THE SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT

EDITORIAL, THE HOLOCAUST BLUES  REVISITED.

For  the 'fifties baby boomers, the Nazi War was still everywhere, the cities were full of bombsites, there was rationing, unexploded bombs and shrapnel, kids played with bits of army equipment, pouches and webbing and big brothers and uncles had guns - big ugly .45s, stenguns, Lee-Enfields and Mills bombs, too,  Lugers and bayonets, they were everywhere.

And there was, too, an awareness of the Death Camps; some had been at them, hoovering-up emaciated bodies, bulldozing them into pits, some were aware of the Nuremberg trials and although people got on with lives lived frugally,  in austerity,  they had, most of them been through a Hell of one sort or another.  Relatively few actually saw combat  and UK casualties were a tiny fraction of those in the Great War of Stupid Generals, when Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap would order ten thousand killed before breakfast, even so, a hungry nation rejected government by pinstripe Old Etonians or Harrovians and threw them out, a delayed reprisal, maybe, for the offence of The Somme and Paschendale.

But after the Nazi War  all the grown-ups knew about the camps and eventually so did their kids, knew about a dark, industrialised slaughter.   I remember, as though it was yesterday,  leafing through a Purnells Six Volume History of WW11 and seeing the pictures of the camps, feeling as though I had stumbled on grown-up dirty pictures, ashamed, a bit frightened. Those piles of things being bulldozed were once people, some of them children.

 I have never forgotten that feeling and have raged at the impudence of the Blairites and Zionists for their demanding a Holocaust Day as  a means of celebrating their own sensitivity and piety, arseholes, and of justifying their own murderous, Nazi deeds. Look, I have invented Holocaust Day, I am a pretty, straight guy;  I would never do anything wrong;  ask anyone who knows me, like Steven Byers, or Geoff Hoon.

The Final Solution was a crime which must have involved a massive percentage of the German and wider European population;  how could it not ? Communities disappeared, camp guards went home on leave, some may have re-entered the Wehrmacht, civilian industries were established to process the stolen property, the spectacles, the gold teeth, the artificial limbs.  This was a massive programme of national crime and the nation responsible should have been dismantled, dispersed, dispossessed;  instead a few were hanged and the appropriate national punishment abandoned in the realpolitik of post-war, Iron Curtain Europe. It was a triumph for the evil which we call pragmatism.  We were expected to, still are expected to believe that this was the greatest crime ever perpetrated and accept that  so very few of the guilty were punished. We are expected, also, to endorse any Israeli brutality whilst leaping to the persecution of the so-called Holocaust-deniers - how can anyone deny this stuff ? but let them, anyway, may as well outlaw the FlatEarthers - with a vigour which we singularly fail to deploy against Holy Mother Nonce.

 For so it is with Pope Ratso and his predecessors, his storm troopers and Gauleiters, Tony and Imelda amongst them; despite the evidence of our own reason we, year after year, excuse or pardon the most sustained,  the vilest offence. 

The Nazi Holocaust occurred  over a couple of decades at most, starting with the urban terrorisation of Jewish families and businesses and ending with camps, more like small cities of industrialised slavery, murder, torture and experimentation. Now their haunted, harrowing architecture stands as a backdrop to the unwholesome, the hypocrite.

The Papal Holocaust, however, the systematic, condoned sexual abuse of the most vulnerable has been going on since God only knows when;  the cyber information revolution has exposed cabals of noncing monsignors all across the globe

 and at the very, very least the men in black and purple have been doing this for half a century;  it is preposterous to imagine that this is a post-war phenomenon, unique to our times, the reality must be that these bastards have been doing this forever.  It is only in our times, with the partial collapse of deference, that victims have been able to plead their wretched case and stand some chance of being believed;  that they are now believed yet their tormentors go unpunished, still, is the scandal of our times. The pragmatist, of course, will insist that few of these victims were actually put to death by the Vatican State.  That's alright, then; what's a priestly cock up your arse, in  the scheme of things.

That Gordon Brown and the rest of them will do everything to fellate the visiting Ratso and his organised criminals is par for the course.

Chinks, Russians, Spics, The CIA, BentBankersRUs, London is  now egregiously, sycophantically, whorishly welcoming to international supergangsters -  even though Ratso's home town is holding it's nose about this vile old degenerate. Prime Minister Snot let Chink thugs manhandle him on his own doorstep in the Infamous Olympic Torch March and  this wretched, cowardly poltroon is certainly not about to fuck with His Holiness.

As with the Expenses Crimes in Westminster, where all are guilty by omission, at least,  so it must be, too in the Cardinalates,  in the seminaries, in the churches;  these people must know what is happening and like some Hamburg hausfrau in the thirties and forties they - those not actually terrorising children - look the other way and are as complicit as if they were, themselves, buggering infants.

