Monday, 30 August 2010

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION. THE SILLY SEASON.

FLASHMAN'S CLOSE SHAVE.
 GOSH, YOU CHAPS, I FEEL LIKE A PROPER SOLDIER, BRAVELY EATING THIS BREAKFAST, MUST GIVE MYSELF A MEDAL, WHAT, WHEN I GET HOME, SAFE AND SOUND, AS I WILL.

Now look, the Taliban tried very hard to kill me.  Well, they might have tried to kill me. At the very least, they might have thought about trying to kill me, rather as I think about killing them, all the time, when I'm not thinking of ways of punishing poor people, that is. Look, I know that they actually do kill lots of people, those chaps coming home in boxes and so on, most weeks, but that's absolutely vital if, as a nation,  we are to ensure that America rewards our senior poiticians, in retirement. Now I know that some people have difficulty with the fact that politicians all have stonking pensions and free homes and furniture and directorships and so shouldn't really be getting rich from American terror companies but frankly, i think we all need to be grown-up about this and you should all fucking shut the fuck up or else we'll have to raise your pension-age to seventy.  Or eighty.  Or actually abolish the wretched things altogether, 'snot as though you'v e paid for them or anything. I don't actually need the money from GangsterCorp, not like Mr Blair and his ghastly Scouse bicycle,  but you  know, we Flashmans didn't get where we are by declining stolen money and when, after Christmas, the party sacks me, I might just as well go and lecture in the States. So let's have some sympathy out there;  the Talimen didn't kill me but there was a remote chance that they might have, and that's actually worse.  Look, I mean, just ask some single mother in her forties, biting her nails, in the council home she will soon have to vacate,  if she'd rather have her Darren come home dead or instead be worried by him briefly visiting Afghaniland inside a cordon of steel and  having his photo taken a lot and I'm pretty darn sure that she'd rather have him dead.  So, you see, it's worse for me. But what I always say is that we're all in this together or, as we used to say in the Bullingdon Club, which I was never in, dulce et decorum est pro Davidus mori, it is good to die for one's unelected prime minister, and these chaps are lucky we give them the chance to do so.


ANDROID COMMANDER DATA FATHERS HUMAN CHILD.
DAVID CAMERON, UK PRIME MINISTER, AFTER A FASHION.

LT. COMMANDER DATA,  OF THE STARSHIP ALL-IN-THIS-TOGETHER..
HIS FIVE YEAR MISSION TO STAY IN OFFICE AT ALL COSTS.
"ENSIGN CLEGG, PUT THE CIVILISATION THRUSTERS IN REVERSE"
"AYE-AYE, PRETEND CAPTAIN, FULL SPEED BACKWARDS TO THE GLORY DAYS OF THE NINETEEN-THIRTIES."

























And something else. We've just had a working baby, no, no, not working as in common people, working for their betters, like us, no,  fuck that, working in the sense that she's not bedevilled by the old inbreeding germs, good working order, geddit? So that's another reason to love the Coalition of which I am in charge, only not like a proper prime minister.  One who'd actually won an election, against the worst, most despised  govament in history.  Just because I couldn't even manage  to do  that doesn't mean I shouldn't be prime minister, winning elections isn't what it's all about. If I ever do win one, which I won't,  then that will be what it's all about but since I haven't, it isn't.  And Mr Gimp didn't win one either. Look, the fact of the matter is that he lost seats. That's why he's deputy loser.

Now look, just like all the children, little Flo will have to make her way in the world with  the barest fortune of about a hundred million pounds to help her on her way, so, in a sense, she's representative of all the babies in the country. Flo won't have a babybung or whatever they are. And her mother certainly won't be able to stay at home all day, dossing, or bonding with baby, as the idle sluts call it.  That's what nannies and servants are for, just as long as you don't pay them too much. Spoils 'em for other employers, that does. Having little baby Flo as we just have is almost like a pure publicity stunt of the sort performed by Mr Snot, the mad fairy  and Mr Kennedy, the pisshead but Samantha and I wouldn't stoop to that, any more than I would ride my bike with a limousine following behind me, with my clothes and my comb. No, we are just like any other normal couple of fabulously wealthy, land-owning, over-privileged, inbred and actually quite ugly fuckpigs, she equine with a big hooter, and me like an android, pretending that we are all in this together. With you. As if. Why can't people just be fooled, like Mr Coulson says they will, and support the Coalition? It's what they voted for, after all. Full speed astern. Unsteady as she goes.

Sunday, 29 August 2010

EVENSONG. SEE? OLD MEN CAN PLAY THE BLUES.

A happy transposition. Maestro Segovia plays the Mongoose Tune, Bach Prelude BWV 1007.

ANY QUESTIONS, A CARDIGAN SPEAKS.



MRS DALE, THE NATION'S PREMIER POLITICAL BLOGGER.

FUCKING EMPTY VESSEL MOST NOISE  IS MAKING, INNIT.
STUPID FUCKING BASTARD.
(from the teachings of stanislav, the plumber)

Some  of the nicest people l have ever met worked in  public libraries; when I worked in one of them, for a while, I felt that I became nicer. It was in the early eighties, ancient technology,  and so I got to date stamp the books out and in, just like the grown-up librarians who had so impressed  me,  as I withdrew books my parents could never have afforded, in that very library, as a child.  I felt then and I feel now that going to the library makes everybody a bit nicer. e-Things are all very well but they're not books, with spines which you must read sideways. eThings don't have a Just Returned shelf, e-Things and Amazon will peddle you all sorts of consumer shite but they are no substitute for a trained librarian, no substitute for being able to carry away an armful of books on nothing other than the understanding that you will return them within a specified time;  libraries make people better, make people nicer; libraries engender a spirit of enquiry and crucially of trust, adulthood, community.

Mrs Ian Dale, on Question Time on Friday evening, said words to the effect of Ooh Mrs, shut that door, the libraries aren't getting the numbers,  people get their information now from the Internet, read my blog, starve the libraries of funds and just, you know, Google shit; it's one of those difficult choices which the coalition has to make, bonuses for bankers  or libraries for the rest and in my judgement it's a no-brainer, who needs libraries, these days, I mean.  It may get him a safe Tory seat, but not in the constituency from which QT was being broadcast, seldom heard a panellist get such a barracking, nor so deservedly, wretched, poisonous  old poof.

Public libraries, originally furnished by Andrew Carnegie, a businessman just a league or two ahead of  the monstrosities promoted by the BBC and TinselTits Davies on the Dragons' Den, a little more intelligent than the ruffian shopkeepers beloved af the Coaltion of the Unwholesome,  like that belligerent, gobby git from M and S, flogging his sweatshopped lingerie and jumpers to sixty year-old girls. The Carnegie-gifted libraries, subsequently maintained by local authorities, just by their existence, make the world a better place. They are an oasis, into which you can just walk, right in off the street. Who gives a fuck if the numbers attending go up and down? I go to the library less than I used to but when I do go I am amazed by the numbers of children present, by the numbers doing local history ree-surch, the numbers just sitting down, reading the papers, resting, maybe, in a stimulating but undemanding environment. In my library there are a couple of dozen computers, nearly always occupied - many hundreds of people a day reading, browsing, surfing, researching; youngsters acquiring lifelong learning skills; community and  voluntary projects publicised, promoted, conceived and assisted, good stuff, brought into being, by the library.

