Sunday, 31 October 2010


I once wrote to Neil Ascherson, out of the blue, commending an essay he had published in the Guardian - A New Century  of Fear, I think;  almost by return of post and unexpectedly came a warm,  personal postcard, gracious and kindly. This is from today's Sunday (Glasgow) Herald. 

So Babylonian is the US-owned Daily Herald that for some years its cyber commenting has been disabled,  the readers were insufficiently respectful of free speech;  who need so rudely query the status quo, it enquired, when we, here, proper skymadeupnewsandfilth journalists and mediabarons,  are happy to question our drinking, dining and holidaying chums in parliament, on behalf of all - don't we play football with them, don't we give each other awards? The Herald titles are crammed to the rafters with gabshites, most of them called Ian.  Ascherson's is the first intelligent piece to illuminate  these dire pages since the Yanks took over. Surely some mistake.


Return to Babylon

Published on 31 Oct 2010
Sometimes a train rolls backwards.
Could be the wrong snow up ahead, or brake failure on a gradient. But you wake out of your doze and suddenly recognise the stations passing the window. Hey, how did we get back here?
Politics has that feeling now. Bankers’ economics – didn’t we pull out of there 80 years ago? Mass unemployment the best way to balance budgets – how did we get back here? Charity so much healthier than public funding – see that fellow on the platform with his lum hat and mutton-chop whiskers, tipping a beggar to carry his bag? He’s to become the national role model once more, as he and the “local enterprise” he is supposed to represent take over the funding of new schools, old theatres, rural bus services and research laboratories. His modern name is “the active citizen”.
Those shrieking, guffawing Tory cheers, after Chancellor George Osborne proclaimed his spending cuts! Out of their train window, they could see approaching the dim old vaults of Babylon Central, where taxes were low, scroungers ate bread and marge, and a working-class mother told her son: “Don’t get ideas. Folk like us are just here to make up the numbers.”
When somebody says that “Britain steps back from the brink”, you know that we are being backed over another brink. When a politician talks about “the Big Society”, you know that something is about to get smaller. And in this case, it is the state. The Tory MPs were not cheering the Government’s Spending Review because the deficit was being tackled. They were rejoicing because the state – that enormous, damaged machine once invented to protect the weak against the strong and bring a much-tried people towards security and equality – was being mutilated before their eyes.
This is a worse blood-letting than anything undertaken by Margaret Thatcher. At its height, in the early 1950s, the state had owned or supported the railways, the coal and steel industries, gas and electricity, telecommunications, water and inland waterways, road haulage and public housing – to name the most obvious. A few, including steel and road transport, had already been sold off well before Thatcher came to power in 1979. But she and her successor John Major privatised most of what was left of the public sector, axed countless subsidies and castrated the trade unions and local government, all in the name of reducing the state.
That was a programme designed to pull the state out of the economy. But the Cameron government is going for the very heart of the state, severing the financial arteries of social and cultural public provision and decimating the army of those who work directly or indirectly to maintain those services. Nearly half a million public-sector workers will have to seek new jobs or join the dole queues in the next few years. The cuts in housing benefit may drive hundreds of thousands of families – many of them in work rather than jobless – to leave the English inner cities and seek affordable shelter in their peripheries. Are they to live in camps? Who will be left to organise and care for this immense, helpless migration? Between Thatcher and Cameron, New Labour – captured by free-market, neo-liberal dogma – made its own contribution to weakening the state. Most of that contribution was negative. The calamitous privatisation of the railways was not reversed. Worst of all, it was during the Blair-Brown governments that “financial services” (the City of London) were able to fortify themselves into a contemptuous immunity that still – even after the great crash – defies state regulation. They say that “the bankers just don’t get it”. Ah, but they do. They know now that no British government will dare to reform them in the public interest, or in the name of public opinion. Mediaeval kings knew how to set about a warlord or religious order who fancied themselves as a “state within the state”. But British governments have accepted defeat by the City. It’s not just financially that the British state is bankrupt.
The state was once minimal. It raised one-off taxes for war and sent excisemen to seize smuggled brandy, but otherwise left its subjects mostly alone. Its sudden transition to a welfare state, recognising the right of all citizens to public assistance, taxing and restraining private greed, guiding a class-riven society towards some degree of equality, took less than a century. The motives for that expansion were many. Among them were upper-class terror of revolution, popular faith in the notion of human equality which had been treasured since the English Revolution and the Scottish Reformation, and the moral outrage of the liberal middle classes at the degradation spread by industrial capitalism.
The Welfare State that appeared after 1945 was precipitated by war. The millions who voted for the “Labour landslide” that year, amazing the world by dismissing Winston Churchill, were saying that six years of sacrifice and loyalty entitled them to say “never again” to the miseries of the 1930s. But something like the Welfare State would have emerged even if Labour had not won. Its vision of planned social security had been around for a long time; owing as much to Liberal reformers – Lloyd George, William Beveridge – as to the Labour movement. As a result, it was a top-down deal rather than a radical socialist one. The newly nationalised industries belonged to the state, not to their workers. In social security, its basic principle was universalism. Income tax was graduated according to means. But everyone was to receive the same level of care and benefit, irrespective of income or wealth.
This was an astonishing principle at the time. It still is. Its most famous expression remains the National Health Service, founded in 1948. The NHS is a proclamation about what it means to be human: we are all equal in the face of suffering and death. But for the economist and social reformer Lord Beveridge, architect of the Welfare State, it was also practical politics. “Universalism” guaranteed a decent standard of living to the working class. But it was also a cash gift to the middle classes, binding them into solidarity with the Welfare State; they could not complain that they were being penalised in order to support “less valuable” members of society. That’s why George Osborne’s suggestion that benefits should be means-tested is so lethal.
Once you destroy the universalism, society splits into two. Over here are the “worthy” taxpayers, who expect value for their money. Over there are the “unworthy” applicants for assistance. A Welfare State constructed to do its impartial best for all shrivels into a minimal life-support system. Food stamps and bog-standard healthcare are reserved for an “underclass” of losers increasingly excluded from mainstream society. Over here, we will live in gated precincts patrolled by private security. Over there, in gaunt housing schemes on the periphery, they will exist on the drugs trade and burglary. “Welfare” becomes, as it is in the US, a dirty word.
