Thursday 29 April 2010

I'M NOT THE KIND OF MAN THEY THINK I AM AT ALL. OH, NO, NO, NO.

Always thought that her ghastly, breathy, little-girl voice and her babytalk skrikings were aimed at a market of atonal paedophiles and wasted, man, Pink Floyd members but Kate has hidden depths, at least in her choice of musicians, watch for the squeezebox player, twenty seconds in.
HT some bloke at CIF.

TEACHER LEAVE THEM KIDS ALONE, REVISITED

 skymadeupnewsandfilth at the coalface

woman on a raft has left a new comment on your post "TEACHER LEAVE THEM KIDS ALONE?":

Mr Harvey has been acquitted of attempted murder and causing grievous bodily harm with intent.

"It emerged during the four-day trial that pupils at the school were trying to wind up Harvey so his reaction could be caught on a camcorder being used secretly by a girl in the class. The footage was then to be passed around the school as a way of "humiliating" the teacher."

They sure got their footage. Make the parents watch it on a continuous loop and let them wonder: "Suppose it was me or the missus or the kid at work, would I want to be victimized like that?" And then make the head teacher watch it for letting his charges fall so low.

Judge Michael Stokes QC made some interesting statements. I bet he's breathing a sigh of relief, though.

"Judge Michael Stokes QC said: "Common sense has prevailed now we have heard all the evidence." Turning to Harvey, the judge said: "I'm not going to send you to prison for this offence. I'm not even going to impose a suspended sentence. That would be wrong given that you have already served a sentence longer than can be lawfully suspended. This court is looking to impose a community order which will assist you with the problems that you have had."

There you go, Mr Ishmael, a rare example of a judge calling it right. Polish it up and stick it on the mantelpiece.

I'm guessing that he realized he couldn't save Mr Harvey but decided that he wanted the full story out in public and rub their noses in it good and hard.

Maybe he is right and his way is better - let it go to the jury, don't try to second-guess them.


Thanks Mrs WOAR

As many have pointed out, this has always gone on, maybe the Harvey verdict will make parents and their children behave a little better, for fear that the little bastards might really get killed.






THE DAILY MILLIONAIRES.

THE BBC'S DEBONAIR MR POLITICS
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ANDY NEIL, 73, EX-MURDOCH EDITOR, SUBSTANTIAL MURDOCH SHAREHOLDER AND DIRTY OLD MAN.

KELVIN HILLSBOROUGH MCKENZIE.
FORMER MURDOCH EDITOR,
CURRENT SUN COLUMNIST
GABSHITE, MORON, RACIST, SEXIST PIG.

SIMON HOGGART.
NEVER PLEASED MR MURDOCH ENOUGH TO GET A GIG,
BLESS
ONE OF THE GUARDIAN'S MANY CHARITY CASES.
ITS SKETCH AND DISCERNING WINE WRITER.
NOT SO DISCERNING WITH HIS WOMEN, THOUGH.
SHARED kIMBERLY QUINN (THEN NEIL'S EMPLOYEE) WITH DAVID BLUNKETT AND, PRESUMABLY, HER HUSBAND. IF HE GOT A GO, NOW AND AGAIN.
SIMON DOESN'T LIKE IT MENTIONED. 

Day after day, week after week, we suffer the wit and wisdom of the smirking old turd, Neil and his chums; this morning the ghastly trio above were determining the election again, on our behalf. Enough to make one join the Labour Party, they are.

 Neil, the hereditary Dimblebys, the creaking, unshiftable Paxman;  it is thin gruel, indeed, from the greatest broadcaster in the world.  The people who most acclaim change in other organisations so reluctant to embrace it themselves, jobs for life for anyone who enters the door.

Old, white millionaire broadcasters interviewing old white millionaire politicians, what sort of shit is that ?

Wednesday 28 April 2010

SNOTTY: I AM MORTIFIED. I WOULD NEVER INSULT THE STUPID OLD BITCH IN PUBLIC

PRIME MINISTER MORTIFIED

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I AM A PENITENT SNOT-EATING SINNER.
VOTE FOR ME. 
IT IS THE RIGHT THING FOR THE UNDEAD.
I MEAN THE COUNTRY.

skymadeupnewsandfilths's Jayne Tits said that they would always try to bug people's private remarks and conversatiions and hold their lives up to a scrutiny which so-called journalists - shit-eating drunken scavengers and bullies - could never tolerate.  It is what Mr Murdoch wants us to do for him; stay tuned, we're back after the break with Jeff Barrowboy and why the rich are so entitled to all your money. 

SNP PREJUDICED AND PARTIAL BULLIES, OFFICIAL.

SALMOND POACHED IN JOCK COURT,
FUCK OFF, YE WEE FAT BASTARD,
SAYS JUDGE LADY McSMITH.


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Mary Nesbitt, Fishwife Supremo of the the Jock Tribesmen's Party, barracking journalists outside the Edinburgh Court, after another historic defeat.

Ye see yon Court, hen, wull that's just a shite court that is.  Wes were wanting tae get oor Alec, the First Jock,  on the teevee, wi' all them English gabshites only they wouldnae let him, simply because he's no' standin' in the election. It disnae matter cos it wisnae oor money paid fer the brief, but even so, if ever there wisnee a case for an independent Scotland under King Alec and then under me, hen, this isnae it, Vote SNP fer free everything.

If the SNP had won its case there can be no doubt that Sir Alec and not wee Nicola would have been facing the cameras. Dopey John Swinney takes the flak for the financial fuck-ups, gobby Nicola for the PR gaffes, Fatboy stays at home eating homebakes until there's some good, smirking, soundbiting news, What a gang,

Tuesday 27 April 2010

TEACHER LEAVE THEM KIDS ALONE?

