Wednesday, 11 August 2010


 Our current unelected prime minister has pronounced himself delighted, bless,  that Mr Sir Gus O'Donnell, one of Ruin's most brilliant minds,  is to continue in his role as Chief Civil Servant, Mr  Sir Gus was at the Treasury when all the money was being burned and has been in charge of the civil service throughout the last five years of national ignominy. Obviously, his qualities of stupidity, cowardice and compliance with the most ruinous of policies will be the cause of Dave's Delight.

Dave Ramsden, who succeeded Mr Sir Gus as Head of the Treasury and was, thus, instrumental in the Balls-Brown fuck-ups, also remains in his post, although he winningly told the bozos at the Treasury Select Committee, that he would be reviewing his duties to see if he could give better value to the taxpayer. Honest, not invent.

 Ronnie Corbett, as Mrs narcolept describes the wretched Mervyn, is welded to his desk at the Bank of England (prop: National Bank of China) and most of the heads of the banks and counting houses which have now, post Thatcher, replaced our now-lost manufacturing base, are still in post, richer than ever, their profits still privatised, their losses nationalised.

All of the same people, in short, who brought us here, remain unchallenged.  The reptiles, themselves, from Mr Tiny Speaker downwards,  assure us that they are re-formed, honest, now, as the day is long, not that any of them, of course, were dishonest, but honestly mistaken when they were stealing all our money, shitting in our faces. And if we all have to suffer, now, well, serve us right for questioning their integrity.

So there we are, have to blame somebody else and the vomitarium which is the Filth-O-Graph's comment space is awash with puke, all engendered not by the doings of an unaccountable political-media-financial elite but by single mothers and benefit cheats - ie anyone in receipt of them; spewing shit and  shitting spew,  haemorrhaging  filth from eyes, ears, nose and mouth, falling over one another,  fingers down throats, slipsliding away on a tide of Tory sick, little carroty, sweetcorn bits of LibDem nonsense...single mothers, they should be raped to death, or put in hostels, a billion and a half's a lot of money, y'know, decent people don't draw benefits, prefer to starve. And freeze, Only not our betters of course, Country nees them. It was Peter Lillie, wasn't it, sang a song about all the poor people he had in bis sights, the last time we had a communal throw-up.  And as long as we keep on hating the poor, well, the rich can keep on punishing us for  - briefly - wising up to them. But only briefly. skymadeupnewsandfilth got our minds right for us, once Rupert had his boy/s in Downing Street. 

On the blood and guts front, Field Marshals Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap succeed one another, each and every one convinced that Our People Can Win It, Must Win It, We Are Making Real Progress;  they probably believe it, too; some people will believe anything, especially of it's career-enhancing.

In any sensible enterprise one might assume that the closest advisers to the outgoing, catstrophically incompetent  management might be found alternative duties;  it IS the duty of the Civil Service to advise and we might even argue that it behoves any ctizen to blow the whistle when his political masters are behaving illegally. But none of this happened then and it is not happening now and O'Donnell seems how shall we say, like a village bicycle, happy to be ridden by all comers.

If he was any good at all, surely we would not be in this position.

Mr Sir Gus O'Donnell, ensconced with the Wrecking Crew - Cooper-Balls; Jack Torture;
Mr Hillary Wank and young separatee and Blair Babe, Tess of the Mafia.

    Mr Sir Gus O'Donnell with unelected Prime Minister Snot. enjoys a moment of 
    jocular lunacy. Vaahl-ewes, yes, that's the thing, Aha-ha-ha.

    Mr SIr Gus O'Donnell with unelected prime minister CallHimDave.
    Let me get this straight, just because I didn't win the election doesn't mean I didn't win the election. Yes, I think I can say that, with a straight face, and if push comes to shove, she can always lose the baby. No. only kidding, just having a Cecil Parkinson moment. Great man Sir Cecil, always acted in the very best traditions of the party, wimmen and children last, eh.*

    Foxtrot One, Mr Sir Gus O'Donnell, CallHimDave and
    ay very capable foreign seckatry, Mr Tiny Speaker; who
    also, it must be said, never won ay general election, rather like
    this chap on my right. And I do mean right.