I used to do what we called The Housebounds, I would visit a library customer unable to make it to the library, talk to them and establish what they might like and try, next week,  to bring them something suitable; whether it was Zane Grey or Alistair Maclean or Catherine Cookson, my visit was a sign that our society valued book-reading, valued thought and opinion, fiction, fantasy, poetry, history, biography;  all should be available, free of charge, to young and old, hale and hearty or infirm, that potboilers or heavy-duty literature should be equally available to all.

Mrs Dale and his ghastly, opportunist  coalitionees want to make libraries history or - worse - a branch of Tesco. Mrs Dale and her impudent allies would charge us for Sunshine,  for the very air we breathe;  when we hear people talking about axing the libraries we should seek the swastika, tattooed on their arses.

This repulsive, whining moron - Oh, well, Ex-cuse me, Eddie, but I just happen to think this and I just happen to  think that - old-womaning on the radio, made a fool of himself and his bitter cause. How dare an audience treat you so, rage his own feverish communicants,  over at  his blog, perhaps shocked to learn that they champion a figure, once out in the daylight, of derision, perhaps among them dawns an understanding of why Mrs Dale can't get selected by a Tory constituency - decent people (or an audience of BBC-handpicked Labour lefties, as his fans woefully shrill)  can't stand him.   If you listen to it, you'll find that, like any old queen, he was determined to have the last bitchy word, even as the audience mocked him and  his worthless twittering;  I don't see the point of any of it, said one old boy.  

The point of it, though, to which we must awaken, is the reversal of civilisation.  Dale, of course, is a joke, his fans, like himself, hidebound, unthinking,  cowardly and irrelevant; tearing down the libraries is just the sort of rank  and unconservative  vandalism which would appeal to the Daily Mailers who relish Dale's vapid gossip and tedious, lacklustre prose, as though reading that shit is the next best thing to being in the Cabinet of Fools and Chancers.

Talking, in the House of Lords,  of the Thatcher privatisations,  Lord Avon, Harold Macmillan  damned his fellow Tories, by then a generation of spivs like that ghastly, grubby turd, Tebbit and the cock-waving Parkinson,  coarse, ill-lettered, unprincipled gabshites like Dale himself, for selling-off the family silver; coming from a proper Tory landowner that remark must have had sour piquancy for the faux-Churchillian grocer's daughter and her greedy, seedy band. Selling-off the family silver is one thing but the  stupid deficit fetishists' assault on the libraries is an whole other thing,  the dismantling of a network of unqualified social good,  a continuum of non-commercial entertainment and endless, lifelong enquiry and learning,  of something which, unlike Mrs Dale,  really is a national treasure.

Friday, 27 August 2010

Leave of absence.

Death came calling - as he often does, just when and where you don't expect him - and my oldest friend died, suddenly. With your permission, I'll take a day or two, in eulogy and in mourning.

Thursday, 26 August 2010

EVENSONG GIL SHAHAM, BACH, GAVOTTE EN RONDEAU.

WHAT THE PAPERS DON'T SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH, EVERYBODY NEEDS A WILLY, JUST NOT THE PEOPLE BLOWN UP BY THE IRA

 

 Happiest, as ever, bashing the poor, and therefore currently wetting itself, the Filth-O-Graph fails to mention yetserday's revelation by the Ulster Cops Ombudsman, that Willie Whitelaw, Maggie's Northern Ireland Secretary, conspired with some Noncing Monsignor or bent Cardinal to spirit-away a Roman Catholic priest, even though he was suspected by the miltary and the police of having masterminded the bombing of the town of Claudy, killing and maiming scores of innocent citizens and relocating him, "Father" Chesney,  over the border, just as the Catholic Church does with its batallions of nonces, its tumescent menbeasts in frocks.

NO DEALS WITH TERRORISTS, ABSOLUTELY NONE.
UNLESS THEY'RE PRIESTS.

The official view was that to prosecute a priest would further enflame already smouldering sectarian resentments and such may well have been a legitimate concern and reaction,  a very difficult choice but, it may be argued, the wrong one, emboldening the IRA and, who knows, maybe other Hard Men of The Cloth.  Be that as it may,  it is an absolute outrage that it has taken forty years for this collusion to come to light, especially since the IRA commander is now the Deputy First Minister, condemning terrorism on all sides, bar his own;  how must the citizens of Claudy feel, preached at by a mass murderer, preached at by a Church  not only full of child abusers but a church having colluded in mass murder and preached at by a British government and Intelligence Service then too fearful to prosecute wrongdoing?  It doesn't matter at the Filth-O-Graph, Two Homes Eric Pickles is busy bullying people, Hurrah!

CHARITY COVERETH THE MULTITUDE OF SINS, 1 PETER 4:8



In Something's Burning my Highlands neighbour, Mr Bob Dylan, has it that charity covers-up a multitude of sins;   I agree, charity is like a foundation, a panstick, without which the great and the good dare not be seen in public,  their role, as well as insulting our intelligence and avoiding there taxes, being to dragoon us into giving to "their"  charities;  there has never been so much  so-called charity, most of it camera-savvy, our most prominent charity bandits gleefully ignorant of the scriptural imperative  that charity, to mean anything,  must be done privately, not in public, for praise, as the Pharisees do;  when you give, chided the Nazarene anarchist, you must be discreet, let not even your right hand know what your left hand doeth. Tell it to Thy servants, Tony and Imelda, oh Lord. For Blair's is Charity's  current, common purpose;  not a quiet, voluntary  tithing, a private, anonymous contribution to the public good but instead an Ugly Rumour, shouted from the rooftops, placed, planted,  headlined by the Team Dipso, Campbell, an act of pure rottenness, no business like showbusiness. This, this showy, celebrity charity-as-PR, this is the way the world ends

There was a great item on Radio Four's Any Answers programme last week.  For our overseas readers, this is a  phone- or e-mail-in response to the previous evening's Any Questions, in which hereditary broadcaster and Trombonist-in-Chief to the Prince of fucking Wales,


Jonathan Dimbleby, exchanges pleasantries with a quartet of the great and the good,  loosely framed around the issues of the day, a platform for all five to show-off and for a tame audience to pretend not only that there is Democracy but that it is taking part in it.

This week, Dimbleby was absent, maybe off walking or painting or doing something apparently worthy, with His Grace, Charlie Bonehead, maybe persuading dumb nobodies how it was really in the national interest for Camilla, FagAsh Lil,  the horsefaced, royal shagbag,

Queen Camilla, does a lot for charity.
As well as being married to one.

actually to become Queen, after all, and his role of Chairman, Principal Toad and simpering I-Know-Best busybody was filled by Mr Eddy Mair, off the PM programme, a different sort of broadcaster,  who probably isn't even on nodding terms with his Serene Idleness or his baggage.  One of the questions put by the stooge-audience related to Tony and Imelda's magnificent, highly publicised charitable gesture in bunging a few quid to the cardboard soldier  executive at the  British Legion.  A comment, one of several on the topic, on the following day's Any Answers, was from a lady of sixty-five, one of those BabyBoomer lasses who will ever sound like she was seventeen.  Eighteen years, she said, she had waited for a Labour government, and then she got, well, we all know what she got. Tony Blair was a coward and a traitor and a war criminal and a liar and a bully and a liar and a bully and a liar and a bully.  But what about his donation to the British Legion? Her parents, she replied, had both been active in the British Legion, she had always supported the British Legion.  Until now.  They should rip up his cheque,  It was disgusting, the Legion. How could they do it? Blood money. She could never support it again.