That’s an American pattern. Its callousness and inefficiency were horribly revealed in 2005 by Hurricane Katrina, which reduced tens of thousands of poor citizens to the status of homeless refugees supported by little more than charity. Yet one of the strangest sights in recent years has been our own politicians hugging the delusion that the British state and society can be “Americanised”.
Labour politicians have been, if anything, more deluded than Tories. Gordon Brown’s curious passion for the US led him to demand Union Jacks flying on every British lawn, and – disastrously – to handle City investment bankers with an almost Texan light touch. From Thatcher on, there has been an uncritical drive to involve private wealth and “top business” in public affairs, and to hand over financial responsibility for culture and higher education to benevolent billionaires.
That’s the system which is supposed to work in America. But here, in spite of the glitz and the bonuses, the amount of wealth in private hands is tiny compared with the countless personal fortunes which endow institutions all over the US. Outsourcing the duties of the state to the private sector cannot work in Europe, any more than the absurd Coalition assertion that Britain’s private sector can now replace the jobs lost from the public sector. The late, great historian, Tony Judt, remarked a few months ago, shortly before he died, that “Britain … mimics the very worst features of America while failing to open the UK to the social and educational mobility which characterised American progress at its best”.
The shattering collapse of global finance two years ago does not mean that “capitalism has failed”. What it does mean is that it cannot survive, not even in its American variety, without the state. Capitalism is a gigantically creative force but a blind one, which will eventually self-destruct unless it is restrained and guided by the state. This government’s big lie is that Labour’s profligate public spending brought about the deficit crisis. The truth is not just that “the banks got us into this”, but that state intervention – Gordon Brown’s desperate injection of billions to rescue the banks – saved Britain from total disaster: an “Argentinian” nightmare in which all credit dried up, currency became worthless and mobs battered on locked doors in vain efforts to withdraw their lost savings.
The “credit crunch” catastrophe happened because the state had interfered too little, not too much. Over the decades, its self-confidence had drained away. The generation dazzled to be provided with free healthcare and modern council houses with bathrooms had left the stage. Its successors – the “baby-boomers” – took this new security for granted and found its restrictions irksome. The dramatic spread of higher education which began in the 1960s, and even the 1968 rebellions against “repressive tolerance”, helped to breed a new individualism.
In the 1980s, and especially in Scotland, Thatcher’s destruction of nationalised industries and state subsidies for the private sector broke up the massive workforces which had been the sheet anchors of social democracy. From Conservative thinkers came appeals for “active citizens” who would combine to carry out social tasks once undertaken by central and local government: the “Big Society” mirage in embryo. But ironically, far the largest army of “active citizens” outwith government was organised labour. It was the trade union movement, which the Thatcher governments were so determined to cripple.
The ideology of the modern nation state took form in the French Revolution. For the first time, organised nationalism was used to mobilise whole populations to fight for a new society. This power was hideously misused in the 20th century, by Hitler and Stalin among others. But the French vision was committed to three great principles, liberty, equality and fraternity, which the post-1945 British state hoped to implant through its institutions. We still have a good measure of liberty. But the third principle, fraternity, is failing because the second principle has been abandoned. Equality, now the most incorrect word at Westminster, is silently bleeding to death in Britain. And when it dies, fraternity – the sense of community and common interest – dies too. And when fraternity is gone, liberty and democracy cannot long survive.
Equality does not mean levelling down. It means levelling up. It means that all citizens have an equal claim on the state’s encouragement, and that the social order is not an insult to their human dignity. It makes a reality of Robert Burns’s A Man’s A Man For A’ That, and of Colonel Thomas Rainborough’s “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he”. It’s what Jimmy Reid meant when he looked up at the high-rise windows and wondered how many men and women in there could have been “top-class horse riders, Formula One drivers, champion yachtsmen” – but would never have the chance to realise their potential.
Outrage at that monstrous waste, determination to let human beings fulfil what’s in them, is the fundamental passion of democratic socialism. It’s what moved Gordon Brown into politics. And yet, when he was trying to make a list of “British values”, equality never got a mention. The “sense of fair play” came up instead. But “fair play” is just a boo at the ref. “Equality” is a battle cry, a call for the hammer of justice which only a state can wield.
Inequality in Britain diminished until the late 1970s, then began to increase again until today the gap – in health and living standards as well as wealth – is as wide as it was 90 years ago. But all research shows that societies which feel they are reasonably equal are happier and more successful. We are travelling backwards, and the current assault on “the public sector” only makes the slide faster.
Scotland never wanted or needed this. It’s not just that nearly a third of employment is in the public sector. It’s that the mania for privatising never made sense here, in a country whose tradition is communitarian rather than individualist, deeply suspicious of its own and everyone else’s elites, obsessive about equality.
In “Britain of the cuts”, the present Scottish Government has become the last bastion of faith in a public-service state. It upholds beliefs which were once shared all over the UK: that health and prescriptions, school meals and university education, care and public transport for the old, should all be free, the state’s honouring of the contract between citizen and ruler.
But the Scottish bastion is now isolated, and the waters are rising around its walls. The huge cuts in Westminster’s block grant may force the Holyrood government to abandon these pledges. Scotland is a nation with half a state. If that half-state is prevented from doing its duty, then some will conclude that 11 years of devolution have been a waste of time. And others, looking ahead in anger, will demand a whole state for the future. 
About the author
Described by the historian Eric Hobsbawm as “perhaps the most brilliant student I ever had”, Neal Ascherson is a distinguished journalist and author as well as a visiting professor at the Institute of Archaeology, University College London. His books include Black Sea: The Birthplace Of Civilisation And Barbarism (Vintage, £9.99) and Stone Voices: The Search For Scotland (Granta, £9.99).