    From wiki:

    From 1997 to 1998, O'Donnell was the United Kingdom's Executive Director to both the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, again in Washington, before returning to the Treasury to serve as both Director of Macroeconomic Policy and Prospects and also Head of the Government Economics Service, with overall responsibility for the professional economists in Her Majesty's Government. A year later, in 1999, he was appointed Managing Director of Macroeconomic Policy and International Finance, with responsibility for fiscal policy, international development, and European Union economic and monetary union.

    In 2002, O'Donnell took over from Sir Andrew Turnbull, now Lord Turnbull of Enfield, as Permanent Secretary of the Treasury when Sir Andrew became Cabinet Secretary. Three years later, on 15 June 2005, it was announced that Sir Gus would again replace Turnbull, this time as Cabinet Secretary, on the latter's retirement at the end of that summer. He took up office in September 2005.
    O'Donnell is known for his "wondrous interpersonal gifts"[2] and his informal style - two days a week he works in an open plan office, the first Cabinet Secretary to do so. He regularly visits Civil Service departments outside London "to meet civil servants at work" [3]
    The annual remuneration for this position is £235,000.[4]

    Their is no suggestion of Mr Sir Gus suffering a pay cut.
     Same old, same old.



    Cecil Parkinson, MP, was Thatcher's favourite pinstripe spiv, dashing, handsome
    and a complete cunt.

    His long-time  secretary and mistress, Sara Keays, having been promised  that the dirty rotter would divorce his Mrs and  marry her, fell pregnant with Flora, who would be born with serious health problems, only to be ditched by Cecil, who also sent MI5 silencers round to her gaff to assist, presumably,  with her pre-natal care; grassing him up, Cecil felt, was endangering national security - makes his revolting Lordship, Prescott, look like a gentelman, does Parkinson, almost - Sara's father, a former army officer, saw Parkinson's - or Thatcher's - goons  off in disgust.

    Parkinson is one  those responsible for the Unemployment, A Price Worth Them Paying mantra, which, 

    among so many Thatcherisms, irrevocably disfigured the nation, were midwife to Blair and Blatcherism and which the ridiculous popinjay, CallHimDave, now blames entirely on those savaged by Tory brutishness, thrown on the scrap heap, abandoned,   massaged away,  as SpivCity took off, encouraged by those who thought there was no such thing as society, much less a broken one.  Sara Keays is the single mother about whom the ghastly Tories did not sing acidic little ditties  at their conferences.  A terrible tragedy to befall such a great man,  that was it. Wimmen and children last.


    lilith said...

    I always thought he looked like he'd just brought up some sick and was contemplating swallowing it again.

    Being a Kiwi I am odds on for a social gaff at dinner. I once spat in response to his name that Peter Lilly had no business saying what he said about single mothers and what a vile creature he was...there was a pause... and my hostess announced that she and Peter were great chums. And they were. Which was nice.

    lilith said...


    mongoose said...

    I was in Canterbury Cathedral yesterday. Tottering about showing the urchins the various bits. "And here, Urchins, is where they murdered Archbishop Thomas who had upset the King. Some of the King's lads came around and chopped off the top of his head with a great big sword." Obviously they had not yet worked out that an Archbishop is surely able to cut off his own head, even if only equipped with a penknife.

    Wandering down the other side my eye fell upon one of those campaign plaques. "Placed here by some regiment in memory of our lost in Afghanistan: Major Jones, Lieutenants Smith and Brown, Surgeon Somebody, Sergeant Major Token NCO... and 246 men. Whose names of course do not mean anything and who can therefore safely be forgotten this instant, and their sacrifice likewise - all dead in this together - can be set just a tad lower on the totem-pole than the sacrifice of an officer and a gentleman." Junior Mongosling looked confused and asked if we were still at war with Afghanistan. It was my unhappy lot to explain that it was "again" rather than "still" and that this time we were sort of killing them to help out as it were... No, no, no. We left it at "again". Nine-year-olds don't do multinational peace-keeping forces in the pay of Uncle Sam and/or Halliburton. As if there is any fucking difference between the two. Same old, same old.

    Agatha said...