Just an ordinary woman of the kind who used to be called middle class, Dimbleby would have cut her off, after the barest possible airing, he didn't get where he is, Rimmer Pursuivant to His Highness,  by probing too hard at the status quo but Mair encouraged her, actually seemed to be, as I was, hurting on her behalf, at her innocence being assaulted by institutions in which she had always believed. It's probably on the iThing, she was the first or second caller to Any Answers;  hers was the voice of Decency ruined, of Charity affronted.
-
Bob "Charity" Geldof is like  a prettier version of the wretched Germaine Greer,  like her, Bob is only able to converse in proclamations, and like her  every aspect of his  worthless life is  a must-read,  a publishable fascination;  Bob's  bratspawn, Peaches, is  a testament to his lousy parenting his rock'n'roll gabshite stupidity, Geldof and the rest have irritated many with their posturing, hustling money from ordinary people  and giving it to the Jerks with Mercs, cannibals and playboys,  hacking limbs from their own people, spending charity money in Harrods, Geldof and O'Boneo burnishing, betimes, the images of shitpeddlling cocksuckers like the Clintons and the Blairs and Snotman and Pope Nazi, Nonce-Protector-General. A population unable to distinguish between charity and  self-promotion has elevated  the gobby Dubliner to a position where he consorts with  filth like Blair, wherat each must look the other in the eye and say "Can you believe this shit?",




I'll let you be in my dream, if I can be in yours.

It's roight, we are the world, so we are. 






I'll just leave you with, Gordon, I have to go and collect some money.

Fockin roight, don't we all?





You know, Bob, I suspect that, like me, you are a man of Vaahl-ewes. Were you, by any chance, born in a manse?  I was........

And  as if home-grown hypocrisy were not enough there's that disgusting, oily ,smarmy  bastard, Ali Baba,  from Pakistan and his revolting spawn, being groomed for his place on the Gravy Train of Apocalypse, it's what his madbastard lunatic Oxbridge shrewmother, Benazir Bhutto would have wanted, here he is, hard at his studies.

Ali Baba Junior, Bilawar Zanari, tyrant-in-waiting,
hereditary leader of the Pakistan People's Party.
Dig deep to help his drowning subjects

enjoying a Bullingdon lifestyle - inasmuch as a Paki can, not quite the thing, are they, I mean some of them get quite good degress, but there's always that smell, of ghee -   as his soon-to-be subjects paddle around in shit, dying, his bent billionaire father begging the rest of us to cough-up, he needs his stolen aid money, you see. For himself.

The Brits, it was announced yesterday, have raised thirty million pounds to assist those suffering in this cataclysm, even though, as we mentioned the other day, Bilawar's Daddy could fund all the necessary relief from his back pocket and Christ alone knows how much taxpayer-aid has gone, via Gordon Snot and his mates, into the pockets of  Pakistan's other tycoon tyrants.

All my life people have been giving money in envelopes and collecting plates and now by direct fucking debits and nothing ever seems to get much better. Oh, Tarquin and Jemima go off and do Gap years, slumming, down with the natives for a bit, before they commence their full-time glittering but Live Aid, Oxfam, Christian Aid and the rest don't actually effect any change, no doubt they keep some people alive, fed and watered,  but what about all those they don't? Medecins sans Frontieres, seems like a bold and noble but equally ineffective enterprise.  Is this the purpose of Africa and India and parts of South America, to make charity workers and rich brats and their awful parents feel good about themselves?   We have been doing this charitable, missionary work since the nineteenth century; since David Livingstone we have been exporting good wishes to our brown brother and sisters.  Maybe, in the global village, when many, even deep in the jungle,  can see and hear what's going on, we should leave them to it, let them sort out a system which does not always empower  crooked, greedy, bloodthirsty tyrants. Or die trying, like we have. And may yet again.

--------------------------------------------------
CELEBRITIES IN NEED.
Wogan charity fee defended by BBC 

Terry Wogan pictured with Pudsey in 2001
Sir Terry's association with Children In Need going back 27 years
The BBC has said it is "not ashamed" of paying Sir Terry Wogan a fee for hosting the annual Children In Need charity fund-raising gala. Sir Terry, who is the only celebrity to receive a fee, has been paid since he began presenting the show in 1980.
A BBC spokeswoman said the payment was "never remotely commercial" and came from the programme's budget and not from charitable funds.
The veteran broadcaster said: "I would quite happily do it for nothing."
The 68-year-old added that he had "never asked for a fee" for fronting the marathon appeal, which raised more than £18m on the night last November.
'Honorarium'
Documents which were released to The Mail On Sunday newspaper under the Freedom of Information Act showed that Sir Terry received £9,065 in 2005 for anchoring the seven-hour extravaganza.
The BBC's spokeswoman said the payment was an "honorarium" for Sir Terry's services and had "never been negotiated", but added that it had risen in line with inflation.
"We are not ashamed to pay him and see no reason why it should not continue. If It wasn't for Sir Terry, Children In Need would not be what it is today," she said. 


   A job for life, waffling, with the BBC, has made Wiggy fantastically rich, and now, sure, isn't it only what he deserves,  for sending all these schoolteachers off to work of a morning, filled with the joys of Spring, forgetting that hopefully is an adverb, task is a noun and Wo'ever is not an answer, to anything? Wogan's stupefying banality  is proof enough of the need to privatise the BBC, if people wish to spend the mornings of their adult life listening to this shit, let them buy it from their own pockets, it's junk food for the ears of  docile retards. He's supposed to be retired, now, Sir Tel. Chance'd be a fine thing.  I never asked for a fee,  he explains, blithely,  far too rich to notice the odd nine grand  in his account, far too busy encouraging others to dress-up and get their name mentioned on telly, all for charity. And you know what?  The more money people raise, the more kids, next year, find themselves in need, the more compelling the need for Fiona Bruce to get her kit off. No business like showbusiness.  The question arises, Shouldn't government be doing something to stamp out all this child cruelty, shouldn't it be the number one priority in a civilised society, after the bankers have been paid their bonuses, of course?


This one, below, however, takes the charity biscuit. The NSPCC has an annual income of two hundred million pounds and yet according to it's bumph there has never been so much cruelty to children.  Your two  pounds a month, however, will change all that. No, it won't;  if anything it'll make things worse, a coupla quid, outa sight, outa mind, done my bit, well, don't like to pry, do you, and as for those social workers, well, they take kids away for no good reason at all and then they don't take them away  even when they oughta have.

The boss, or Chief Executive Officer of the NSPCC, Andrew Flanagan, already wealthy,  headhunted from a career in media, is paid more than the prime minister of the UK, with appropriate pension rights' Like the prime minister, Flanagan is a worthless gabshite,  speaking fluent corporate, axing jobs, left right and centre, as he reshapes the NSPCC to face new challenges/adapt to the future/better serve its client group. Corporate charity, one more competitor in the Media  High Street, make you puke, really, these Alpha males, good, swift, rub-down with a housebrick, that's what they need.