From the Filthy Cameron-O-Graph:

Science teacher shouts 'die, die, die' at 14 year-old pupil during dumbbell attack

A science teacher beat a 14-year-old pupil around the head with a 3kg dumbbell while shouting "die, die, die" after the boy swore at him during a lesson, a court heard.

 
Peter Harvey, 50, is alleged to have lashed out at the boy after he began "sword fighting" another pupil with a wooden ruler as he tried to restore order during a lesson for year 9 pupils.
When the boy picked up a Bunsen burner and told him to "f--- off", he is said to have snapped. Other pupils in Harvey's class at All Saints' Roman Catholic School in Mansfield told how he dragged the boy out of the classroom and down the corridor.........

"He threw him to the ground and armed himself with a 3kg dumbbell and began to hit the boy about the head with it," he said.
"He struck at least two blows to the head which caused serious injury, really serious injury.
"At the time the blows were being struck Mr Harvey was only heard to say one thing. What he was saying was 'die, die, die'.......He grabbed a weight and hit him on the head constantly," she  (a pupil) said in a videotaped interview played to the court. "He didn't stop and blood was everywhere. Everyone was screaming and then two people went and got teachers."


Another pupil who tried to pull Harvey away from the boy said he was kneeling above him, raising the dumbbell to shoulder height for each of the blows.


Should have used a heavier weight, if you ask me, kill the horrible little fucking bastard outright. Him a science teacher, he should have known that.

One thing's for sure, this'll be a lesson in manners that sonny boy's parents neglected to give him, probably too busy loving him to bits, and he'll think twice about taking the piss in future.

It happened in my school, a whole class ganged-up on a music teacher - they're all a bit weird, anyway - did it so often that the poor bastard threw himself in the Stratford-on-Avon canal and drowned, and mine was a posh, King Edwards grammar school, with pushy, snooty professional parents, only not mine, obviously.  Jesus knows what it's like in Ruin's modern comprehensives and the wonder is that the teachers  don't tool themselves up and go in and massacre the little fucking monsters.

This guy should be nutted-off, cared-for, never mind put in the dock. Seems that he was just back, that day, having been off on sick  mental leave, caused by these very same little darlings. Nutted off to hospital for a while and his self esteem massaged and restored and then a chunk of community service;  the children and their parents got together and told that they can all do better, try harder. Fat chance.

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS. YOU WHO MUST LEAVE EVERYTHING THAT YOU CANNOT CONTROL

Monday 26 April 2010

WILL YE GO, LADDIE, GO?

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY.

YOUNG PARENT BROWN, AT BAY.

Snotty's friends at the Guardian are saying he will defy a post-defeat coup attempt  seeking the installation  as NewGreatLeader of the even more useless Postman Pat, Johnson, with his arse bent, cheeky-chappily towards the hideous Clegg, C'mon BigBoy, lemme show you a good PR time.

Snotty will stay and fight and fight and fight, say his chums, even in the face of a complete Cabinet rebellion.  That an organisation which cannot even unseat its historically most divisive and unpopular leader insists  that it can nevertheless micro-manage the nation through a catastrophe in which it was enthusiastically complicit is as  cogent a damnation  of the NewLabour party as there could be.

Rank and file members must be aghast that the fate of what was once their party is now finessed  by a queening, unelected, joint prime minister; the unstable, bad-tempered, vindictive and  staggeringly incompetent former object of his affection and by a rabble of greedy, cowardly charlatans; slags, pimps, thieves,  ponces, nonces, murderers, blackmailers, embezzlers, money launderers and war criminals. Serves them right.


Sunday 25 April 2010

EVENSONG, WITH BEATLE MARTIN

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, LETTERS TO THE SUNDAY ARSEBRIDGER, VOTE SNOT FOR THE SAME OLD SHIT ON TELLY.




FAT, SMIRKING, CLEVER BOY WITH WHINING VOICE ISSUES WARNING TO NATION
Le culture, c'est moi.


Letters.
To attack the BBC is to devalue our national culture as a whole

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* The Observer, Sunday 25 April 2010
* Article history
* my italics.

Ahead of the forthcoming election, we wanted to raise our concerns about the BBC's future. Over the past few months, leading opposition politicians have suggested that a new government should prioritise cutting the BBC's licence fee. Others have shown a cavalier attitude towards the BBC's independence, calling, for example, for the BBC to sell off Radio 1, to roll back its online activities and to get rid of the BBC's governing body, the BBC Trust.

The BBC (ie us) is the most important cultural organisation in Britain and an indispensable part of our society, admired and envied throughout the world. It is right that there is a national debate about the future of the BBC. But attacking it to serve the interests of its commercial rivals would be short-sighted and threatens to devalue not just the BBC itself, but our culture as a whole. We urge people to think about the consequences of their vote for this cherished part of our national life.(ie us)

Jo Brand, Peter Capaldi, Harry Enfield, Richard Eyre, Stephen Frears, Eddie Izzard, Catherine Tate, Liane Aukin, John Barrowman, Sanjeev Bhaskar, Hugh Bonneville, Jo Brand, Peter Capaldi, Jo Brand, Peter Capaldi, Phil Collinson, Peter Davison, Harry Enfield, Sir Richard Eyre, Simon Fanshawe, Stephen Frears, Nicci French, Romola Garai, Claire Goose, Michelle Hanson, Charlie Higson, Eddie Izzard, Ashley Jensen, Terry Jones, Kathy Lette, Roger Lloyd Pack, Peter Kay, Stephen Mangan, Tony Marchant, Alastair McGowan, Stephen Merchant, Roger Michell, David Mitchell, David Nicholls, Steve Pemberton, Piers Plowright, Jan Ravens, Tony Robinson, Nicola Shindler, Meera Syal, Catherine Tate, Ken Taylor, David Tennant, Rhys Thomas, Harriet Walter, Robert Webb, Arabella Weir, Sam West, Richard Wilson, Susan Woolridge.