Mr PT Barnum recently remarked  here that institutions will do anything to protect themselves,  that no sin merits  the collapse  of the sinner's organisation.  By its silence on the matter of Ratso, HM Government is colluding  in a global Holocaust of child sexual abuse but then   these are the same people who buried the Dunblane papers for seventy-five years, a government afloat on a sewage tide of murder, blackmail, theft, deception, greed and bullying, led by  a joint, unelected  premiership of filth, disease and ruin, they are at home, rank, rotten, screeching their virtues with their  bedfellow, Ratso, the Nonce-Protector General, Prince of the oldest Holocaust in the world.


WOTSONTELLY.
THE METHANE LAKES OF TITAN

WONDERS OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM 

is a five-parter on the the BBC, one of its 2010, Year of Science series , dealing with the Solar System in a beathtaking, entertaining and accessible fashion and worth the entire license fee, if only for the novelty of its engaging presenter, a teenage professor, Brian Cox, who resembles an angelic singer-songwriter, c. 1976 and says astonishing an astonishing number of times in each episode.

Professor Cox, 

a cross  between Jackson Browne

and Patrick Moore.

Cox's facial default setting is a  smile, as  constant  as the Sun which dominates the series and that in itself, in a medium swamped by scowling, perplexed Schamas  and pouting Bettanys is a joy; his revelations too, are joyous, in a sharing sort of way, not Aren't I Clever, more Isn't This Amazing Shit, This Solar System ? 

The last episode dealt with the recently discovered, improbable methane  lakes on Titan, one of Saturn's moons, and as these things do, left one in awe of Uncle Sam's NASA, if only they'd put those guys in charge of Health Care...... 

As with every new BBC series the presenter has been jetted, helicoptered, jeeped, hang-glided and sailed all around the world  but in Cox's case the effort has been worthwhile.  Enthusiastic - theus - means filled with God and Cox's show sparkles and crackles with his delight, his enthusiasm, he really does take you places you've never been.

It's still running on the box and probably on the Ithing,

take it where you find it, don't leave it alone.





PAGE THREE

THE LOVELY GORDON
SHARES HIS VALUES WITH US

DEAR STANISLAV

Our resident plumber addresses readers' ishoos.

This week, pregnant old people, strategies for coping.

Was  argument at Lilith's blog of stuff and  someone was fucked-off. Was not fair, all the shit  Mrs Dave will have falling on head, now that she's going  all square-up with Sarah-George Snot and Mrs Cleggie, in Great Battle of Harpies.

Oh, fuck me, is dreadful, says one lady, and poor Mrs Dave, why can't everybastard just be nice, eh? Poor Mrs Dave is just doing stand by your man - or in this case prat and fucking idiot of public school layabout and waster and never days work has done just good for fuck all is, not even for leading Torybastards and all drowning up shit creek are, even though prime minister Snot is degenerate fucking lunatic and not fit to tie own shoes and should in backwards-fitting jacket be,  useless fucking bastard and Dave and braying hangingandfuckingflogging Davettes should be on top of polls and not crawling around in shit, like one- legged bloke in competition of arse-kicking in muddy field in middle of fucking hurricane.

Lilith is very kindly blogger, not like normal, decent hostile aggressive bastard  blogger,  and instead of telling caring lunaticperson to fuck off out of it and go over to Mrs Dale's Cardigan of Care blog, just down the road, like she should and any other fucker  would have  done says, Ah, ho-hum, the word SamCam doesn't exactly impel her to click her fucking mouse. Is very polite way to say Look, I don't give a fuck about SamCam or Mrs Dave and not give any offence. 

The big news, even though it isn't,  is that Mrs Dave is up in the Duff Pudding Club, just like probably millions of other women but being Mrs Dave must get the job done right, on budget and in time, otherwise is like most of Good King Henry Eight's bints and good for fuck all and have head chopped off from neck by skymadeupnewsandfilth, or Princess of Tarts and come to unfortunate but very convenient tragic end in subway with coke-snorting wog playboy. 

Whether is despotic, lardarse monarch or whining Prince of fucking Wales or snot-eating iron hoof  a baby is a PR plus, is call noblesse oblige and can be top baby even if is not strictly come out from top  of drawer and father was call Hewitt, or ten times fucking worse, was Blind Blunkett.  Baby is good shit. But only for as long as it lives. Will be lots of bookie somewhere, making-up odds on  Cameron sprog, 10/1 Dead on Arrival, even money Deformed or Handicapped, 100/1 Its a Frog with Two Heads in a pinstripe suit. .

Dead baby is fucking rubbish, really, electorally speaking, better is  not to have one in  first place, if fucking thing is going to croak. Dead baby is good for fuck all. Can't get no votes kissing a dead baby or stuffing a hamburger in dead baby chops, or posing at front gate with dead baby, like that horrible cunt, Mellor.