This is one of the NSPCC's current offerings. I think it's child abuse, itself, of a sort. How do they make this little boy cry, what do they tell him and what is the purpose of this miniature sopa opera, are we so ruined as a nation, an audience, that we need this emotional barrel-scraping,  to jump-start our instincts? Flanagan is an arsehole but Charity is inhabited by arseholes, seeking to bludgeon us into compliant donation, never telling us what proportion of our two quid a week goes towards executive remuneration, executive pensions. 

Surgery is what's needed, not expensive Elast-o-Plast. Enough, I say, not a penny more.

Monday, 23 August 2010

MINING NEWS, NOW AND THEN

In Tragedy's ledgers, the good news from Chile does little to offset the losses in bent Pakistan, run and as we see, shockingly mismanaged by dynasties of corrupt, Oxbridge-trained, moustachioed, warlord, despot fuckpigs, the smirking turd who presently holds the Pakistan reins is said to have embezzled more than enough to meet most of the needs of the flooded peasants from his own pocket. As if.
May a shoe monsoon rain on his brilliantined head, the horrible fucking bastard.

PAKISTAN PRESIDENT, MR ALI BABA.
OF THE FORTY THIEVES PARTY.
But we must rejoice at the news that 33 Chilean copper miners have been located, safe and well, seven hundred metres below ground, after a fortnight's frantic probing and that they can be sustained over the four months which their complete rescue will take. So often these events turn into horror stories for those watching and waiting; in this case, we hope, Death's sergeants must fill their quotas elsewhere and Chilean families, this time, will be reunited.

MESSAGE FROM BELOW, WE ARE ALL ALIVE AND WELL.
GOD IS GREAT.


skymadeupnewsandfilth long ago, in concert with the Tory party, cast our own coal miners as the Enemy Within and no doubt, if it had a presence in Chile, would cheerfully damn all its working class in favour of Money's usual gangster cliques, but fuck them, 33 souls, rescued from down, deep in the ground is welcome, good news.

I think it'll be a great day when mining is entirely automated and no-one has to go down under the ground; it's great that UK communities, once so wedded to disaster and chronic illness, largely no longer so labour but Oh, for fuck's sake, in such rag order did we arrive here, mounted police charging women and children, whilst their Mistress dined with General Pinochet,  privatising bandits and torturers, all in this together.


Sunday, 22 August 2010

STRAIGHT SIMON HUGHES, THANKS BE TO ALLAH, MISSING FROM THE PREVIOUS POST, A HUNDRED DAYS OF SODOM

THE SUNDAY COALITION, A HUNDRED DAYS OF SODOM.

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LIBERAL DEMOCRATS CELEBRATE THEIR FIRST ONE HUNDRED DAYS
OF EATING TORY SHIT.  MMMM, NOT BAD, SAY MOST, HAD WORSE .
Good morning, obedient, credulous Coalition-citizens,  and as Deputy Prime Minister and Second Reforming Citizen, with my own cage and everything, I would just like to review my party's progress these last hundred days. Even though there isn't any.

 MR NICKY GIMP, MP, DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER OF THE UK.

The first thing I would like to say is that some of you have commented that during the election -  in which you decisively  chose me to direct the nation's affairs entirely as I made them up each day -   I often mentioned that mine was the New Party and the other two were parties were Old Parties, whereas now I talk about my party as it was at the turn of the nineteenth century and before. Which is it, they ask, an old party or a new party, and the answer, of course, is that it's both, or neither, depending on what we discover in Mr Osborne's Big Book of Made-Up Numbers and I am happy to set the record straight on that; it's a sign of the New politics, which you all voted for, even though we actually, in my New or Old Party didn't win any more seats, so that was clearly a resounding victory for my election strategy of being a New Party.  You know, to get less support than last time is a mark of how suitable I am to lead the LibDems back into the toilets. Where we belong. And never come out again. Which, with the prime minister's help, is what I am doing.

People say to me C'mon, Nick, you're clever, how can you claim to be progressive, y'know, when you are actually offering a figleaf  - or a spiked leather G-string - to a gang of fucked-up bullies  and spivs who are putting civilisation into reverse. And the answer to that, too, is simple, You don't have to act progressive to be progressive, Oh, I know, that's hard for people to get their mouths round, I mean heads,  but it's true, LibDems are progressive, it's just that we act like Barbarians.  But just because we act like Barbarians and do Barbarian things, that's no reason to say we are Barbarians, no, far from it; as we say in the Tory party, it's the bullshit that counts, rather than the truth. Truth is whatever Mr Murdoch lets you away with,   for example, and this is from the Sun's Big Book Of Being A Good Citizen In a Big Society (free with today's NewsOfTheWorld): Bankers and non-tax-paying FilthMerchants good, benefit claimants scum.  See? The kids have gotta learn to say it in the Free Schools Coalition Assembly, every morning, altogether children: Bankers and non-tax-paying FilthMerchants good, benefit claimants scum.  It's what I came into politics to do.

Look, it was my party, and only my party, which at the election before last fielded a copraphiliac as potential home seckatry. Now, I suggest that you can't get more progressive than that, all-night shit parties down Queen Anne's Gate.

Eating shit made me bald.

Mr Mark Oaten, MP, former LibDem home affairs spokesman promised to be tough on prostitution, whilst himself paying rentboys to defecate in his face; surely he should be in the coalition cabinet. Isn't it an outrage that men of Mark's quality are excluded from the rape of the country?

And if you want proof of my New Politics, of very different people working towards the same shitty aims, then just look at this,
just exactly the same as the Old Politics which we all despise so much. David Laws, my fellow Oxbridge millionaire-all-in-it-together  New Politician, with my other  fellow Oxbridge millionaire-all-in-it-together  New Politician, Mr Gideon Oxbone. Now, I know that ordinary obedient citizens, living out there in Cutsville, or wherever, get angry about millionaire politicians fellating Russian gangsters on yachts stolen from the Russian people  but frankly, y'know, they've just gotta get over it. It's time, I put it to you, for grown-up politics and that means, frankly, not obsessing about wrong and right. Basically, all you need to know is that whatever  we do is right and in the interests of the country. And whatever you do, in your own selfish interests, is wrong. And that's why you must be punished, It's in your own interests, You know, I can't underestimate the need for cuts enough, or overundersetimate  - You are all in this together, after all.

Look, you know,  it's one of the biggest tragedies of modern, invented history (author. mr murdoch) that Mr Laws was forced from office just because he was fiddling his housing benefit. It's not as though he was doing anything wrong, is it, a man in his position, of his standing, a former banker, it's not as though he needed the money now, is it? We, in the ToryLibDems, believe that people's sexual orientation is their own business and if to protect their privacy they have to steal from the taxpayer why that's just exactly what they should do, to the tune of  a mere forty thousand pounds; it might be  three or four years' wages to some people, eight years disability allowance, but we're scrapping that, so there's one thing less for them to worry about and they might get better and do a decent day's work, like the rest of us do.  You know,  hard working people in this country, the ones who voted decisively for the Coalition of Reform, they are heartily sick of supporting people, just because they happen to have incurable diseases or are old and have paid in their NI contributions and their taxes and all that rubbish.  Am I being crual and harsh, I ask myself, and the answer of course, is No, I most certainly am not. Sick people need a good helping kick in the face, if you ask me. But Mr Laws's case was different,  he was a millionaire,  weasely, poisonous little fag, terrified of his ghastly family's condemnation, terrified of people seeing him as  he is,  a rotten pinstripe hypocrite, furiously bent on persecuting the sick and the  wounded, people like Mr Laws need all the help we can give him. And all the money.  But this is no reason to ease-up in the war on single mothers, filthy sluts; we were elected to make it hard for them, impossible for them really, and as long as I'm Chief Gimp that's what the prime minister and his fellow public school Oxbridge millionaire-all-in-it-together New Politicians, like Lord Leon Brittan, 78, warts and all,  are going to do.