Sir Steven Fry, novelist, journalist, broadcaster, playwright, composer, direetor, screenwriter, motor insurance and tea consultant, Oscar Wilde  impersonator, lexicographer, celebrity  fag and crybaby said that he was far too busy, darlings, to sign the letter, but of course he agreed with it, isn't that what clever people do, try to keep all the public money for themselves and their simply delightful friends?

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH , POPE NAZI IN JOHNNY ROW

Ministers apologise for condom insult to Pope

The Government has apologised to the Pope over official documents that mocked his forthcoming visit to Britain by suggesting he should bless a gay marriage and even launch Papal-branded condoms.

Prime Minister Snot has personally apologised to His Holiness for the insult and injury caused. Everybody knows, insisted Mr Snot, that His Holiness's employees don't wear condoms when buggering the little children as God would frown on it and in any event it takes all the pleasure out if it. As for acts of holy oral sex with the  little ones, well, they wouldn't be nuch fun for the children would they, tasting of rubber?

The British Government is determined that in his upcoming visit Pope Nazi is able to perusade UK catholics the Brownliness is next to Godliness. And that George Robertson is innocent. Amen. It is the right thing for the country.

Leading UK catholics - Tony and Imelda Blair - have assured the nation that Benny is a pretty, straight guy and would never do anything wrong. God bless you all, That will be twenty thousand pounds, please.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE LOS ANGELES TIMES, JONI MITCHELL IS BARKING


Never made it into our Sugarbabes section, Mitchell, 66; can't stand that octave-swooping soprano, those weird, jazzy time signatures and odd tunings, pissing on summer lawns, it's not for me, although Big Yellow Taxi rolls along nicely.

Anyway, she's been closeted away for a while and  declining interviews, due to an illness which, if it's real, sees her enduring multi-coloured Bob Dylan fibres erupting from her skin, which only she can see  and which  keeps the  mad old diva at home but in a rare interview with the LA Times she complains that she suffers from Morgellons syndrome, a rare skin condition. It's a controversial diagnosis – many doctors deny that Morgellons is real, calling it delusional. "[It's a] weird, incurable disease that seems like it's from outer space," Mitchell told the Times. "But my health's the best it's been in a while. Two nights ago, I went out for the first time since 23 December."

"Garbo and Dietrich hid away just because people became so upset watching them age, but this is worse," she said. "Fibres in a variety of colors protrude out of my skin like mushrooms after a rainstorm: they cannot be forensically identified as animal, vegetable or mineral. Morgellons is a slow, unpredictable killer – a terrorist disease: it will blow up one of your organs, leaving you in bed for a year."

"In America ... [doctors] send you to a psychiatrist," Mitchell explained. "I'm actually trying to get out of the music business to battle for Morgellons sufferers to receive the credibility that's owed to them."

Madonna is a stupid slapper, continued the toothy Canadian  and Bob is a plagiarist, she writes her own songs and he steals his from other people. "We are like night and day, he and I," she scoffed. "Bob is not authentic at all. He's a plagiarist, and his name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception."
NO, NO. NO, IT AIN'T ME, BABE


Friday 23 April 2010

SEGOVIA, GAVOTTING AT MIDNIGHT, PROBABLY HIS BEST KNOWN BACH PIECES.

ZORBA THE GREEK IS FUCKED AS ECONOMY GOES INTO MELTDOWN.

 SOCRATES  SALMONELLOPOLOUS ADDRESSES THE INTERNATIONAL MONETARY FUND.
YOU WANT CHILI AN' LEMON?

It's like the Guns of Navarone, all over again, said Greek premier, Stavros Notgotanydosholopoulous, we need help from our fellow Europeans, only this time it's Herman the German, or An-gula, the jackbooted carpetmuncher, Merkel, who will be helping us, makes a change from them lining-up our resistance fighters in the town square and shooting them and strafing our olive groves from Stuka dive bombers, the filthy, Nazi bastards.
Yes, and we want Cyprus back again, said Archbishop Costos Everydrachmayouhave,
and drive those heathen muslim bastards into the sea
Anyway,  once we get our loans sorted out we can get back to our traditional Greek practices, which have so enchanted the famous English  philosopher, Mr The Dyers Garden,  that is to say, getting pissed on Ouzo, smashing plates up, dancing with each other to Greek ukelele music and fucking young men up their fine classical arses. Or doing it with those half-man-half-horse thingies.

From the Golden Age of Civilisation
Some classical Hellenic bestiality.


The Greek financial crisis is likely to be repeated shortly in the UK, where most of the government is homosexual, religious or both.

I'M YOUR MAN.

 WE THREE KINGS.

 Cleggie is on air-guitar, bless.

 They all do this shit with their hands, chopping, framing, emphasising but Gordon Snot's clunking, snot-stained, nail-bitten fist of Doom and Ruin does something else.  In Tonight With Adam Lard (Mr Anji Hunter) side shots of Snotty revealed his right arm repeatedly punching forward, in vicious jabs, as though he was  beating a defenceless, restrained  man in the kidneys;  he really is a horrible fucking bastard, a bully, a coward; a lonely, fucked-up, desperate wanker.

INVISIBLE NARCISSISM, FREE LABOUR, DOWN ON CYBER AVENUE.

  info@blog-city.com Add to Addresses

 

The Social Factory


Slaves on the Social Media Plantation

Our efforts in friending one another and creating a social map whose byways can later be retraced by marketing concerns is perhaps the chief form of free labor today, for which we are not compensated with wages but with a stronger, highly particularized sense of self.