Is absolutely fuck all can be done with dead baby.  stanislav  has all the dead dogblokes' ashes on a shelf. Is nice, don't get them out and stroke them or take for walk but is better than Rocky and Barney go in fucking glue factory and end up in chunk of medium density fibreboard. But wouldn't dream of keeping dead baby. Only good place for dead baby is somewhere else and not in house.  People soon would stop coming in house or reading blog, if they knew the place was all filled-up to fuck with incinerated infant in jar or urn or some fucking thing, maybe with a picture on. From  the scan, because baby was born dead and no proper picture is. Like fucking nutter off Jeremy Kyle show. 

Fuck me, Jesus, is horrible to imagine. Wossinthatjar, then ? You what ?  Your first fucking born, I'm outta here and don't you ever invite me for wine and tapas again, you're not fucking right, you're not. Sick bastard. 

 Even stupidest  sentimentalising Sun reader is up to his or her arse with dead  political babies.  Has already been dead SnotBaby and dead CamBaby and public bloke has enough shit to eat on plate with politicians all lining up to take stuff off him, for his own fucking good and him saying yes, I know, is for my own good, get economy right again, is the main thing, yes, fuck everything else, can go and look for work with bare feet and empty belly, just as long as economy is right, long term prosperity and growth, that's the fucking thing, Fuck me, is country full  of stupid bastards, rioting on fucking streets should be and pulling thieving banker limb from fucking limb and instead is listen to Jonathan fucking Dimbleby talking to Foxtrotting Nitwit Vince fucking Cable, well what we need to do is take things from ordinary people and give them to the rich,  that really is the only way we can get the economy right and everybody on the panel agrees with that, and I'm not scared to do that, shall we dance?

  Oh, fuck me, no job, no benefits, bloke and mrs is fighting like fuck and nasty fucking poisonous consumer  brats all want new Ishit and no fucking money is and credit card company is phoning every five minutes, like stalkers, watching and listening until they know you are in,   and writing every day and forest of fucking bills is hurtling through letterbox just like in Harry fucking Potter book of Satanism for Kids and can't afford to heat the fucking house any more and can't go down Harvester shithole  or even drive to Greasy  MacDonald Typhoid Emporium and get  familysize bucket of mutant chicken and baked fucking beans and all for twelve quid, fuck me hasn't seen twelve quid in fucking months but comes in house after fruitless search for shit job on half wages  and bring your own tools - is the only way to get economy right, is pay everybody half and give cunting fucking banker couple of million fucking pounds bonus for buggering-up the whole fucking world, yes, I know, is good for me and right thing in long term interest of country -  and first thing he says is, Oi, Mrs, how is Mrs Dave getting on, everything is OK, innit, baby developing healthy and all, not got six fucking toes, has it, and cleft palate, like Orkney presbyterrian, Oh, thank fuck for that, just as long as Sam Cam is all right;  Wot,  the bailliffs have been and taken the wallpaper and the lightbulbs, well, never mind that, look on the bright side, Sam and the Baby Dave are doing well, we can read by candlelight, Wot, they took the candles, too, well, just as long as it helps get the economy right and the public finances balanced, that's the main thing.

Is too much of a risk for Sam and Dave.  Just imagine, useless airhead prat loses the election and Mrs  loses the baby. Fuck me gently, there wouldn't  hardly be no synpathy, you already done that one, would be the hooted public response off starving bloke and mrs closely following baby progress, you and Brown, Westminster is fucking littered with baby corpses off you lot, Jesus, must be like Midsomer Murders round your houses, Massacre of the fucking Innocents.  

Is Tory Assassins committe of old  men in undertaker suits, the backstabbing nineteen twenty-two committee is called and sole purpose is for removing useless bastard from leader's office and drowning in lukewarm shit, like with Ian and Duncan Smith, the quiet bastard and not turning up the volume is. If Cameron baby goes the way of Brown baby then, within five minutes, 1922ers   calling would be with messages of sympathy and betrayal.  Terrible thing, old man, but twice is taking the piss a bit.  Good of the party and everything, S'the Chiltern Hundreds for you, old chap. No, immense respect for the NHS is no good, didn't work last time,  you lost one just before the last election. It's just bad ju-ju, dead babies all over the shop, unsettles the voters. Spend more time with your family. That's the thing.  The surviving ones.  While you still have 'em.  Before they all drop dead from some form of spasticity or mad cow disease.  Yes, got a speech drafted for you, here.

Is very nasty business, politics. But best is to not mention baby to Geoff - suspended but not by the fucking neck, unfortunately - Hoon or will come round with  napalm lullaby and say, Jolly Good Show,  I simply don't accept that killing babies is wrong and will thank Geoff one day for baby slaughter and not like those ungrateful Iraqi bitches who haven't got round to thanking me yet and that will be three thousand pounds, please, for my day's work. And definitely not mentioning to  Father Michael from local RC church or else will be round pronto, rubbing cheesy old dick under frock.  Amen and see you all next week with more problem solving to do.