HONEST NICK GIMP AND HIS HONEST LIBDEMS ATTACK THE TORY ENEMY.
WHAT A SHOWER OF SHIT.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

FURTHER LIBDEM WIKIREADING:

YOUNGER READERS MIGHT WONDER AT MR MONGOOSE'S  AND OTHERS' REFERENCES TO THE DOGSHOOTERS; THEY ARE EXPLAINED BELOW.

JEREMY THORPE, A FORMER, OLD ETONIAN  LEADER WHO NEARLY GOT INTO BED WITH THE TORIES BUT WAS TOO BUSY BEING IN BED WITH A RENT BOY.


Homosexuality scandal

Persistent rumours about Thorpe's sexuality dogged his political career. Norman Scott, a former male model, met Thorpe in 1961 while working as a stable lad. He later claimed that he and Thorpe had a homosexual relationship between 1961 and 1963, when homosexual acts were still illegal in Britain. Scott's airing of these claims led to an inquiry within the Liberal Party in 1971, which exonerated Thorpe. Scott, however, continued to make the allegations.
In October 1975, Scott was walking on Exmoor with a Great Dane bitch (called "Rinka"), which had been lent to him by a friend for protection. Scott was confronted by Andrew "Gino" Newton, a former airline pilot, who was armed with a gun. Newton shot and killed the dog, then pointed the gun at Scott, but it apparently failed to go off. Newton was convicted of the offence in March 1976.
During his court appearance, Scott repeated his claims of a relationship with Thorpe, and alleged that Thorpe had threatened to kill him if he spoke about their affair. Scott also sold letters to the press which he claimed to be love letters from Thorpe. One of these included the memorable line "Bunnies can and will go to France", which supposedly showed Thorpe using his 'pet-name' for Scott in connection with a promise to find Scott a well-paid job in France.
The scandal forced Thorpe to resign as Liberal Party leader on 9 May 1976. He was replaced temporarily by his predecessor Jo Grimond and then permanently by David Steel.
Andrew Newton was released from prison in April 1977, and then revived the scandal by claiming that he had been hired to kill Norman Scott. On 4 August 1978, Thorpe was accused along with David Holmes (deputy Treasurer of the Liberal Party), George Deakin (a night club owner) and businessman John Le Mesurier (not the actor or the athletics coach) of conspiracy to murder. Thorpe was also separately accused of inciting Holmes to murder Scott.
The trial was scheduled to take place a week before the general election of 1979, but Thorpe obtained a fortnight's delay to fight the election. However, the scandal had become too much, and Thorpe was defeated.

Trial

Thorpe was put on trial at Number One Court at the Old Bailey on 8 May 1979, a week after losing his seat. He was charged with attempted murder and conspiracy to murder. One of the chief prosecution witnesses was former Liberal MP and failed businessman Peter Bessell, who claimed to have been present while the murder plot was discussed within the Liberal Party. According to Bessell, poison had been rejected as a method of killing Scott because "it would raise too many questions if he fell dead off a barstool." One alleged plan had been to shoot Scott in Cornwall and dispose of the body down a disused tin mine.[1]
Bessell agreed to appear as a witness in exchange for immunity from prosecution. His credibility was damaged, however, because he had sold his story to The Sunday Telegraph for a fee that would double from £25,000 to £50,000 if the prosecution was successful. Thorpe did not testify in the case, but his counsel, led by George Carman QC, argued that although he and Scott had been friends, there had been no sexual relationship. Carman claimed that Scott had sought to blackmail Thorpe, and that although Thorpe and his friends had discussed "frightening" Scott into silence, they had never conspired to kill him.
Summing up the case, Mr Justice Cantley was widely criticised for showing a nakedly pro-establishment bias,[2] in which he described Scott as "a crook, an accomplished liar... a fraud." In spite of the Judge's direction, the jury were at first split 6-6, but, after 15 hours of deliberation, they finally reached a verdict of Not Guilty. The four defendants were all acquitted on 22 June 1979.

YOUNGER READERS MIGHT WONDER AT THE APPELLATION
STRAIGHT SIMON HUGHES.



When, in 1983, Simon, one of those political barrister types - half the house of Reptiles, maybe more, rotten, thieving bastards,  claim to be  lawyers  -  himself gay, stood against an openly gay Peter Tatchell, then Labour candidate for Bermondsey. Simon's winning campaign literature insisted that he was the Straight Choice; all coy, Simon has always maintained he didn't know the implication, and if there was one it was, naturally,  someone else's fault. Outed by The Sun in 2006, having only days earlier, in other 'papers,  strenuously denied being gay, Hughes at long last offered Tatchell a mealy-mouthed apology blaming others, impicitly for the ghastly, repulsive  hypocrisy which so typifies LibDem politicians, which, indeed, seems a prerequisite for selection. Interestingly,  Hughes, in a lawyerly ruse, claimed that since he was actually bi-sexual, the censuring of him in the Tatchell case - for a gay bashing another gay - was inaccurate and therefore invalid  The man, like so many in his ragbag of fainthearts and phonies, is an utter cunt.

***** see next post for videoclip*****
Here, addressing thousands of muslims,  potential voters, he displays some of his more mature hypocrisy.
The usual blood pressure warnings apply.





DISCLAIMER.

Ishmaelites believe that it is undesireable and impractical to police consensual sexual activity between adults  and that where disclosure serves no public good it should not occur; if people wish, for instance,  to abrade their genitals with sandpaper that should be  their own affair.  The matter of proselytizing is more difficult; if older people approach young persons,  offering them free Black and Decker equipment and invitations to balls-sanding parties we feel that this should, at the very least, be discouraged.  Should committed genital abraders, however, enter parliament and then denounce and urge the criminalisation of such DIY- orientated sexual behaviour among others  they should be kicked up and down CyberStreet, without let or hindrance by law enforcement.

Some, it is reported, who swim in this sexual stream, feel compelled to nail each other's foreskins to a work bench and despite what Mr Justice Filth had to say on the matter, we maintain that even this behaviour should not be criminalised; if, however, the cocknailers or dickstaplers, call them what you will, seek to outlaw the  incomparably less exotic pecadillo of masturbation, then they should be promptly marched into the same corner as Mr Oaten and Mr Laws and Mr Hughes and Mr Clegg belong in and duly shat upon by all so inclined.  The lawmakers really must be as pure as Caesar's wife and when they fall short, as they increasingly do, especially so in this shabby coalition farce, then we must pick up any stick which is to hand and beat them with it.  The LibDems and their previous incarnations are peculiarly, exceptionally, not only personally extravagantly amoral, promiscuous and degenerate to the point of murder but they ooze their filth into the body politic;  they would tie us all up, beat us and fuck us. And that's what they are doing.
-------------------------------------------------------
There are those who really do believe all this deficit stuff, really believe that others must suffer cuts in income, cuts in services, cuts in entitlements, unemployment, repossession, really do believe that so great were Gordom Snot's crimes that we must all or at least some of us, but  others,  be punished by the wholesale, punitive destruction  of  our rights, believe that greedybastard speculators and pinstripe gangsters may dictate and curtail our expectation to suit their greedy whim; believe that in exchange for binning ID cards we should rejoice at the further theft of pensions, services, jobs and homes, who believe that the old, the sick, the weak and the voiceless can withstand this, as though they were bushes, ready to spring back, after a good Coalition pruning, its  vengeful shears honed by resentment at being found-out, in the now-forgotten expenses fraud jamboree .  There are those,  still, who believe that the Earth is flat.