With the advent of Web 2.0, the Internet has begun to take on the characteristics of what the Italian autonomists like Paolo Virno called the social factory.

The idea is that since many of us no longer have all that much to offer society, in terms of operating machinery or that sort of thing, the new way of extracting surplus value from our “labor” is to turn our social lives into a kind of covert work that we complete throughout the day, but in forms that can be co-opted by capitalist firms.

Work processes, as Virno explains in A Grammar of the Multitude [Semiotext(e); 2004], become diverse, but social life begins to homogenize itself in the sense that our identity becomes something we all must prove in the public sphere—we all become concerned with the self as brand.

This results in the “valorization”—Marxist jargon for value enhancement—“of all that which renders the life of an individual unique”—which is to say our concern for our uniqueness, our identity in social contexts, becomes a kind of value-generating capital, or rather a circulating commodity.

This plays out in seemingly innocuous ways. It can be a matter of hyping a product free of charge but using it or talking about it.

Or it can be a matter of going to parties with co-workers, learning to get along better and therefore increasing the efficiency of processes on the job.

Or it is a matter of behaving politely among strangers, extending a system of politeness and trust that can be harvested economically as a reduction in transaction costs.

To put it in sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s terms, our habitus—our manifest and class-bound way of being in the social world—has been transformed into an explicit productive force without our conscious consent by the way various social media have infiltrated everyday life.

The most obvious place in which this now occurs is online, as Tiziana Terranova details in Free Labor: Producing Culture for the Digital Economy (Social Text - 63, Volume 18, Number 2, Summer 2000, pp. 33-58):

“The Internet is about the extraction of value out of continuous, updateable work, and it is extremely labor intensive.”

In a separate passage, she notes that “the productive capacities of immaterial labor on the Internet encompass the work of writing/reading/managing and participating in mailing lists/Web sites/chatlines.”

Where Terranova writes of mailing lists and chatlines, we can substitute in their heir, social networks.

Our efforts in friending one another online and creating a social map whose byways can later be retraced by marketing concerns is perhaps the chief form of free labor today, for which we are not compensated with wages but with a stronger, though highly particularized, sense of self, measurable in hard, quantifiable terms.

This identity seems much more fragile and vulnerable than previous conceptions of the self, contingent as it is on associations and meanings that are always rapidly shifting.

For while we are building identity in social networks, our online behavior generates a plenitude of information, meanings and content that constitutes a “cognitive surplus” generated by the “hive mind”, to use terms from technopunditry, or is a concrete manifestation of the “general intellect”, to stick to Marxist jargon.

The surfeit of suddenly accessible information threatens to overwhelm us, with the flood destroying what value there might be in any single piece of data.

As the flood rushes past it sweeps away what we thought we knew about what the stuff and relationships in our lives meant and what we thought we knew about ourselves.

How worried should we be about this? Are we still people? Would we even know? Are we reading, or are we just processing for the benefit of the “lords of the cloud” as some calls them, the ultimate beneficiaries of all the immaterial labor we conduct online.

The fear is that social media are the newest and possibly most exploitative forms of capitalism since the use of slave labor. We work [twitter] for nothing to create surplus profit for socmed owners.

EVENSONG. MY HIGHLANDS NEIGHBOUR, MR BOB DYLAN, BLOOD IN MY EYES FOR YOU

Thursday 22 April 2010

SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH

TREVOR KAVANAGH BUSHWHACKED


Page 3 hunk and the Sun's political editor, Trev, above, was surprised on this morning's Today programme. Trev, Rupert Murdoch's beardy UK Fellator-in-Chief, was asked what he made about Rupe Junior and the pugilistic  ginger freak, Bekka Wade, both of skymadeupnewsandfilth, shitting themselves and biting each other over the possibility of Sam 'n' Dave losing the election.  News to me, grunted hunky Trev, Dunno what yer on about. I though I was coming here to answer another question that I knew about in advance. You can't expect me to just answer a different  question that I didn't know about. How very dare you, bitch?

No, Trev, you lying fucking bastard, it's just what skymadeupnewsandfilth do to members of the public every day of the week, before proceeding to destroy their lives.

Trevor, the  beardy arsehole, calls the UK election, he feels, as he is told to by the disgusting Murdoch and bleats Treason! should issues like the truth come between he and His Masters Voice.

For thirty years or more this piece of shit, Kavanagh, has managed to conflate the interests of his non UK tax paying boss with those of the nation and successive prime ministers since the Bandit  Baroness, Thatcher, have sucked his cheesy knob, Blair more enthusiastically than anyone else.  If the rise of the airhead, Clegg, does nothing more than upset Kavanagh's anti-democratic applecart it will have been a wonderful, momentous development.

THE LABOUR YEARS


Fiona Mackeown, above, famously left her daughter, Scarlett, 16, in sunny Goa, with a 25 year old druggy boyfriend, whilst she took her other six children by assorted, absent fathers off somewhere else on the sub-continent; on her return, the sixteen year old was drugged, raped and dead. Ever since, Fiona, like her social betters, Gerry and Cilla, has been blaming the local police for her/their own scandalous neglect. As though  failures of investigation somehow obliterate the initial neglect. Gerry and Cilla are, by their own admission, wonderful parents, everybody leaves a three-year old alone, at night, in charge of two two year olds, in a strange apartment, in a strange town with a transient population and goes out on the piss with valued professional colleagues, absolutely everybody.