    "Single mothers, they should be raped to death, or put in hostels, a billion and a half's a lot of money, y'know, decent people don't draw benefits, prefer to starve. And freeze."
    Well. Have I mentioned the demographic crisis? Was there anybody out there? Thing is, the middle classes are damn near sterile - what with postponing parenthood in order to establish careers and find themselves and get together the house and mortgage and car and nursery- they find, tragically and surprisingly - gosh! the eggs have gone off by the time they are forty, and radical intervention is needed - egg harvesting, A.I., A.I.(D)(to combat gone-off aging spunk), stealing the children of the poor through a nice bit of legislation which euphemistically allows "freeing the child for adoption". Upshot is,not enough children to replace the population. More old buggers than there are young ones to bury them. Youngsters who are prepared to throw their bonnets over the windmill, to cavort joyously, without a care for the future or a thought for tomorrow, who don't care about the house and mortgage because they ain't ever going to get one of those things anyway, who procreate when it is most natural and safe to do so, when there is health and energy aplenty - they should be the recipients of the gratitude of a grateful and ageing nation. Benedick said:"the world must be peopled". He was prepared to marry to do his bit. The world has moved on. If mothers and babies without live-in dads offend, then revile the absent dads, rather than persecuting and impoverishing single mums. There's more than a hint of misogyny in all of this. Thanks, Mr. Ishmael, for pointing it out.

    Agatha said...

    "each and every one convinced that Our People Can Win It, Must Win It, We Are Making Real Progress; they probably believe it, too; some people will believe anything, especially of it's career-enhancing."
    Aye. "Paris is worth a Mass".

    Dick the Prick said...

    Gusset was just head of paid fucking service. He isn't asking to stay on - he's been proper told; amateur.

    There's a massive difference between saying you're gonna do sommet and doin' it. Good bye & good riddance but err...where's the 06/05/2002 file sunshine? Tosser. Just paid service, bud; don't take it out on him.

    call me ishmael said...

    Quarter of a mill a year is a very special sort of paid service though, don't you think, mr dtp, and we might expect some service, in exchange - to us, I mean, not just to the reptiles.

    You write, lovingly, ms agatha, of other times and realistically about old men and women spawning incomplete, damaged humans from their old spunk and leaky wombs, like Brown and Parkinson; from their inbred defects, like Cameron; but we, and not they, we the lonesome obsessives, here, we are the true romantics. Cavorting joyously, bonnets over the windmill is as likely as not to be a gangbang filmed on an iThing and offered-up to Ruin's jaded audience; the youngsters, supposedly doing ree-surch online, are ever just a click from A Hundred And Twenty Days Of Sodom; even as their parents march them considerately around Canterbury Cathedral, a million beasts tempt them into soulless depravity, their young, hormone-crazed appetites sparked, already, by skymadeupnewsandfilth.

    None of that excuses the crescendoes of hatred from the hangers and floggers aimed, in the main, at young women, as you say, constantly avoiding the question of paternity.

    I don't think people are remotely aware of just how Ruined things are but the unprecedented exposure or potential exposure of children and infants to depravity and violent perversion without restraint is a disaster beyond remedy, an offence far greater than misogyny.

    As for population logistics and demographic timebombs, these will be remedied by the harsh, We Are All In This Shit Together measures deemed most appropriate by Mr Blair's New World Order. And not by sentimental, welfare state nonsense. Sharpened sticks and Molotov cocktails, should we be able to afford the petrol, these should be our gifts, one to another, leave the sonnets to anotherwhen.

    call me ishmael said...

    I think, Lilith, that they have the Lilleys under control, now, although Redwood and Maude keep Cruelty's flame alive, in the Party and, I supect, in their own hearths. They have that bloke onside, now, the one from the News Of The World, he'll keep the stonemad loonies out of sight.

    I must say, you Berserkers do seem to know some of the best people.

    Talking of which, or whom, where's mr ptb?

    mongoose said...

    Redwood is still out and about. He now has a blog on which you can read it all as if Maggie were still Queen.

    Verge said...
    This comment has been removed by the author.
    yardarm said...

    O`Donnell and the Treasury; along with Merv and the BoE, the vigilant scouts scanning the horizon for the next economic tempest. Which worked, obviously. This is the rocket scientist`s recession.

    Unemployment goes up/unemployment goes down/ not my department as long as I get my pension/ says Werner von O`Donnell.

    call me ishmael said...

    That's good, mr verge; I feel I should know it but can't find it; is it you?

    O'Donnell, we are lucky to have him, mr yardarm, CallHimDave says so.

    Verge said...

    Thanks, Mr Ish, it is, yes. (Was, more like.)

    call me ishmael said...

    That makes it all the better, mr verge; thanks to you, too.