Posted by Picasa


Pathetic tellypoof, Steven Fag, above, rejoices in a relationship with a young actor, less than half his age.  Steven Webb, 25 is probably with Fag not for his money but out of very genuine affection, and deep love, and the complete absence of self respect which only "actors" can manage,  the young tart. Having spent his life cottaging and squiring younger men, Steven Fry's acid  pronouncements on heterosexuality are fascinating.

The wretched, old degenerate, Fry, is rarely off the screens, his every laboured, not very  bon mot deemed by the Fag BBC to be worth recording and broadcasting;  his every barren, cliched inspiration worthy of a series; nobody has ever broadcast from America, let's have Fry do it, but, Hey, why don't we have him drive a London taxicab, to make it truly original, a left-hand drive taxi, obviously, he's not that adventurous.

  Clunking, leaden and as witty as a miscarriage,  Fry's ouevre is rooted more in Coronation Street than anything else, plummy and self-regarding, his delivery, stripped of it's rehearsed  verbosity, is just dismal tut-tutting soap opera.  But for all his forced, louche joviality, Fry  represents the dark underbelly of life, bruiting his hatred of normal people at every opportunity. No Quentin Crisp, he, dazzling, original and bold;  no, prolix knobjokes, year after year. Fry and his producers have relentlessly  mined the same, tedious, low-grade seam for decades, a faux coyness,  a facetious scholarship,  peppered  with  the occasional inflammatory jibe of the aging but always phony enfant terrible, he really is shit. Now, though, he exposes himself as more Kenneth Williams than Oscar Wilde, vicious and fucked up, nasty and spiteful.

Attention-seeking in a rag called Attitude, reprinted in the Observer this week - and let's face it, they don't have much else to print, Andrew Gobsley and Nick Cohn, Jesus fucking wept -  Fry claims that women don't enjoy sex but merely barter it in exchange for emotional security, only gay men truly enjoy sex, furtively knob-sucking in the bushes; risky, promiscuous anonymous sex is modern faggery's gift to the world,  and poor, pitiful, normal people can't enjoy it, thus:

Broadcaster and writer Stephen Fry has tried to establish himself as an unlikely authority on female sexuality, claiming that straight women only go to bed with men "because sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship".

In uncharacteristically extreme comments, the openly gay Twitter champion said he believed most straight men felt that "they disgust women" as they "find it difficult to believe that women are as interested in sex as they are".

"For good reason," he declares in a candid interview in the November issue of Attitude magazine. "If women liked sex as much as men, there would be straight cruising areas in the way there are gay cruising areas. Women would go and hang around in churchyards thinking: 'God, I've got to get my fucking rocks off', or they'd go to Hampstead Heath and meet strangers to shag behind a bush. It doesn't happen. Why? Because the only women you can have sex with like that wish to be paid for it."

Fry, 53, continues: "I feel sorry for straight men. The only reason women will have sex with them is that sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship with a man, which is what they want," he said. "Of course, a lot of women will deny this and say, 'Oh no, but I love sex, I love it!' But do they go around having it the way that gay men do?"

Of course, the nasty old poof is about as relevant  to debates about contemporary sexuality as is David Thank God I'm Gay Starkey,  less adroit than Fry at  disguising his  misanthropy but part of the same revolting spectrum of heterophobia. LipService, currently on BBC Three, says far more about  Queerlove than any of Fry's ghastly over-written double entendres, his mixture of paranoia and willy-waving.  You would think that his custard creme of spermjokes, knobjokes, arsejokes and  awful sub-Wildean posturing, all written for him by bright young things, would by now have begun to rot the naional tooth,  yet Fry is immensely popular on Twitter, whatever that is - and one can only guess  that it is one of those meaningless excuses for dialogue, for cyber avenue friendships - and surely his  fawning Twitterees can't all be sperm-guzzling,  young wannabe actors, cruising for a gobby SugarDaddy's bitter ejaculate, can they?

Maybe, Steven Fag is as aware as are we in Ishmaelia, of his fading charms, his increasingly lacklustre persona; his best work, truly comic genius, Professor Trefussis, for Radio Four, is twenty five years' passed now and he seeks the limelight of provocation. And maybe, for the best, the noblest  of reasons, we have indulged Fry and his chums a blowjob too far, too much smut cannot but be bad for the children.  He is perfectly entitled to his bizarre opinions  and  there is absolutely no reason for his voice to be stilled, it's just that, at our peril, we are too timid in response to him. Fuck off back to the cottage, gayboy, might better suit our purposes, and leave sex and reproduction to those best suited to it, best equipped for it.

"In the interview, he also speaks with frankness about his experiences in the "extraordinary underworld" of cottaging in his youth, cautioning, however, that while he was "slightly obsessed" with the clandestine practice as a teenager it was more for the graffiti and sense of solidarity."



Posted by Picasa

Friday, 29 October 2010



Help a vain old skinflint pay off his divorce bill.

Gimme money 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-a-ant, 
that's what I want, that's what I want.

Help a wholly unpleasant Orinetal widow amass even more wealth, so that she might churn out more avante garde artworks, rubbish and shit, the mad old witch.

Ono you don't, you horrible screeching old crow.

Help a drunken moron, the luckiest Scouser in history, to moan himself to death, about how no-one appreciates his  drumbeats quite as they should.

I mean, like, all the others get more credit than me, it's just as if I was only the bleedin' drummer, knoworramean?

All that old Beatles stuff is out again, remastered again, repackaged again, full price again.

A nurse gets paid for her shift, doesn't matter if her work saves lives which go on fruitfully  for many decades.
A teacher gets paid for her shift, doesn't matter if she inspires genius.

Paul McCartney wants paying not only when he first sells the record but forever after, beyond the grave.

Fuck him,  time this copyright shit was sorted out.

Thursday, 28 October 2010


Posted by Picasa

Uh, the, uh whatyoumaycallit, that business, yes, I have it, the, uh, Kosovo-style ethnic cleansing, it's not gonna happen, not on my, uh, uh, uh, my,  uh wotsaname, my watch, yes, you see, I can do it, talking, see, I'm doing it, just one word after an- .... oh what is is it, one word after, yes, one word after the next, yes Hurrah For Boris, and it's not gonna happen on my mayor's, uh, on my mayor's thing, definitely not. What was your question?

Mr Grants Shapps, MP, Minister for Pogroms, always best to have a Jew,
when you're scapegoating enemies within.

Well, Jon, the thing is, Boris doesn't actually know what he's talking  about, it's the drugs you see, mainly the coke, his old synapses all fire off at the wrong time, quite engaging, I know, on a teevee quiz show but not what you want in a mayor for twelve million  people, all of whom we want to be Tory voters.  I think you'll find Boris not reassociating himself with this mistake (yes, reassociating). Or we'll tell people about his drug use. And the women.

"My consistent position has been that the government is absolutely right to reform the housing benefit system which has become completely unsustainable.

"I do not agree with the wild accusations from defenders of the current system that reform will lead to social cleansing. It will not, and if you listened carefully to what I said, no such exodus will take place on my watch. But the point I was making this morning is that London has specific needs due to the exceptional way in which the housing market works in the capital and it is my job as Mayor to make the Government aware of these. And for them not to mention what are, after all, private matters. Between me and the  rest of the Bullingdon Club. I mean the Govament. Same thing."


Posted by Picasa

My hands, Oh, fuck my hands.

I used to work with an old cabinet-maker, coffin-maker, actually, is what he'd been mostly; now, there's a trade to ponder, one step away from an embalmer or an undertaker, one of those entirely pointless servants of Ritual; making the dead last a little longer, boxing 'em up in timbers of grandeur. And burying all that work underground.