Fiona's trip was, it turns out, funded by her fiddling the benefits system to the tune of nearly twenty grand, for which offence she now faces imprisonment. This is unfortunate for she is due, shortly, in India, to give evidence on the trial of those accused of her daughter's killing and may, therefore, have to give this evidence by videolink from jail in order to, as she says, in the odious, current parlance, Get Justice for Scarlett, quite what the Indians will make of this visitation from the Old Country is difficult to guess; not, probably, a lot. Delivering Justice to the dead has always struck me as a pretty fatuous aspiration, giving due care and attention to the living seems much more desirable and attainable than any amount of cloze-ya and moving forward, over lines drawn , down the highway of tabloid emotion.

Fiona is, she says, fund-raising, trying to get this twenty grand off other people, so that she can pay it into court and mitigate her sentence, the irony of it all is miles over her self-besotted head, the silly cow, steal the money in the first place, beg it in the second. Some of her troubles, she insists, are down to misfortunes, she has "come out of an abusive relationship" trans: she was fucking some worthless thug and "loves her children to bits" trans: is utterly irresponsible. One of her formers, the father of two of her unfortunate spawn has recently died from alcoholic poisoning.

The tale of Fiona and Scarlett is horrid and it is fuel for all those who, Portillo-like, bash the single mum rather than the absent father, whilst extolling, applauding the torturer and the war criminal, Blair, Pinochet, Kissinger, Straw, Hoon;  none of these will feel the contempt flung at Fiona, her ancient, stretchmarked  midriff exposed for the snappers, her dereliction compounded  with every unprotected  EarthMother coupling, barebacking with every passing drunk.


Resent her as we may, though, Fiona  and the hideous McCanns speak a language of entitlement, selfishness, of individuial rights and loves taught them by the state and by skymadeupnewsandfilth.  It is ok for the feckless to be so, as long as they Love My Kids To Bits. I can't be the only one perplexed by the Army mums Loving Their Sons To Bits, rather more loving  in these lone-parent households than one would think was healthy; Lance Bombardier Wayne unreasonably being expected to  fill the emotional gap left by his absent dad or succession of dads, natural,  step, common-law or overnight and if Fiona should lose a son to the Blair Wars we can anticipate her pushing herself front and centre, demanding Justice, body armour, helicopters, whatever. May be in a reactionary minority here but I am sick to death of gobby parents Loving Their Kids To Bits; I would just rather they looked after them, instead.


And all the while the cancer runs riot through the national body.  In earlier, better days, the McCanns would have been spat at in the street, ostracised, now they pursue a second career, travelling the world, First Class,  suing people and liaising with law enforcement and welfare agencies on how best to protect children, Kafka would shit himself in disbelief at the surreality of Gerry and Cilla, Beardy Branson, Kirsty Wark and young parent Gordon Snot. The lower orders, on the sink estates, amazed at the exent of the McCann's scamming, now try to emulate them. Doctor knows best.


In earlier days,  Fiona Mackeown,  her foolish, imbecile   fecundity and gabshitery would have been sorted, by parents, health visitors, by extended family, even by a responsible, considerate husband; now she has fucked and whined and blabbered her way through Lord knows how much heartache and may wind up in jail, her children further neglected, she a laughing stock at home and abroad.

That both Mackeown and the revolting McCanns have acted so irresponsibly and yet deny any wrongdoing indicates the extent of this malaise,  Fiona may well have been skint all her life but the other two shitbags were being well paid, it is not a poverty-related issue, this sense of blamelessness, righteousness, even; the worse one behaves, it seems, the greater one's whining McCannery.

Whatever spurious, self-exculpatory  bullshit these people peddle to skymadeupnewsandfilth,  they must, presumably, at some point, in an empty room, out of the spotlight to which they accustom themselves, sit down and weep for their greed and their lies, for the children they neglected.

But they are tutored, of course,  in their behaviour,  from on high.  The Queen, the heir to the throne, the Lords, the Commons,  the Bar and the Bench, the Church and the Media;  take your pick, murderers, thieves, embezzlers, blackmailers, ponces, pimps, slags,   child molesters and Oh, Fuck me, I just remembered this conversation with Paul Burrell, aren't I a silly old monarch?

The thing which is so sad about Fiona is that one used to be able to confidently expect better of the working class,  they just didn't do this exotic shit. Now, governed by reprobates, scoundrels and degenerates, why shouldn't they?



GERRY AND CILLA McCANN
HOT ON THE TRAIL OF SOME MORE MONEY.

Wednesday 21 April 2010

GENERAL ELECTION SCOTLAND. POLITICS FOR UGLY PEOPLE.

TAVISH McHOOTER OF THE SCOTTISH SHITEATERS.

Tavish McHooter, MSP  leader of the Jock ShitEaters and Big Al Carmichael, MP, one of the English ones, banished to Scotland.
McTavish is  being minded by BigBoy Alastair Carmichael, MP,  above, who has been sent up from London  a) to curb Mr McHooter's personal Reichbuilding, for which he is notorious,  the ginger prat and b) to keep him out of the way of the English campaign; Carmichael, MP for Orkney and Shetland,  is accustomed to lecturing his six-toed, inbred ladymen farmers and fishermen in weary, know-it-all words of one syllable, grows a beard and then shaves it off  with every crisis of identity and as a former Scottish lawyer has made the one career move which could have brought him into further contempt than he was previously held.  Seen below, in his leisure wear,
honest, not invent, canny ShitEater strategists (Nick and Consuela Maria Elena don Pedro Tortilla Domingo Gonzalez Clegg) have decided that Big Al, rampaging around England, bullying voters, might not go down too well and sent him up here, where it doesn't matter a fuck what he does.

