THE SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT

SHOWBIZ NEWS, 

HAS-BEEN ARRESTED AGAIN.

  BLOW INTO WHAT, OFFICER?

It's a case for Sir Michael Parkinson. Him off the funeral adverts. Frightening the old codgers, the worthless, smirking piece of shit. He's been almost like a Dad, well, sort of, to George Michael,

better, anyway, than he was to poor old George Best, whose decline from divine, athletic genius to celebrity drunk Parky milked for all it was worth.  The Wham star and toilet-creeping, volunteer hand-jobber has crashed his car again, off his head, presumably,  on drink, other drugs  and narcissism and faces lots more photo-opportunities on the court steps before he gets what he wants - banged-up with tough-guy loonies, like Mr bin Moat, this week's featured nutter. Now sadly deceased.

But  that's Greek-Cypriots for you, always attention-seeking, if they're not smashing-up the dinner service the men're dancing with each other to that awful bazouki music and stuffing each others olives; George Michael, Archbishop Makarios, Telly Savalas, they're all the same. Now that he doesn't sell any records of himself warbling and panting, George should get his   Dad to set him up in a nice kebabshop, with a nice wife, with a nice moustache. People who eat kebabs are all gay anyway, so there'd be lots of opportunities for him to sneak into the loo with a customer and give him a complimentary Jay Arthuropolis, whilst the Mrs was doing that YouWanChilyanLemon? thing, slicing the meat up with a huge shiny carving knife, bits of compressed lips and eyelids and foreskins, all spiced-up and half-cooked on a rotating bunsen burner, fucking savages,  humming along with Nana Moustache, singing the White Rose of Athens. And if he absolutely had to go to court every year he could just infect that kebab shitmeat with salmonella. If it wasn't already. That only gives people the runs,  le posterieur flambee; driving around off his vain, stupid, pansying head, like this, the self-obsessed arsehole'll kill somebody.

Who do these people think they are, coming over here and selling condemned meat to our citizens, singing in pretend-straight pop groups and crashing their RangeRovers every five minutes? No business like showbusiness.

George Papadopolopolous, above;

I suffer for my Art.

Cunt.

 
 Next week: Former Bros star Matt Gobb enquires When Will I, Will I Be Famous, Again? 

                                                                                                                         H/T Mrs Berserk

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THE RADIO FOUR PAGE,

ANY QUESTIONS.

GHASTLY, STUPID,  HARD-FACED TORY BITCH LECTURES THE POOR.

PATIENCE WHEATCROFT, JOURNALIST.

Well, Jonathan, it's easy really, what we need is a bit of jolly old self-sacrifice, and tighten our belts. Ordinary people, for instance, might like to give their children two value fishfingers instead of three whilst the more important, like me, could simply give the GapYear children a thousand pounds or so less for their trip. You see, we really are all in this together. And as for taxing rich people, well, they might well be able to pay a little more but it really wouldn't make any difference, you see, there are simply so many more poor people that it's only right that they bear the burden.  The audience can trust me on tax becuae I work for Rupert Murdoch of skymadeupnewsandfilth,  who generally manages not to pay any. Does my arse look big in this?

Wheatcroft is one of a legion of  loathsome Filth-O-Graph hags, ready, for a few quid, to bash the poor on behalf of cuntish proprietors such as Conrad Black and this current pair of freaks, the mediaevalist Barclay twins.  Unable to stand the pace at the Sunday Filth-O-Graph,  Wheatcroft, 61,  quit her post as "editor" after only eighteen months and is now "working" for skymadeupnewsandfilth on the Wall Street Journal (Europe).  Married to a Tory councillor, Wheatcroft bumps along in these hard times, augmenting her  income with a directorship of Barclays plc;  pure objectivity, then, just what you'd expect from the Street of a Thousand Arseholes.

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MEN'S GROOMING

GRECIAN 2000 REALLY CAN IMPROVE THINGS

JUST NOT ON YOUR FACE.

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THE LEADER PAGE

EASTENDERS FAIRY IN  POLICE STAND-OFF.