He used to come in, in the morning, Arthur, weeping, face contorted in amguish and exasperation, Oh, my hands, he used to say, Oh, fuck, my hands.  I found it very upsetting, seeing  a grown man, an old man, cry.  His hands'd cramp-up and he couldn't grip the radial-arm saw which was his main tool - he made bookcases for the business.  Mrs Ishmael and I would buy him creams and ointments, nothing made any difference.  Years of planing and sanding and screwing and polishing had fucked his joints and he had arthritis. But you know how it is in the workplace, you feel sorry for people for a while and then you come over all Tory, and just  wish they'd fuck off, take their pain elsewhere, please, we have a business to run here; wealth  creation, that's the thing.

Now, of course, years of sanding and planing and screwing and polishing have fucked my joints and I have arthritis.  I bought power tools; where, in Arthur's day, things had been done by hand, I generally have a machine for the purpose but even power tools eat away at  manual strength, need wielding agains their own torque, transfer vibration to weak flesh and bone and sinew.  I spend a bit of time looking at newer, smaller, lighter power tools, for the stuff I still do, to see if somehow they bypass the transference of torque and although some of them are easier to use,  there is no escaping Energy's bone-grinding exhaust.

Oh, Fuck, my hands, I curse, how can mere hands hurt so, but they do and they cramp-up, spastic, and I pull one frozen  hand against the other, trying to free their furious, agonising self-locking mechanisms. It's like a horror show, round here, when that happens.  But good news comes,  of a sort. I have had this condition for ten years, mentioned it now and again to doctors but it's been submerged and ignored in a flood of diabetic and cardiac complications, the doctors only usually want to do one thing at a time, bless, but recently one of them sent me for an x-ray. Arthritis, she announced, in these joints here, here, here and here,  in all the places of which I had been complaining.

Ah, it's OK for me to be Junky, now; free opiates, off the NHS, doctor says. Tramadol does nothing for the bones but a good deal for the head, blocking the pain signals and bringing, coincidentally, a feeling of wellbeing and razor-sharp focus - I wouldn't want to argue with me when I'm Tramadollied up, you know, how the young Polish plumber says: You think we Poles know fuck nothing but, in fact, we know fuck all!!  It's like that.  And my brief dalliance with the Poppy's products is over.  It's okay as long as you keep taking  more of it, as long as you don't mind being welded-up-tight constipated and as long as you can forfeit sleep almost entirely for drowsy hallucination.  OK if you're dying, I guess. And never have to get clean.  Even the manufacturers of Tramadol say you need a fortnight to get straightened-out. Better, if you can, not to get kinked in the first place.  Maybe the time will come for all of us when toxic dependency is preferable to futile stoicism, buy it ain't that dark yet. I'll try wearing warm gloves, Ibuprofen, and maybe a small whiskey.

There is a lot of rubbish spoken and written about so-called drug-use and largely it is the criminalisation of some substances and not others which creates organised crime and poor stupid junkies, as well as some not so poor, some not so stupid;  some flung in Barlinnie or Strangeways, some soireed in Downing Street.  I would decriminalise everything and watch the crime figures fall through the floor, watch endless regiments of gabshites seek new career opportunities, watch the cops enforce the law, not some puritanical I-Know-Bestism.  People have always got off their heads. Always. Wherever two or three are gathered together they will find something to ferment,  distill, chew, inhale, inject or shove up their arses, the better to escape for a while Life's awful burden of Death.  The drug laws are a mediaeval impudence, a racket which makes a small, containable problem epidemic, pandemic. GlobaCorp operates all across national and legal boundaries, wealth creation for some, misery for many.

But in the meantime, arthritis, I just learned, like diabetes and heart disease, has its own magazines,  all, I swear,  written by the same stupid  fuckers who were last year writing Crochet Weekly, or Saga Holidays Review; modelled for by the same gang of TwiggyULike harridans, leaning girlishly on  grinning elderly male models with miles of gleaming teeth and written to by readers one step away from getting on the char-a-banc to Lourdes but who will, instead, try to pen the Star Letter and win a weekend in the Lake District;  a morbid, flatulent industry, these sickness rags, written by and for the worst sort of parasites.  If you develop it, artritis, ignore it for as long as possible. And then ignore it some more.  I have always argued, here, in Ishamelia Cloisters, that painkillers, especially opiates,  are,  in every sense of the words, the Last Resort.


Posted by Picasa
photograph, Glasgow Herald.

"....a trailblazer for a better world."  they said, of Linda Norgrove, collateralised  by her rescuers.

" A charity will be started in her name and it will be a fine way to commemorate Linda's life."

A Humanist minister (honest, not invent, a humanist minister, Sweet Jesus fucking wept, how I hate those fucking bastards) and far too many gobby, sanctimonious po-faced wankers, spinning their own work, their own calling, their own running in, behind War and Tragedy, rubber-stamping their victims for dried milk or water tablets,  that Western do-gooders might wallow, smugly, in self-praise.

Better by far that she'd lived and loved and fucked and drank and eaten, raised children of her own, fretted and wept for them, than that she lie, grenade-trashed, in a cold box, paraded before these sour hills.

Tuesday, 26 October 2010


Ridiculing  the prat,Clegg, in a previous post, mr yardarm referenced the line Made it, Ma, Top of the World! For younger Ishmaelites, this is the source and its climax, a consumation ideally suited to and highly probable for the, what is it now, Deputy Prime Minister. Or any of them.




Is such and such a gobby, lowlife scumbag a Good Socialist, asks Tommy Sheridan of a witness, as, conducting his own defence, he plays his last desperate cards.

Aye, responds some tiny wee harpie, once, briefly, an MSP, a people's tribune, 'n better 'n yous, yer a disgrace is what ye are, puttin' yer wee woman through all this shite.

And would a Good Socialist attack his leader, me, Tommy Bronze, in support of the running dog imperialist lackey, Murdoch?

Nae fucker's doin' that; 'sjust that we wouldnae all tell lies fer ye.

C'mon, bitch, demands the great egalitarian, yous were all oot tae get me, me, Tommy, it was all a conspiracy tae do Tommy in, wisnae it? Why would a Good Socialist do that?

Why would a Good Socialist like me, bleats an angry Tommy at one point, go oot tae a suntanning parlour when I have ma ain suntanning' parlour, here in ma ain hoose? Why are yes all lyin' aboot me?

Jeez, man, you've had a desperate time, seems every bastard ye ever knew these last thirty years is comin' tae this court tae tell fuckin lies aboot ye.