McHooter, by the customary ShitEaters' methods of backstabbing  and innuendo, wrested control of the party from former leader, Nicol Steven, who resigned to spend more time with his family after McHooter's whispering campaign. The Jock LibDems, under McHooter, have all but disappeared from the radar, eclipsed by the once fashionable but now dreary and clapped-out Tribesmen and increasingly by JockLabour, as vile and hypocritical as ever but marginally more palatable without the revolting Wendy FishFace Alexander at their thieving helm.

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS

Tuesday 20 April 2010

Matt Taibbi on How Goldman Sachs Has Been Robbing Us Blind

Last year we posted Mr Taibbi on the subject of Goldman Sachs. Given that the authorities are now at least going through the motions, he's worth another look. Rather more trenchant than either Mr Snot, the financial wizard, or Mr Cable, the foxtrotting nitwit and entirely, unbridgeably remote from Mr George Osblow, of the Old Etonians.

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL.


In the Filth-O-Mail last week, Ms Mandy Smith revealed that at age fourteen, fourteen, she was nonced by dear Old Bill Wyman, original Mr BassMan with the ridiculous and deeply unwholesome Rolling Stones. Full pentrative intercourse with a child was part of Old Bill's mid-life crisis, he was forty-eight at the time he committed offences graver, we guess, than Mr Gary Glitter's fiddling and molesting but dear old Bill married the child and he is a national treasure so that's alright then.


The dirty disgusting old bastard with his child bride.


The priests do it like this, too, they blame the child and in Bill's case, skymadeupnewsandfilth blamed the child, too. Wild Child, Mandy. Her mother was no help to her, I believe she married Bill Wyman junior, how's that for parental example. Poor Mandy. She's OK now, she says, celibate and a kind of unofficial nun, in love not with some ghastly old nonce but with God, Himself.

Presumably it would not be in the public interest for that prick at the CPS to prosecute this piece of shit, Wyman; that's the message we give to the children. Any wonder they''re all fucked up?

Hanging, as mr mongoose would say, is too fucking good for him - how many more were there, little girls violated, whilst Bill was touring the world with that gang of degenerate shitbags? - but it would do for a start.


WHAT AGE IS OLD?

These two old parties.  Bouyed-up by the idiot vote,  that's all they can say, the Liberals. Yet, it was only at the last General Election, that TV Charlie,  the pisshead,

hailed his success in getting them their best result in a century.

 This is from the Scottish Liberal Democrats Website

Biography:  Charles Kennedy is the former Leader of the Liberal Democrats who, at the 2005 General Election achieved the best result the party and its predecessors had enjoyed since 1923, winning 62 seats.

  There was a vainglorious party-politica hiatus in the 'seventies when a Gang of Four Squabbling Grotesques,  Doctor David Owen, Shirley Williams, Bill Rogers and Roy Jenkins, all right-wing Labour MPs, left the party to set up another, the Social Democrat Party, split the Left and ushered-in the past thirty years of Blatcherism.  Unable to coalesce round a nascent Social Democrat movement dogged by the ego of the revolting, smirking Owen, the SDP swiftly launched itself parasitically on the then Liberal Party, led by the entirely ineffectual, over-dressed gabshite, David Steel and a merger ensued. The SDLP, though the Social Democratic and Liberal Party was stillborn, Owen, unable to completely dominate the new party, flouncing off into a political wilderness. The unspeakable Williams and Roy Jenkins, for all his own vanity the best Labour Home Secretary of modern times, clung to the wreckage of the SDLP as it reverted to its former self, plus one word, The Liberal Democrat Party. Rodgers disappeared.



So, aside from this disastrous,  failed merger, which may as well never have happened,  the Liberal Party remains the  same party which was founded in the mid-nineteenth century, long before both  the Labour Party and the modern Conservative  Party, it is historically an affiliation of unpleasant homosexuals, militant vegetarians, end of the world is nigh-ers, Highlands and Islands neanderthals and impudent upstarts like Nick Clegg. they play dirty politics because they are dirty, tainted, North and South of the Border by sharing Labour's rank, enseam-ed bed. That, historically, their leadership is personally dirty and tainted is well documented.


It is high time that some of our constellation of political commentators pointed-out that when Clegg talks about These two old parties he actually means These two parties, younger than my own, which have actually, unlike mine,  won power. Clegg is a sour,  whining prick. And a liar

Monday 19 April 2010

WOTSONTELLY. A GOOD JOB MCGOOHAN'S DEAD


In the history of telly there have been a few outlandish, enigmatic, inscrutable or just quirky  series which have generated, among viewers,  affection, abiding curiosity, loyalty, even a cultists' devotion - the early Avengers,  with Ian Hendry, spooky, a bit S and M;  Blake's Seven, with Servillan and Avon  displaying  a bucketful of fetishes, the Americans have had the X Files, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Ally McBeal and of course tragic David Carradine's unforgettable, benign, warrior-monk, Kwang Chai Caine, in Kung Fu,


Surely the most enduring, timeless of these things, though, is the late  Patrick McGoohan's The Prisoner,

 a seventeen episode series, starring and co-created by McGoohan. 

These seventten episodes have been shown over and over, memorised and dissected by afficianadoes since they were first shown in 1967. It may be that the tenor of the times - Peace, Man and Drugs and Sex - imbued the series with a weight it didn't really merit;  equally,  the series  may have dignified a culture which was, in many ways, rubbish, a Whiter Shade of Tosh,  the over-acclaimed, druggy doggerel of  Sgt Pepers Lonely Hearts Club Band. To a backdrop of mini-skirts and mini-mokes and God fucking help us, mini-operas, McGoohan's nameless hero, a former spook contends with, as WIKI relates;

" .... striking and often surreal storylines, and themes include hypnosis, hallucinogenic drug experiences, identity theft, mind control, dream manipulation, and various forms of social indoctrination. A major theme of the show is individualism versus collectivism."
A kid at the time, I was just enchanted by McGoohan's terse resistance to all  the forms  of coercion  ranged against him, curious about the bizarre setting - the Italianate mock village - undersized frontages only, like a Western movie set -  of Portmerion in Wales, delighted by the vehicles, a Caterham Seven



and a minimoke

and by McGoohan's catch phrases, some carried over from his previous series, Danger Man - I'm Obliged, Be Seeing You  and some unique to The Prisoner, I Am Not A Number, I Am A Free Man. They were picked up and circulated by viewers, still are.