Mr Raoul Kämp, the Rock Hudson de nos jours - a screeching fairy, woefully miscast as a hard man - is believed to have shot himself, in the foot. Kämp, a Labour Luvvie in the mould of Man-cunian apeman, Noel Gallagher, was once forced to seek police   protection when his wife, Rebekka Laide, of *kymadeupnewsand-filth, started slapping him around, like he was her bitch, which, of course, he was.
Since relinquishing his role as wife-beater and Mummy’s Boy in EastEnders, Kämp has assiduously developed an even harder TV image, “infiltrating” teenage gangs, trailing proper fighters around Afghanistan like an army groupie, and voicing-over a dubious late-night-in-the-cybergutter series in which wannabe street warriors shred cars with their teeth, eat powdered glass, hold their breath underwater and wrestle with each other for the title of HardMan Supreme; preposterous muscle-bound oafs, each and every one of them resembling in physique and demeanour and capital-letter Intellect the late Mr Raoul Moat, steroids and testosterone and vanity and fence-post stupidity combining in a cocktail of vicious nastiness, or Respect, as these hideous neanderthal fuckpigs would have it.
When I lived in England it was impossible to step outside the door without encountering one of these morons,  tight-clad in black, head-shaven, quivering with indignant muscly rage, hostile, aggressive, driving dodgy, blacked-out Beemers, an offence of GBH or malicious wounding or murder waiting to happen; often with one of those Secret Service earpieces in, ludicrously, incongruously prominent on their bulging, shaved heads, many of these repressed homsexuals work in ThugSecurity, as bailliffs or bouncers or carclampersand now, we understand,  they are to be given quasi-police powers to aid the repair of our broken society. And I lived in a picture-postcard village.

One theory is that oestrogen in the water table, from all the birth control pill-polluted tottypiss, has not only created mutant androgyne fish at sewage outlets but both lowered the sperm count in men born post-1960 and made them go prematurely bald to the extent that many of them are effectively a different species to me; certainly the numbers of shiny, twenty year-old heads and the hugely increased visible numbers of aggressive, butch gay men is - without prejudice - alarming,  the falling sperm count indicates that new masculinities are not arising merely at the urging of Mr Peter Tatchell and other gay liberationists  but have an identifiable, chemical origin, sold to us, as usual, by lazy, corrupt couldn't-give-a-fuck GPs and their puppetmasters in PharmaCorp.

Combined with the fetishising of violence on telly and, well, in all media, combined with the explosion in "working-out" instead of working and the easy availability of steroids and beta blockers and the ingestion routinely of massive, unhealthy  amounts of protein -  don't these narcissistic, beefcake morons betray  and subvert the cultural values and contributions  of the junky outlaw, oh,  fuck, how do they -  these mutated people deliberately create in themselves and all around them  a tension which can only have one release.  When Phil Mitchell slaps someone around in the Old Vic no-one actually gets hurt, when Mr Raoul Moat's deliberately crafted hardman psyche feels itself slighted, when he feels denied a respect to which he and his kind are not entitled and can never, outside the prison landing, receive, when, catastrophically, the fathead Moat apes the fathead Mitchell, for those in the vicinty, all Hell breaks loose.

No good bleating that this is all just only TeeVee, no good protesting that a bit of roleplay is usually harmless, Twice, recently, almost within a heartbeat, two men, feeling dissed, have been unable to distinguish between their multiple selves - son, brother, parent, workmate and fantasist, vengeful  assassin - have been unable to  decipher their imaginary warrior code and reach  a liveable compromise with minor adversities, debt and infidelity. Such is the impact of the moving image, so uncritcal, commonly,  is the viewer, that many men live their dual lives as though they were on the other side of the screen, in the Special Forces, behind enemy lines, which, in a sense, they are.

An alarming corollary to the Bird and Moat massacres is the ongoing, visible  deterioration in police behaviour, robotic, jargonised, the senior spokespersons this week incapable, utterly incapable of communication, grunting in  fragmented Plodspeak, as trapped in their own hideous,  inhuman, macho reality as was their quarry, and in the killing grounds the hunter was indistinguishable from the hunted.

Hard times they are for sure, tough to know how to be a man, and on top of that,  Cruelty TeeVee teaches that pig-ignorant rudeness is the New Forthrightness, that you are, actually, the weakest link, fit only to be mocked, no wonder that people run around,  berserking like fucking Vikings.

And a final thought, inspired by witnessing the melee of telly journalists, desperate for info, even for gossip, anything to broadcast to us, involve us,  as poor, mad Moat's snuff-movie end drew nigh: 

Since the televised collapse of the Twin Towers and the mincing of three thousand humans, right before your very eyes, ordinary news just doesn't do it for me.  I want atrocity and catastrophe, strung out over days, the Tsunami, Hurricane Katrina;  The Haiti earthquake, the rioting in Thailand, that'll do, in the absence of anything more grisly; distress me ABC, CBS, NBC with images of pelicans choking in oil.  I come in and turn on the box, expectantly,  and its just boring shit about the Coalition, Gimp news;  why isn't there a fucking war in London, more bombings, I can't exist on this meagre diet of public sector cuts, can't a stadium collapse at the World Cup; can't we have some aircraft blown-up over the Atlantic?

The 24/7 reportage of massacre and atrocity when they happen or even of relatively trivial headbanger mayhem, like Raoul's, quite spoils one for old-fashioned news, and of course, while we drool over  spontaneous, bloody spectacle, look, fuck me, they stole our old-age pension.