And that does seem to be the case as witness after witness testifies to Sheridan's wretched, bullying duplicity, his monstering ego, his appetites. His former lover is subject to his interrogation - and if I was the Lord Judge I would have stopped him, accused's rights be damned - she's making it all up, the three in a bed stuff, with his brother in law; his former co-leaders of the Scottish Socialist Party, they're all making it up, his former best friend, the best man at his wedding, he's making it up, none of them, bar Tommy Bronze are Good Socialists, as though they were on trial, not he and his forlorn, embattled Mrs. As though there is some parallel adjudication taking place, Sheridan conducts himself like a Moaist Revolutionary Guard, others' backsliding, others' failtering socialism being the matter before the Invisible Court of Tommy's Delusions, his and his wife's perjury - or not - a mere capitalistic trifle, set in the path of the unwary Good Socialist.

Mr and Mrs Sheridan face charges of perjury at an earlier, defamation hearing and in a stagey attempt to repeat his surprise triumph on that occasion, Sheridan, immediately this - criminal - trial started, dismissed his QC, hoping, acting as his own counsel, to intimidate and bully former friends and comrades in a fashion that no lawyer would, grandstanding to the jury, Cocaine Tommy, maybe brainwashed by his own career rhetoric, seeks to reverse things, to put on trial his accusers' commitment to being Good Socialists - if they are not Good Socialists he seems to imply, they cannot be speaking the truth.

Years ago, out of curiosity, I attended some SSP meetings and following the election of half a dozen SSP MSPs, there were moves, coup and feeble counter coup, to instruct the Party in Good Correct Tommyism. To an outsider, like me, it was black farce, as some illiterate, lowlife stooge was despatched from Glasgow to instruct the local membership as to what its thinking should be, in order for them all to be Good Socialists. Tommy Sheridan says that the party line is that all British Troops in Iraq are War Criminals, was one such instruction, delivered by a worthless wee prick who carried himself as though he was Mafia enforcer, never mind Good Socialist.

At the earlier, Murdoch hearing, one of Tommy's public outbursts was that female former colleagues who had contradicted his and Gail's evidence were - if memory serves me, I have it written down here, somewhere - slags, whores and gold-diggers; Ah, the struggle for women's equality, three-in-a-bed, sex-party, Swingers Club Tommy, he was always in the vanguard, A Good Socialist.

The trial continues and given the bizarre outcome of the defamation hearing, only a fool or a Liberal Democrat would predict the verdict; on the face of it, on matters of record, the Sheridans are guilty as sin and he should go to failing-in-my-duty-to-the-public-if-I-didn't pass-an-exemplary-sentence jail, she to community service and the divorce court, but this is Scotland, the best part of England, and hatred for Murdoch and skymadeupnewsandfilth might be the jurors' most prominent emotion.

Tommy used an earlier prison sentence as a springboard to political prominence among Scotland's working class, that he betrayed them so completely does not enter his waking mind and if convicted anew he will, on release, court celebrity again, he will have served his time for  and among the people, A Good Socialist. Five gets you ten that his first post-release,  paid interview will be for the Murdoch press. No business, as we say here, like Show Business.




Monday, 25 October 2010





A creature of staggering hypocrisy, Francis Maude personifies the current front bench of shiteating, public school necromancers, bullies, wideboys, chancers, pimps, slags and worthless, nauseating good for fuck all, braying layabout,  spunkfaced zombie rentboy, clueless imbecile dilletante, creepy, poxed-up, brothel dwelling, pinstripe reptiles, and Nadine Dorries.  

He was on BBC's Govament Radio tonight,Maude, the Westminster Hour, peddling measured, I-Know-Best justification for  the reversal of civilised values, he didn't come into politics to do this, and in that slimy logic which they deploy, insisting that the people voted enthusiastically for this coup d'etat shitfest, sent a message, in fact,  loud and clear - sack us, steal our money, give it to the rich, repossess our homes, bulldoze our dreams, rebalance the economy, please, we have too much, take it from us, make us poor, we can take it, set us, each against the other. We were all in it together, he was feeling the pain, millionaire Francis, hurting, he was; it was a performance of studied deception, of towering,  Brownite monstrosity,  the obnoxious, sermonising,  infallibility which so characterised the SnotEater's mad rants now employed by his successors in Ruin, probably practised by the narcissist Maude in front of his mirror, as he glues his  receding hairline in place and tapes his ears down, carefully wiping the shit from his lips, with a linen napkin, practice makes perfect, watch my lips.  A  banker, a pornographer, a fairweather egalitarian, this wretch knows nothing of work or effort or industry, knows nothing but shabby usury, knowing whispers and secret handshaeks; knows nothing, trades nothing but cheesy, soundbite dissembling and like his rotten, repulsive father, disguises  his ruthless class warfare  as firm but fair, national interest patriotism; a natural,  born with a shitspoon in his mouth.

This, below,  is from his wiki entry, most of it incontrovertible, matters of fact.  The last line - in Personal Life - says it all, really, about him;  what it says about us, though, is  rather more pungent, cowed, barracked, mesmerised, dragooned and  brainwashed we entertain this foul, brutal  piece of shit and hope  that his greed is, somehow,  our salvation. We,  once the heroic, stand-alone Brits, shuffle, trousers down, before the likes of Francis Maude, nodding sagely  at his vicious, ruinous, idiot claptrap.


........In a 2006 interview, Maude admitted that the introduction of Section 28 legislation whilst he was in government (which banned councils from promoting homosexuality and led to the closure of gay support groups) was "a mistake", saying it could have contributed to the death from HIV of his homosexual brother, Charles, and many others.[3]

[edit] Out of Parliament

Out of Parliament after the 1992 general election, Maude began a series of business roles. He worked in banking as Managing Director at Morgan Stanley from 1993 to 1997. He was also appointed a non-executive director of ASDA Group Plc in July 1992, and served as a director of Salomon Brothers from 1992 to 1993. He also chaired the government's Deregulation Task Force from 1994 to 1997.

[edit] Shadow cabinet

In the 1997 general election Maude was elected MP for Horsham. Almost immediately he was re-appointed to the Conservative front bench, now the Opposition in Parliament. He served as Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Shadow Foreign Secretary until 2001.
Maude managed Michael Portillo's unsuccessful bid for the Conservative leadership in 2001, after which he declined a front bench role under the new leader Iain Duncan Smith. He was considered to be a 'moderniser' and on the left of the party, writing in The Daily Telegraph (24 June 2002), he stated that the Conservative Party's electoral problems had been caused by their failure to "look and sound like modern Britain". Norman Tebbit's secretary, Beryl Goldsmith, criticised Maude after this, asking: "How many male, white, straight Conservative MPs currently passionately campaigning for the selection of more women, and more men and women from ethnic minorities, would voluntarily relinquish their own seats in order to encourage local associations to follow the policy line they preach from their own smug, safe base? Precious few I would guess — including Mr Francis Maude."[citation needed]

We need more wimmen. And homos. 
Yes. And wogs, too.