I never understood The Prisoner, still don't,  but I loved its extravagant  cinema-quality production values, its originalty, its refusal  to kowtow to advertisers' and schedulers' expectations. The Prisoner was to television what Highway Sixty-One Revisited was to Pop music,  in the dreadful desert of  'sixties TeeVee, The Prisoner shone and sparkled like God's own oasis.

Unrelieved even  by the presence of the now sadly ubiquitous Ian McKellen,  there is an Anglo-American so-called remake showing on ITV currently.  Miss it.

WAR ON ICELAND, DEMANDS FLYING LEPRECHAUN

LORD WILLY O'WANKER OF BRITISH  OVERSEAS DAGO AIRWAYS.
WORLD'S MOST EXPENSIVE, MOST UNRELIABLE, MOST LUGGAGE-LOSING, MOST SHIT INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS AIRLINE. A TRIUMPH OF OIRISH MANAGEMENT, SO IT IS, BEGORRAH AND BEJASUS. 

DO YOUSE BASTARDS WANNA FIGHT?

 Sure and didn't Oi floi over the wee bastards meself, the damned eskimos and come to no harm  and sure Oi could've strafed the  nose-rubbing wee fuckers and show them who's boss. Didn't they all steal the focking money from the decent British banks and invest it all in fish fucking fingers  and the proime minister having no choice but to declare them all fucking terrorists? What we need from the govament is to foire a few a them newkular missoils at them, blow that fucking volcano away t'fuck and them wee bastards too.  For fucks sake if its not the damned communist bastards in the union kicking me airse it's the fucking eskimos.  Just where  the fuck is Lord Sir Bob Geldof, when you fucking need him ? BasketCase Airloines, that's what we're gonna be. And Oi'll be down at the Wee People's Labour Exchange looking for me next fuck-something-up position. Volcanos, Jesus, whatever next?

THAT DUNKIRK SPIRIT.

FLEET SETS SAIL

REAR ADMIRAL SNOT ANNOUNCES TASK FORCE.

An armada of small boats is sailing for the continent, if NewLabour lasts a thousand years, men will say This was Snotty's finest hour. He was the man with the resol- you-shun to find sol-you-shun to the poll-you-shun.  Rejoice, the British flag now flies over Reykjavik.  We are a grandmother.Vote for me.

SUB-LT. SALTY SAM 'N' DAVE.

I agree with Rear Admiral Snot and it was all my idea anyway. People should not ask What can the Royal Navy do for me but instead should proply ask  what can I do for Jolly Jack Tar? Did I mention my  family and the NHS?

MR MIDSHIPMAN HORATIO CLEGG

I agree with the Rear Admiral and the First Officer. At a time of national emergency,  we must all milk it for as much as it's worth, on this we are all agreed. I will do my bit as a leading international statesman. People are fed up with the old Admirals.
The Liberal Party was founded in 1859. 

MAGGIE MAY, THE INFAMOUS
DOCKSIDE FLOOZY

Hello, Sailor.

Friday 16 April 2010

OFFICIAL: MY NAME IS SCOTLAND AND I'M AN ALCOHOLIC

From: Holyrood magazine conferences [mailto:marketing.admin@holyrood.com]
Sent: 16 April 2010 10:06

Subject: Alcohol in Scotland - DETAILS ARRIVING NEXT WEEK

Next week you should be receiving details through the post for Holyrood's Alcohol in Scotland: Changing our drinking culture conference, which is taking place on Tuesday 18th May at the Grosvenor Hotel in Edinburgh. Please look out for the brochure and let us know what you think at alcohol@holyrood.com
If you would like to register please go to www.holyrood.com/alcohol
This one-day conference will consider the economic, health and social consequences of alcohol consumption and consider the Government’s strategy to tackle Scotland’s drinking culture.
Essential debate questions:
  • What strategies are needed to combat Scotland’s drinking culture?
  • Would minimum pricing be an effective strategy?
  • What about raising the purchasing age to combat rising alcohol consumption and associated problems amongst the young?
  • Has devolution contributed to the problem with the absence of a joined up strategy?  And, will minimum pricing in Scotland simply drive trade over the border into England?
  • What is being done in other countries to combat binge drinking?
  • How does our drinking culture affect men and women differently?
  • Is the drinks marketing industry helping or hindering the process of rehabilitation?
  • What are the social and economic impacts of Scotland’s drinking culture?
  • How can we create genuine behaviour change to create a more healthy relationship with alcohol?
Speakers include:
  • Chair: Ruth Wishart, Broadcaster and Journalist
  • Nicola Sturgeon MSP, Cabinet Secretary for Health and Wellbeing, The Scottish Government
  • Dr. Laurence Gruer OBE, Director of Public Health Science, NHS Health Scotland
  • Janet Hood, Director, British Innkeepers Institute Scotland
  • Christina Borthwick, Youth Commissioner, Scottish Youth Commission on Alcohol
  • Dr. Evelyn Gillan, Chief Executive, Alcohol Focus Scotland
  • Professor Anne Ludbrook, Chair in Health Economics, University of Aberdeen
  • Michael Todd, Policy and Public Affairs Officer, Advertising Standards Authority
  • Charlie Bryceland, Community Project Officer, Alcohol Focus Scotland
  • Alison Kerr, Chair, Community Action - Blackburn (Changing Attitudes to Alcohol)
For full programme details, and to register online, please go to www.holyrood.com/alcohol
For organisations making block bookings please contact us on 0131 272 2175 or at alcohol@holyrood.com for a discount.
Please feel free to pass this email on to a colleague.

