methadoned mind but that does not necessarily make, err, for a good read. Rave on, thy holy fool.
And, Jesus, Ginsberg, eh? Where's me shotgun?
Mr M, couldn't agree more on Ginsberg, tiresome prat by and large, but Burroughs was much better, & more, than a mere Beatnik. The "endless swirling" (cut-ups) you describe was more mid-period than high-water-mark, and though he was undeniably stoned most of the time he never strikes me as a bore, which can't be said of most drug-fuelled writers. He was onto Islam before most people had noticed its barmy menace, helped invent sampling before the full technology to achieve it existed, and was consistently daemonic (in the way that good writers are/can't help but be) and very funny. J.G. Ballard, Angela Carter, Peter Ackroyd, are all on record with their admiration. Not a bad bunch of cheer-leaders. But fuck them, and try "Cities of the Red Night", and "Exterminator" (if only for its sublime short story "The Priest They Called Him.")
Thank-you, Mr Verge, I shall take those under advisement and Amazon the one or the other as a start.
Ballard is a good story-teller, Carter I do not know (although mrs mongoose has loads thereof), Ackroyd I admire but do not find meets the sort of brain I have - Hawksmoor apart. I don't like overly clever writing. Short words, you fools, and tell the truth.
Not sure short words don't lie as well. How about Nixon's "I am not a crook"?
I know what you mean about French Prose though (if we can call it that.) Iaian (or however you fucking spell it) Sinclair is a case in point. No denying his brilliance, but I can't read it.
Something similar in the theatre: Pinter dark and serious and compelling, Stoppard light and serious and intruiging, but Simon Grey was more generous. "Quartermain's Terms" sticks in the mind more than RG are Dead or The Birthday Party.
One of my favourite Burroughs' lines is "I am not a politician and I do not have to respect anybody's stupid opinion." Handier than a wank in a snow-drift, that one.
I used to know a journalist, Mr Verge, a proper one who wrote stuff, and thought stuff. Apart from a mad obsession with correct spelling, his biggest yelling material was prats using long words. There is a special corner of Hell for instance where Will Self will find himself harrangued and horsewhipped in eternity for the sin of scouring dictionaries looking for clever words. The twat. Nobody says that he cannot write but he spoils it with his dickhead cleverness.
And then there is Martin Amis - again a man who can write. I caught him on TV dismissing the work of the entire universe, except for himself, because "I, you see, am a literary novelist". He stands on a ladder to take a piss because it's just little bit more difficult and clever than what everyone else does. Arsehole.
Mr Somerset Maugham, Willie, to his friends and companions, used to read a dictionary for half an hour every morning, i am a writer, he would gush, and words are my tools, the dictionary my toolbox,; fair enough, I suppose, although I would award any grown man who describes himself as a writer a quick rub-down with a housebrick, Self, Amis and Rushdie at the head of a very long queue, nothing wrong with writing, it's just the idea of it being a trade which I find so repellent, so how very dare you; Sebastian Fffffffoulkes, he's, another one; Jeanette Wintermuff, her, too; don't, as Sonny Boy Williamson used to growl, start me talkin'......
Just for the record, we got started on this because of William Burroughs, and he was not one for sesquipedalian showboating.
Self gets on my tits too. Ditto Winterson. Amis can grate in person (that is, on TV) but Money, London Fields, Dead Babies & Experience are worth anybody's time. I think the great exception to the Dictionary Cunt rule was Anthony Burgess - he always felt, and honoured, the need to entertain alongside his urge to bedazzle. I recently read his Shakespeare novel, "Nothing Like The Sun", and it's great stuff, what-the-fuck-does-that-mean moments and all.
Mr Verge, that is is now the fourth time I have seen sesquipedalian. Once on the back of The Times in the what-does-it-mean thingy, twice (fucking twice!) used by Self (The Twat) and now you. And now me. Let us end this arsery immediately.
Dear Mr M, it is a good one, isn't it. Do hope you realise I was attempting a little rhetorical exomicturition.
Other good ones (ie hear one, reach for your hat, hear two, get your Gatt):
hermeneutics
teleological
and my all-time favourite: paraleipsis
Fuck off, both of you; there, pithiness, concision and Anglo- Saxon, do your rhetorical exomicturition elsewhere.
Chase me ladies, I'm in the Cavalry, is a site which might welcome your drollery and even if not, is well worth a look
Somewhere in an alternate universe a young Polish plumber is putting the finishing touches to his essay "The Tyranny of the Monosyllable"...
OK, then, though, I'll go forth but I'd rather divide than multiply.
Aye, those were the days.
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