After the 2005 general election, Maude returned to the Shadow Cabinet as Chairman of the Conservative Party. During his tenure, alongside newly elected leader David Cameron, the Conservatives adopted the A-List of parliamentary candidates, with priority being given to women and ethnic minorities. However, he was accused of hyprocrisy by promoting a "family-friendly" image while being the non-executive chairman of the Jubilee Trust, which held 21% of American pornographic actress Jill Kelly's adult DVD business,[4] and chairman of the Mission Marketing Group, which has advertised for WKD drinks and Playboy.[5] Maude, "who has railed against irresponsible lending by banks and mortgage companies", was accused of hypocrisy for receiving more than £100,000 as a director of a company that has profited from sub-prime mortgages. His annual salary was £25,000 from 2002 to 2005, for attending around six meetings a year of the company , and £12000 a year 2006 to 2008. The company went into liquidation in April 2009.[6]
In July 2007, Maude was made Shadow Cabinet Office Minister and Shadow Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, with responsibility for preparing the Conservatives for Government, with some dubbing him as the Party's "enforcer". At the Conservative Party Conference in October 2007 he said: "David (Cameron) has asked me to lead an implementation team that will ensure that we are as well-prepared as any incoming government has ever been. Our priorities rigorously sorted. Our teams armed with the knowledge and capabilities that will enable new ministers to start making a difference from day one."
Maude supported Republican John McCain in the 2008 U.S. Presidential election.[7] He led the Conservative Party delegation to the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

[edit] Expenses claims

Maude allegedly purchased a flat in London, close to a house he already owned, before claiming on the flat and renting out the house.[8]

[edit] Personal life

Maude is father of five: Julia, Cecily, Harry, Alastair and Lydia. His personal net wealth is estimated at £3m. Despite this, during a discussion on Newsnight (22/10/10) he argued that a 5% cut to his £65,738 salary was equal to the 'pain' suffered by Britain's poor. [9][1
uess — including Mr Francis Maude."[citation needed] After the 2005 general election, Maude returned to the Shadow Cabinet as Chairman of the Conservative Party. During his tenure, alongside newly elected leader David Cameron, the Conservatives adopted the A-List of parliamentary candidates, with priority being given to women and ethnic minorities. However, he was accused of hyprocrisy by promoting a "family-friendly" image while being the non-executive chairman of the Jubilee Trust, which held 21% of American pornographic actress Jill Kelly's adult DVD business,[4] and chairman of the Mission Marketing Group, which has advertised for WKD drinks and Playboy.[5] Maude, "who has railed against irresponsible lending by banks and mortgage companies", was accused of hypocrisy for receiving more than £100,000 as a director of a company that has profited from sub-prime mortgages. His annual salary was £25,000 from 2002 to 2005, for attending around six meetings a year of the company , and £12000 a year 2006 to 2008. The company went into liquidation in April 2009.[6]
In July 2007, Maude was made Shadow Cabinet Office Minister and Shadow Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, with responsibility for preparing the Conservatives for Government, with some dubbing him as the Party's "enforcer". At the Conservative Party Conference in October 2007 he said: "David (Cameron) has asked me to lead an implementation team that will ensure that we are as well-prepared as any incoming government has ever been. Our priorities rigorously sorted. Our teams armed with the knowledge and capabilities that will enable new ministers to start making a difference from day one."
Maude supported Republican John McCain in the 2008 U.S. Presidential election.[7] He led the Conservative Party delegation to the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

[edit] Expenses claims

Maude allegedly purchased a flat in London, close to a house he already owned, before claiming on the flat and renting out the house.[8]

[edit] Personal life

Maude is father of five: Julia, Cecily, Harry, Alastair and Lydia. His personal net wealth is estimated at £3m. Despite this, during a discussion on Newsnight (22/10/10) he argued that a 5% cut to his £65,738 salary was equal to the 'pain' suffered by Britain's poor. [9][10] 

Man's a cunt.

Actually, I am making a huge personal sacrifice, betraying my country. 
And eating all this shit. 

Mr mongoose chides me that all Tories aren't necessarily bastard. If I was the sort of person who said things like, Some of My Best Friends Are ......Jews, Gays, Blacks, whatever, I would perforce admit  that some of my best friends and some of our readers, here,  are Tories;  none of them, however,  are bastard; the Tory bastardy emerges, leaping, braying I Am A Bastard, You Fucking Bastards, whenever they cheat or bully or whore their way into Power's underpants, there to nuzzle and slurp on his dick, fellating Money as though their very bastard lives depended on the depth of their throats. Kicking the disabled, mocking the slow, deriding the menial, squirming  in a vile, vengeful daisychain, Tory bastards last week cheered and waved their ridiculous papers,  congratulating Cruelty. That none of them, not one of them,  offered rebuke to this rotten, cowardly  display floodlights Ruin;  bent, degenerate, thieving hypocrite lawmakers cheering themselves, as they fit-up the weak, women and children last-ing, free pardoning their  banker masters, and bunging them a few quid from the poor box. Quad erat demonstrandum, All Government Tories, Especially LibDem Tories,  Are Bastards.

Friday, 22 October 2010




Yes, well, what Middlesbrough needs is a bit of bootstrapping, a  jolly good dose of nineteenth century capitalism......

Ordinary Middlesbrough bloke in audience :  Rickets! Exploitation! LowWages! Starvation! Lock-outs! Cheap Labour! This is the last thing we want. Silly old cunt.

Well, I didn't mean that, obviously, but private capitalism is clearly the way forward, or is it backwards?

And as far as us having no carrier-borne aircraft for ten years or more, this is absolutely the correct thing for Field Marshal Cameron to do.

Oh Fuck, Afghanistan again.
Still, 'sbetter than Question Time, 
damned inpudent beggar answered me back, he did, 
me, a fucking general and everything.