Regards,

Holyrood magazine Conferences
0131 272 2175
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Having learned his trade in the bars and bistros and  brothels of Westminster, Scotland's First and Fattest Minister, clever Alec Salmond, due, shortly, for a general election kicking, has the same arrogance of ambition as do Brown and Cameron and all the other meddling I-Know-Best bullies and gabshite control freaks, the self-styled national lifestyle managers who promote marriage or cycling or fish oil, with all the impertinence of a Jehova's fucking Witness banging on your door, enquiring after your soul. They are all cheeky bastards, over-reaching  both their job specs and their intellect, offering "guidance and "support". Arseholes.
Nicola Fishwife, MSP, below


is a Scottish lawyer, Salmond's deputy leader of the Tribesmen and resembles the  wifey,



 Mary, hen


whose life is blighted by being joined together in holy deadlock to lifelong claimant,  pisshead  and poet, Mr Rab C Nesbitt of Govan - Govan actually being one of Scotland's many open prisons -  or being one of the Crankys.


Nicola CodRoe is Health Minister, here in Scotland, best part of England and you know how in Midsomer Murders everytime the cops show up there is a fast and furious epidemic of slaughter by gunshot, arson, knifing, poisoning or garotte, whole villages being fed into combine harvesters, dropped down wells or thrown from church steeples?  Well, Nicola is like that, like those placid, mild mannerd   cops who trail Apocalypsean mayhem behind their Rover 75, Nicola's only gotta open her misshapen  gob and Jock starts dropping like flies, from heart disease, cancer, liver disease, leukemia, drug addiction, malnutrition or just stupidly falling over his own feet and bashing his brains out on the pavement.  


And that's not to mention the daily tally of domestic murders, sectarian murders, drug murders, pub murders and just SeeYouJimmy completely unprovoked murders of strangers.  It happens to the immigrants, too, perfectly law-abiding Poles or Lithuanians fetch-up in Scotland and immediately turn into serial killers, packing dismembered bodies in suitcases, under bushes, dumping handless and headless corpses on the beach and torturing old grannies for their pensions. And then there's the periodic outbreaks of CDIff and MRSA, none of which are Nicola's fault, she's only the minister and spends most of her time on Jock telly, talking belligerent bollocks, just like lawyers do. It's what we call Smart, Successful Scotland. Premature death and murder capital of Europe, average - natural causes - croaking age in Govan, fifty fucking four. 


It's in the culture. It is the culture, Melancholia, inebriation and a fathomless sea of grievance, 


fed to Jock by the same  bluff, tweedy Edinburghian toffs who pass poor wee Hollie Grieg around amongst themselves, noncing their presbyterian arses off, the same Criminals Incorporated so bravely exposed  by Scotland Against Crooked Lawyers, judges, briefs, MSPs, cops, journalists; rotten to the core.


The culture is A Wee Dram and Death To The English, the culture is boozeocentric  and booze is a depressant but while Salmond and the bent cops and lawyers and bankers will sip a twenty year old single malt bought for them by the taxpayers  in an oak-panelled Georgian drawing room, Jock will be off his heid on tonic wine in some miserable windswept shithole not fit for man nor beast.  


You remember the young Maestro, Dylan's, unpicking of the White Supremacists' Deep South strategy, Only A Pawn In Their Game - " the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool, he's taught in his school, from the start by the rule, that the laws are with him, to protect his white skin, to keep up his hate, so he never thinks straight, about the shape that he's in, but it ain't him to blame, he's only a pawn in their game." is just exactly how Jock is used by the rich and powerful Anglo-Scot ruling class.  As long as he's pissed-up and hate-filled he won't be wondering too much about how comes it that the lawyers and bankers and media tarts have so much and he has so little. He can always have a wee dram, Scotland's best known product, deadly poison, especially the cheap stuff, which is all he can afford.


And now Salmond and his gang of jumped-up councillors and solicitors wish to grasp Scotland's ferociously barbed nettle, wish to regulate, regularise the by definition unruliest of habits, vices, dependencies, upon which the myth of his tartan-and-shortbread backwater kingdom  is based, wants to sober-up, to detox, the  raucous, steaming, fighting drunk Bravehearts, bare-arsed, charging the Hanoverian's muskets; bare-arsed, their mad pipes skriking as, incoporated docilely into their Auld Enemy's armed forces, they strode, cross-dressed,  into Paschendale's Maxim Gun hurricane or blinded by sand, chased after Rommel's
Afrika Corps. 


Fat Alec Salmond, former banker-economist, bloated and piggy-eyed,
smirking, self-congratulatory, greedy and furtive, sticky-fingered ponce, scoundrel-patriot and lardy narcissist wants to take the men who made the Black Watch and the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and turn them into responsible consumers of GlobaBooze's products; beguiled by his own impossibly cheesy,  blame-shiftin, rabble-rousing  rhetoric,  he wants to deny Jock his Jockness, deny him what he has been taught to do, conditioned to do, these last centuries, he wants to take the Scotland he claims to love nearly as much as himself and put it, like Amy Whitehouse,  in Rehab.


In F Scot FitzGerald's A Diamond As Big As the Ritz nestles a gem of a paradox - take me out of my turbulent waters and you extinguish my flame.