Saturday, 21 August 2010

CHAMPAGNE CHARLIE IS MY NAME.

ANOTHER MARRIAGE MADE IN LIBDEM HQ ENDS IN DIVORCE.


Here, in Ishmaelia, we always maintained that the marriage of wee ginger Charlie Kennedy, shortly before the  2005 election in which  he hoped to at least snatch at the levers of power - but didn't - was one of those cynical, cosmetic, lavender jobs which so many politicians - actually confirmed bachelor boys - contrive at in a desperate bid to present themselves as  being as normal as the largest possible  quadrant of voters.

  Post-marriage, Kennedy, instead of just muttering his dire, wee, Highland aphorisms, tales of his grey-haired Mammy's wisdom and reminding all and sundry that once upon a time he dressed so fine and was the youngest MP ever, garlanded his  dire speeches with references to his  now being - by marriage - a Suffolk boy, too, almost bursting into lusty Copper Family songs of jolly ploughmen, the horrible ginger git. 

His boozing and cowardice saw him off, and saw his party eventually falling into the hands of ToryBoy Clegg, saw his social liberalism gimping, now,  for these sinsister  reptiles, clapping each other on the back, old man, as, degenerates and gangsters, they lead the attack on single mothers, a public school rabble, baring the naion's arse to the bankers, fucking disgusting hypocrites, creepy bastards who have just doubled their own salaries and pensions, mouthing how we are all in this together,  revolting Highland MPs, who would never get into bed with the Tories, now deep under the blankets,  noshing. Kennedy's party is ruined, the least he can do is strike another match, go start anew, piss on these shitbags, these ToryLibs.

Having separated - with all the usual nonsense - from his bride of convenience,  Champagne Charlie should perform the one task open to him, other than cipherhood;   he should cross the floor and take as many of his toilet-creeeping, shit-eating mates with him as possible - only not Straight Simon Hughes, leave him stewing, sidestepping, prevaricating  in his bogus eminence gris-ness, irrelevant;  having allowed Thatcher in  for all those years, and having recently buggered democracy until it bleeds, it is the very least that so-called senior LibDems  can do. Not voting for the Coalition, Charlie, isn't enough. Nobody voted for it, remember? This is a pubic schoolboy coup, orchestrated and maintained by skymadeupnewsandfilth, Kennedy can see it gone by Christmas.

Friday, 20 August 2010

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. AFP, HE'S BACK.

"GORDON BROWN  'SEEKS LUCRATIVE SPEAKING DATES.'
LONDON — Former prime minister Gordon Brown is offering himself for speaking engagements at a cost of 100,000 dollars (£64,000, 78,000 euros) an hour, a magazine reported Thursday.
Brown, whose book on the global financial crisis is due out in November, has asked a London agency to look for possible engagements for him in the Middle East and Asia, the Spectator said, quoting an unnamed "impeccable" source.

The former head of the Labour party, which lost May's general election, is also said to be asking for five-star hotel accommodation, a first class plane ticket and three business class ones as part of any deal.
His wife Sarah is reportedly available to present prizes at events where he speaks for a further 20,000 dollars."

Brown said before leaving the top job in British politics that he wanted to do "something good" afterwards, indicating this could include working in the charity sector or education rather than business.
He has kept a low profile since the election defeat, writing his book at home in Scotland, but last week appeared on television appealing to Britons to donate to Pakistan's flood relief effort.
The fees reportedly being asked for by Brown are significantly lower than those thought to be commanded by his predecessor Tony Blair, one of the most popular speakers on the international circuit.

Blair said this week he would give the proceeds of his forthcoming autobiography, set to total millions of dollars, to a project helping the rehabilitation of military veterans injured in conflicts like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Much is made, currently, of children - or students -  leaving school unable to read,  write or add-up, especially add-up. So pity, then, poor Reverend and Mrs Brown, all those years ago, their eldest son and light of their sanctimonious,  hypocritical lives, Gordon, the nail-biting, snot-eating freak, despite his hothouse education, couldn't even speak. The Browns should not feel as short-changed as the senior Camerons, whose son CallHimDave, despite costing them tens of thousands of pounds a term, doesn't know what day it is,  but even so, a boy who cannae speak, surely won't do well in politics. And Gordon didn't;  he did well in the Gang of Four which hijacked the labour movement and dressed it in a pinstripe suit, but even in that, left to his own devices, his gob failed him, time and again, I saved the world, that bigoted woman and so on, it was Gordon Brown's gob which visited upon us these Ambassadors from Satan's Engine Room.

From his earliest days in government, Gordon had a disagreeable manner of speaking;  legitimate parliamentary questions, from all sides - people scrutinising the Executive, as they then sometimes did -  were met with fevered bombast and bullying, clunking, inelegant, stagey sarcasm, coarse evasion, to me he was always an unconvincing giant;  I always thought him an arsehole, even when skymadeupnewsandfilth hailed his miraculous Prudence; still, the press only prints what it's told to print and people who read Andrew Gobsley or Rupert's Barrowboy, Jeff Randall,  obviously feel well-informed, Quite so, Andrew, Couldn't have put it better myself, Jeff, apparently unmoved by the fact that both of these seers were Brown cheerleaders, once over, when it suited, and would be again, were the price right.

In his brief absence, I had forgotten quite how awful Brown was.  I hadn't forgotten his sins, his lies, his betrayals, his shiftiness, his cowardice,  his breathtaking, almost incredible incompetences, I had just forgotten how fucking awful he was as a human being, a truly ghastly, sermonising, know-it-all fuckpig. But it wasn't to last, this blessed oubliette into which I had fallen. Roaring my head off at the Jimmy Reid Funeral Jamboree, at Connolly weeping,  I found myself in a BBC interlude, plucked from the posturing mourners and watching, instead,  Gordon himself, lecturing some poor, hapless Muslims at a Glasgow charity, urging that people dig deeper for the Pakistan flood victims.  Jesus fucking Wept, the man is impossible, intolerable.  To a purpose unimaginable he was barracking those in the hall and those watching with his trademark Vaaahl-ewes speech.  If he learned his sermonising from his old man then Brown senior's congregants must have endured a lifetime of truly shitty Sundays, miserable beyond the normal, purse-lipped, tut-tutting, two-faced, penny-pinching, Godless, heathen bastard  Presbyterian  existence,  theirs must have been a weekly agony, hardly eased at all by the minidster singling-out some poor, defenceless Jezebel for shaming.

But the poor Pakistanis, twenty million of them paddling about in a sewer and their government so bent it can't organise relief, and now, as champion, they have this monster, putting people's backs up with his every bloated, phoney sentiment.  The country is better when it does as I say, he may as well have been saying; other people can do things, of course, but it is only under my direction that things are done properly, over and over and over again, only I can tell it like it is, be worthy of me; the world is better when it does as I say, only I, out of all the people, all the people in the world, have Vaaahl-ewes, share my Vaahl-ewes and I will make you fishers of men. All the world's great religions are Brown at heart; I am the right thing for the World. It was an example grotesque of mr mongoose's CNN charity.