You see,  the thing is that not having them, the plane thingies, is just exactly the right thing.I mean, we obviously need the aircraft carriers and equally obviously we don't need them to be carrying any aircraft. Withdraw air cover for ten years, brilliant strategy And then bring it back. And  when we do have them, it'll be because we do need them, then, although we absolutely don't need them now. Simple. Of course, if this had been dreamt up by that Brown chappie, Lance Corporal Snot, it would have been insanity, treason, betrayal, all that stuff.  But since it's a Tory initiative it is bold and brilliant. No planes, Just for ten years or so. When they were up they were up, and when they were down they were down...that sort of thing.  (breaks into song)  Oh, the Grand Old Duke of Cameron, he had ten thousand spivs.... Oh, yes, and please can I have my peerage, now ?

CallHimDave's be-ribboned plaything, Dannatt, among many servicemen and women, is deemed warrior-genius. What is it, now, a soldier's soldier, looks out for his people, leads from the front of his desk? On the basis of his appearance on QT, last night, he's a fucking idiot.  No wonder the Selly Oak hospital complex grows into a City of the Limbless, the Blind  and the Burned, it's staff adroit in horror-surgery and lonely cripple-counselling,  there-there, son, you're no less of  a man for having no arms and no legs. And the bandit-pimp puppet, president Karzi  is truly grateful for your sacrifice, laughing all the way to the Swiss bank, he is. But hush, we don't mention that.

General Dannatt, war hero and now TeeVee personality. By the right....trip over your own feet. Jesus fucking wept.




At the brief height of the now forgotten organised criminal expenses scam, Nadine wailed that things were so tough and unfair that she should be on suicide watch. She really is an utter cunt.

This one sort of defies description. Tory bint, Nadine, above, in order to clear herself of  suspicion that she was involved in the by now quite normal MPs' second home scam, had to confess to, or invent, take your pick, the revelation that everything she wrote on her constituency blog was a pack of lies;  she wasn't, in fact, staying nights in her constituency, drinking in the local pisscorner, walking the dogs around the place or getting the sort of feel for her constituency which a proper MP finds indispensible and so she was cleared of the scam which such fictional activities  suggested. Her blog indicated that she   was spending most of her time in the constituency home and it could not, therefore, be the second home for which she was claiming thousands of my pounds.  Confessing to Commons' authorities that seventy per cent of her blog was lies, Dorries managed to get herself cleared, although rebuked.

"My blog is 70% fiction and 30% fact. It is written as a tool to enable my constituents to know me better and to reassure them of my commitment to Mid Bedfordshire."I rely heavily on poetic licence and frequently replace one place name/event/fact with another." Rather like the Coalition, then.

Imagine a doctor misleading his patients like this, or a teacher his or her pupils and their parents, or anyone, really, conistently and wilfully misleading their employers and laughing it off.  There will be no word of rebuke from CallHimDave, busy with the New Politics. And Fairness. Shit, all of them, filth and rubbish.

They're only fucking constituents, who gives a fuck about lying to them?

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS 2, The Band, Up On Cripple Creek



Rupert Murdoch backs Coalition deficit action

Media baron Rupert Murdoch backed the Government's tough line on the public finances, urging the coalition to "stay the political course".

Rupert Murdoch: talent is not limited to class
In his speech Rupert Murdoch repeatedly focused on the economic, social and political philosophy that drove Lady Thatcher Photo: PA
The chairman and chief executive of News Corporation said he had been "encouraged" by Prime Minister David Cameron's response to the deficit."That's my boy."

In a speech full of praise for Baroness Thatcher, the former prime minister, he insisted: "Like the lady, the coalition must not be for turning."
Mr Murdoch, whose media empire includes Skymadeupnewsandfilth -  so-called  newspapers The Sun, The Times, The Sunday Times and the News of the World, was delivering the inaugural Margaret Thatcher Lecture to the Centre for Policy Studies. Quick, Before She  Croaks being The Sun's witty headline.

He paid tribute to Lady Thatcher as a "great leader" who championed "freedom without taxation".

"At home and abroad, she expanded the boundaries of freedom - and sculpted a legacy that spans generations and crosses party lines," he said.

With Ronald Reagan, the former US president, Lady Thatcher had "changed the world, much, much for the better", Mr Murdoch said." I pay no tax at all in the UK and hardly any in the States"

With Lady Thatcher still in hospital after being taken ill with flu last week, he said: "In the last few days, she has felt the affection of her nation as many are joyful at the prospect of her death. We wish her a speedy recovery."

He went on to say that a free society required a government "with backbone" and that was "not accountable to its citizens but  to its media masters".

"The new Prime Minister has come to office inheriting a daunting deficit," Mr Murdoch said.
"I am encouraged by his response. Many rightly applaud the coalition Government for maintaining a tough fiscal line.
"We must be clear why this toughness is necessary. It is not a numbers game. It is about livelihoods, and eventually rebuilding opportunities and greatness.
"Strong medicine is bitter and difficult to swallow. But unless you stay the political course, you will be neither robust nor popular."
Mr Murdoch said the effects of the financial crisis must not be used as an excuse by governments to "roll back economic freedom".
He warned it was a "false security" for governments to be "generous with other people's money, only not mine because they never get any of it, taxes are for the readers and viewers" and suggested people should be prepared to "look out for themselves". 

"In an anxious time, people naturally worry about security," he said.

"When people have grown accustomed to looking to the government - for their housing, for their health care, for their retirement - the idea of looking out for themselves can seem frightening.
On the media, Mr Murdoch said a free society also required an independent press that was "turbulent, inquiring, bustling and free". 

skymadeupnewsandfilth, he means. Still, he can't live much longer, the rotten, filthy bastard 





It's not entirely a joke, all this stuff about the Cleggies being, well, you know, unduly fascinated, obsessed, even, by bottom parts.  The recent Power At Last, Great God A'mighty, Power At Last Conference was, in parts, a  full-blown freak show, a morning, it seemed, given over to the shrill - or not so shrill - demands of  the BGLT sandwichers, gay or  BLT delegates who, one after another,  wanted legislation for a BGLT-er world, a rasping ladyman called Jenny who demanded,  sulky and wanton, in his frock,  that ladymen be treated just the same as proper, natural ladies, revolting; Straight Simon Hughes, all warty and ingratiating,  offering himself up to humanity's diversity, I'll fuck anyone  and especially anyone who votes for me, and loves me, a little bit,  and former TopGayOldBill, the repellent Brian Paddick wanting everything. and wanting it now, Sunshine. Just a nice morning of heterophobia, even the non-homos clapping like self-loathing seals at each new outrageous and abominable demand. Oh, how awful of us, they cringed, not being abnormal.