Ninety seconds would have done it better, less is sometimes more and  - setting aside the fact that there should be a global fund and a global army of workers for such events, likely to increase, as they are  - a dignified appeal for money may well have been productive, both for the halpless millions and for Brown's partial rehabilitation, should there be such a thing on this Earth; Brown, typically, playing to an uninterested gallery, showing-off, I-Know-Besting,  made a grim feast of it, there not to relieve Pakistani suffering, but  his own.


Sixty-four grand an hour and a bung for  Sarah-George to keep her onside, seems like a lot to pay for a sermon from the UK's most hated man; he'd do better working down the Oxfam shop, for others and for himself.

IDIOT DRUMMER "BIGGER THAN JESUS AND SHAKESPEARE"

Peace and Love, man, said old-age pensioner and one-time drummer in a beat group, Mr Ringo Starr, only not to  Liverpool council. Mr Starr,  aka The Luckiest Stupid Person In The World, is enraged at plans to demolish his childhood home.  I mean, man, like, it's a drag, they wouldn't go to Stratford and knock down Shakespeare's gaff, would they?

“Ringo Starr lived in other houses, but he was only born in one. If it's knocked-down – even if it is moved – fans all over the world are going to be up in arms. They will just not understand how Liverpool can carry-out this kind of cultural vandalism.” Said Beatles fan, Mr Terry Fuckwit, 72, of the Dingle.

Starr, who has homes in Los Angeles, Monte Carlo and Surrey, and also claims to live  with his friends all aboard, in a Yellow Submarine, when he is not drying-out or in a drug rehabilitation unit, has expressed his dismay at plans to knock down his childhood home and has also said he is opposed to plans to relocate it to a museum.

Speaking in 2007 he said: “If you want to see where I come from, it's no good putting me in the Wirral. It only works, as far as I can see, if it's there (Madryn Street)."

The former fab mopster said there were no plans for a Beatles reunion concert to raise funds for the preservation of his birthplace. It'd be a bit hard, like, what with half of us being dead  and me not even being the best drummer in the Beatles. And, anyroad, the council should come up with the money. Don't they know I'm a legend of Liverpool, even if I am as thick as pigshit? I played drums on Sergeant Peppers, well some of it, the bits Paul didn't play, or John, or George.

I love Liverpool so much that I couldn't wait to leave it, so there's no point asking me to  stump up me hard-earned dosh  to preserve this dump. But the people of Liverpool, they should well,  dig deep and sort of Love, love me do.

Aboard his personal jet,  former premier, Mr Tony "Bloody" Blair, strummed his Prime Minister's Edition Fender Stratocaster,  E5-A5-B5,  the chords to one of his favourite Beatles' tunes, Gimme money, that's what I want, that's what I want, that's what I want, that's what I want, that's what I wa-a-a-a-a-a-an't, yeah, that's waht I want.  Well I did what  I could for Mr Starr, I extended the length of copyright, in the hope that he, like my other chums, Cliff and Barry - or is it Robin Gibb- would, y'know, offer us a free holiday, play the white man, sort of, and he frankly hasn't, so I simply say to the peepul ov Britun, fuck him. Maybe it's because he didn't write any of the songs, that he's pissed, kind of like Gordon Brown.

From the next airborne stateroom,  a harsh Liverpool accent scraped across the former prime minister's musings; Will ya fuckin shuddup in there, wack, I'm tryin' to get me beauty sleep in 'ere?

Sorry, Imelda.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

NO SUCCESS LIKE FAILURE.

As the great and the good - well, the rich and powerful, anyway - claim the former socialist for their own, Radio Ishmael asks Govan's own folk-hero, Rab C Nesbitt, for his view of the day's showbiz festivities.

RAB C ON THAT JIMMY REID CELEBRETHON FUNERAL.

Nah, see me, I'm still in fucking Govan, I am, but I wisnae asked. Gordon Broon? Yon mad pansy who gie all the money tae the fucking bankers and let the Tory spivs back in power? Aye, he wis there. And yon comedian,  him who's allus travelling the fuckin' world at my expense, saying everything's Eggggs-troooaaaardenry, that fucking wanker, the one who wis best mateses wi' the Duke and Duchess o' fucking York, love's Scotland so much he lives in California.  Connolly, that's him, gurning he was, in the pulpit, probly be driven tae get his  Mrs tae write another book aboot him, and all his sufferin' fer his art,  wanker. Aye, it's right,  ye ken, whenever there's an opportunity fer they rich fuckers tae pretend they're all humble, really, bonny wee urchins, like, wi' only a crust a bread tae eat, even though they're twenty-four carat, stomp-in-the-face-o-the-poor arseholes like Alec Salmond, the bankers' boy hisself, former chief economist o' the so-called Royal Bank o' Scotland and the man headin' fer a Royal arse-kickin' next election.  The pews wis fair packed wi' shiny celebrities and political thugs,  arsecreepers, like only Scotland can produce, a wonder Sir Sean Connery wisnae there, flown in  frae his chateau on the bonny, bonny banks o'Lake Geneva but maybe even this shameless crew woulda thought that was taking the piss too much.

Ordinary people, aye, they wis allowed tae stand ootside and listen to it all on loudspeakers, whiles the rich wis all inside cosyin' up tae one another; it's like some arty fucker would say: Rather a metaphor for the man himself.

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

EVENSONG. MAESTRO COODER, FEELIN' BAD BLUES.

UKIP NEWS: DERANGED GABSHITE IN COMEBACK SCANDAL.

YES, WOGS, THEY START AT DOVER, THEY'LL FUCK OUR WOMEN,YOU KNOW, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.

NIGEL FARAGE, THE ONCE AND FORMER GABSHITE.
THEY HAVE THREE COCKS, SOME OF THEM,
IMAGINE THAT.

After twelve months in the job, His Excellency Lord Comatose, below, has resigned his invisible leadership of the imaginary UKIP Party,








Lord Pearson of Rannoch, left, who has announced 
that he is to step down,
 said the UK Independence Party
deserved a better politician to lead it, 
shame we don't have one.






 fuelling speculation that its other member, Mr Nigel Gob, off Question Time, will resume his former role of leading his followers into the Wilderness.

Asked by the BBC's Michael Prick to lower his voice to a shout, the gobby bastard said that he was ruling nothing in and ruling nothing out, You know, Michael, politics is a funny old business, at least it is if you're drawing a quarter of a million a  year for talking rubbish in a very loud voice, like I do and who knows, I might run against myself to be leader of this great invisible party of mine, again, let's face it, I couldn't be any worse than Robert Kilroy-Pants, now, could I?

Mr Gob is seen below in the ruins of his election  strategy, in which he won nothing, left Mr Tiny Speaker untouched and crashed the fucking plane into the ground, just like  a Great Helmsman does.


Mr Gob reveals his election strategy. I feel I have amply demonstrated my ability to navigate the great ship of state out of Europe, or Wogopia as I call it and into an eminently survivable crash-landing. If anyone wants cheap tickets for Question Time I still have a few left.

FILTH, DRESSED IN CHARITY'S ROBE.