It wouldn't be so bad, you know, if it was a genuine politics of sexual liberation,  if it was just genuinely anti-discriminatory but most of those matters, insofar as they can be, are resolved, I daresay some gay bashing goes on but so does ginger-bashing, wife-beating, Paki-bashing and there is  quite rightly a legal framework to punish such behaviours. Paddick,  Simon and the rest,  that ghastly ladyman, Jenny, at the LibDems staged conference,  though, are insatiable and inconsolable whiners, just old-fashioned embittered fucking misanthropes, spiteful malcontents, upsetting their parents like that;   they should,  all of them,  men dressing as nuns, bearded ladies with Adam's Apples and dykes in brogues, just join the Old Bill and beat-up on ordinary people officially, you know, with a license to kill, like they have.  There is no accommodation to be arrived at with strident heterophobes,  that is not what they are about, they wish to redraw majority society, its customs, traditions, its reasonable and responsible expectations, it's safeguards and taboos,  they wish to take the normal world and colour it queer.

And as for transgender surgery, which the LibDems want made available on demand, what on Earth is all that about if it is not malcontentism running riot through Ruin's consulting rooms, why don't the doctors just tell them to fuck off, like they should ?

I mean, if I went into psycho-sexual counselling and said Look, Doc, can you fix it for me to have two cocks, and right big ones, one at the front and one round the back, only nowhere near the wotsaname thing, the anus, above, far enough above it so's a nice pair of balls can hang down and not get all covered in poo-poo, you know, and not get all crushed-up when I sit down, maybe cut out a new pocket or something,  you surgeons are clever......?  

Say that again, Mr Ishmael, you want me to transplant an extra cock and balls onto your that it...? 

Yes, Doc, I'm serious., You see I'm actually a bi-phallic man trapped in a uni-phallic existence, and I am so unhappy, I've been unhappy since I first started having erections and noticing there was only one of them....

There's only supposed to be one of them, Mr Ishmael.... 

But if a bloke is born a bloke and wants to be a woman, claims he's been, wotsaname, wrongly assigned, then you have no problem cutting his balls out and shoving his scrotum up inside like a vagina  and reducing his John Thomas to clitoris-size? That's what you do, isn't it?  It is fucking grotesque and you all oughta be up before the BMA, not that they're any good for fuck all,  the mentors of Harold Shipman. But the police, certainly, they should be talking to the surgeons  about mutilating folk like that, they should all be banged up. 

It's almost a byword here, that scrotum- sanding story, but  for newcomers, it was in England, about fifteen-twenty years ago,  there was a group of blokes, don't know if they were LibDems or not, probably,  met-up regularly and applied Black and Decker sanders to each others Crown Jewels. The judge ruled it illegal, even among consenting abraders. You're not doing any of that shit in my jurisdiction, he said, no matter how much you like it, I don't give a learned flying fuck about consent, this is bad shit,  and he banged the freaks up for a few months.  They were also nailing each others' foreskins to the workbench, consensually and with great mutual respect, knobheads.  

But it seems relatively harmless, that stuff, compared to that ladyman Sunday Roast carve-up shit.   Take a perfectly good set of meat and potatoes, hack it to bits, turn it inside out and shove it up inside where it hadn't ever oughta be......  and make a motion of it at the LibDems Annual Shitathon.

That's different,Mr Ishamel,  it's about personal fulfillment....... 

Fulfillment my arse, how is it different, Doc, it's worse, much worse than me wanting two cocks;  at least  I wanna stay a man, for fucks sake, I just wanna have two cocks so's I can, y'know, so's I can fulfillingly entertain two ladies at the same time.  Twice the fun.  For me, anyway. And how would that BLGT gang react if they couldn't get in to have their balls scooped out of their scrotums,like they were bits of melon, or Stilton cheese,  the mad fucking bastards,  because the place was full up of normal heterosexual geezers  having penile and testicular enhancement surgery?  The size twelve stilleto'd be on the other foot then and no fucking mistake. Sarah-George Brown'd be up in fucking arms. See what Brian Paddick has to say about that, the silly LibDem fucker. Invented for the likes of Paddick, they were, the LibDems. Married, now,  to a Norwegian bloke he is.

His would-be honour in a tender moment with his  wife or husband,
Mrs Paddick, or Mr.

But he's only married  in Norway and the DogShooters want it to be legal here, too, I mean, two blokes getting married, or a man and a woman getting married, what's the difference ? Go down a bomb, that will, with the voters of London.

Now, I'm liberal, but to a degree, I want everybody to be free but no, it's not funny, in these times of Health Austerity, a man demanding two cocks, just because he's unhappy with one. And it's not funny, a man demanding to be surgically altered, just because he really, really wants to be.  And to those who join, supportively,  in that absurd clamour, those like the LibDem conferencees,  the greater opprobrium attaches. The pursuit of the abominable and unattainable in the name of Liberty.

There is only so much about which we can protest, and there is  plenty already, without this selfish bollocks, this ridiculous and offensive tiny-minority preoccupation.  There is no such thing as a legitimate transgender cause, about which people should march, or fundraise, bewildering the children and frightening the horses,  this  lot are just whining arseholes, unhappy with their lives, and enraged about ours, these are the heterophobes, the gender-issues Taliban. Fuck 'em.  A man's a man, for a' that. There may well be cases where Nature has been insufficiently determinate at conception and which require surgery at birth or in infancy, as for the rest -  tough shit. Eat it up. Like a good Coalition Frontbencher does.


Mark Oaten, Former LibDem shadow home seckatry, user of rentboys and copraphiliac, takes his wife for a quick turdburger and chips. Bless.


Married life? You're joking, Go back to your constituencies and prepare for sodomy and despair. Cheers! 'DI ever tell youse how much I love my old Highlands Mammy?


 Rentboys? Me? Pathetic older man and young male model? Conspiracy to murder?
Good God I'm an Old Etonian.







Ignorant, unprincipled, hypocritical, opportunist and often degenerate,  the mould-breakers, reinforcing, participating in  an improper, reactionary coup d'etat, one with a vicious, anti-democratic unmandated agenda; hastily attempting to rig the electoral system in their own perpetual favour, vile, contemptible, masquerading as saintly eco-warriors, reformers, load-spreaders, egalitarians, the Light of the World, furtive, in public toilets, fucking each others' arses; in salons and drawing rooms, eating shit,  and in MediaMinster, on skymadeupnewsandfilth, lying their empty heads off.

For decades now,  since Thorpe, people, ordinary people, have joked: I'll be buggered if I join the Liberals. Thanks, now,  to the alacrity with which Money has endorsed this shape-shifting shower of shit, we'll be buggered, even if we don't.

Filth, throw them out, send then cuntmails. Hiss them in the street. We know where they live.