My fellow motherfuckers, there now abideth Faith, Hope and Charity and the greatest of these is Greed.


‘Out of office, but still in public life, Tony Blair remains a man of high intelligence and insight and above all a man of faith, idealism and integrity.’ 
George Dubya Chimp,
embezzler, drunk, coward,
coke-fiend, wife beater,
torturer and war criminal.


It's how we're spun, how we've always been spun; too busy wiping the shit from our faces to see the absurdity of all this.  If the British Legion was good for anything it would be saying Oi, cocksuckers, these blokes need a fucking rehabilitatiion unit, build one, staff it; it'll be twelve million quid, peanuts, pay up. And don't tell us there's no fucking money, just get it from the oil companies, the ones doing so well from Iraq. Or impound a couple of bankers' bonuses.

The very idea that the rehabilitation of soldiers wounded in Money's wars should be  a matter for begging, for celebrity "donation," is a fucking mind boggling impertinence,  akin to putting them on the streets to sell matches. Good job the Army fights a bit better than the British Legion. It's a bit like the Labour Party, I guess, the Legion, has to keep its clients wanting, deprived, begging, otherwise there's no need for it. A shitload of billions for Trident but no money for limbless ex-servicemen. Keep the home fires burning.

Sunday, 15 August 2010

EVENSONG: THE TITANIC SAILS AT DAWN, BOB DYLAN WITH CHARLIE McCOY ON GUITAR, RUSS SAVAKUS ON BASS AND AMPHETAMINE IN THE GROOVES, DESOLATION ROW

LET'S BE PERFECTLY CLEAR. I WANNA REACH OUT TO ALL THE PEOPLE BUT ESPECIALLY THE BILLIONAIRES, BECAUSE, Y'KNOW, WE'RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER.

CALLHIMDAVE EMBRACES HIS OLD, YIDDISHER SUGAR DADDY.
MY BOY, I CAN MAKE YOU RICH.
I AM RICH.
NOT AS RICH AS ME, YOU'RE NOT.
WANT SOME CHEAP TROUSERS? 

Nothing wrong with us being a nation of shopkeepers but CallHimDave only seems to value the filthy rich ones, like this joker, Mr Sir Philip Green, boss of TopMan and the RagTrade's premier party animal, bless his bloated Viagra-flooded  corpulence.

Green, an oily, fat bastard, claims that his experise in importing cheap clothing from foreign sweatshops and in managing his tax affairs in a less than patriotic fashion, qualifies he and one of his bumboys to audit public spending over the past three years, see if it offers value for money. Seeing as how this old pig imports from places where wages and conditions are to say the least exploitative, even by Tory fuckpig standards,  we could put money on him finding NewLabour to be villainously incompetent and the boy, CallHimDave, virtue personified.

wikiGreen:

In May 2007 after the disappearance of Madeleine McCann in Portugal, Green donated £250,000 as a monetary reward for any useful public information.[5] He also provided the McCanns with the use of his private jet to allow them to fly to Rome for a Papal visit and back in time to put their twins to bed.[6] Green intends to increase the reward money to £1 million for the safe return of Madeleine.

Tax avoidance

Taveta Investments, the company used to acquire Arcadia in 2002, is in the name of Green's wife, Cristina Green, a Monaco resident, avoiding millions of pounds in tax that would be payable if a UK resident owned the company.[19] When Green paid his family £1.2bn in 2005, it was paid for by a loan taken out by Arcadia, cutting Arcadia's corporation tax as interest charges on the loan were offset against profits.[20] In comparison, staff at Arcadia were told in 2005 that members of its final salary pension scheme must increase contributions by half and work five years longer to qualify for the same payout.[citation needed]

 Excessive pay

Green has fallen under criticism for taking excessive pay, earned through his shareholdings in Arcadia. In 2005, he declared a dividend in Arcadia, in which he had a holding of 92% of the shares. This meant he earned £1.2 billion in a single year. Green defended himself by saying, "So far as I'm concerned we are in the risk business. We risk our reputation and our money when we buy things. We don't have a guarantee on the back we can get a refund when we haven't got it right."[21]

Asset stripping

There have also been accusations that Philip Green is an asset-stripper as seen with his experiences with Owen Owen and the purchase of the UK arm of Etam which have seen a wide sell-off of stores. Philip Green denies this accusation.[22]


We should look forward to the imbecile, Sugar, being installed in some Czarish role, perhaps at the NHS, patients who displease him being discharged, untreated.
In addition to Mr Sir Philip auditing the nation's affairs, one of the most brazen of Blairites, another former NewLab health seckatry working for PharmaCorp, instead of being in prison,  is to join CallHimDave's (ie my) payroll as, what  is it now, social mobility adviser.


If the Coalition manages  nothing else, with this tosser and Miss Frank Field it is rapidly exposing the myth of NewLabour being the People's Party. 

We said this about the gobby Geordie wanker  and PepsiBoy last year.

Saturday, 25 July 2009

WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN.


WHO GIVES A FUCK WHAT ALAN MILBURN SAYS?
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Social mobility ? Cunt. Working class, doped-up, idle bastard Trots like him can always betray their class by sucking the right Labour knobs, in his case the foreskins of Kinnock and Blair, and be rewarded with cabinet positions and subsequent lifetime sinecures.
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The career anti-racist – like Milburn and nearly everyone else in parliament - can always sign up to an illegal invasion in which the wog dead are not even counted; can preside over the meanest, most divisive welfare system in Europe, in which the eldery are the frozen few and the disabled are institutionaly despised; can devise an incomprehensible education system which his chums, like Lardy Abbott, so endorse that they by-pass it altogether, using money hustled from the poor to buy their brats special treatment and then they can bring forward proposals, chiding, superior and hectoring, like fucking Presbyterians, to correct the very fuck-ups for which they are responsible. There’s only one thing that thieving, idle, arrogant, smirking, sticky-fingered, useless, heathen bastard cocksucker, Milburn, needs and that’s a quick rub-down with a housebrick and throwing down a mineshaft, give him some subterranean social mobility, of the permanent variety.
Meantime, quite why this mouthy tosser needed to suddenly, instantaneously spend more time with his obviously judgement-impaired partner and brats is probably known only to a few in some clandestine Mandelson-Campbell charmed circle of disinformation but if anyone has any ideas it is their duty to share them; it is the right thing to do, for the country.

Pepsi
Alan Milburn (left,) and Charles Clarke have been agitating for leadership change from the backbench
Former Health Secretary Alan Milburn has landed a lucrative post as an adviser to soft drinks giant PepsiCo.
The company is best known for recruiting stars such as David Beckham, Britney Spears and Beyonce to promote its products.
But it is turning to Mr Milburn to help fight the backlash against unhealthy snacks and drinks. He will sit on an advisory board looking at how the company can build a healthier product range.
A spokesman for PepsiCo in the UK said: "What we are doing is following the precedent of our US company. The new committee has been set up to look at health and wellness and environmental sustainability.
"We believe the UK business will benefit from outside expertise, and Alan Milburn's track record will be of enormous value to our strategic direction."

From the Daily Filth-O-Mail

In other words Milburn receives 25 grand a year for having his name on the letterhead and taking Pepsi executives for drinks on the Westminster terrace, subsidised, of course, by the rest of us. O brave new, Geordie world, that has such people in't. Bonny lad.