Tuesday, 22 February 2011


Mr Lewis Hamilton, a prominent sandwich-board man.

Well, of course I love England, it made me what I am and everything, and me dad and everything and all the fans and everything, it's just that I don't want to pay any tax there. And so I don't, all quite legal, Patriot? of course I am, I read the Daily Filth-O-Graph.

 Mr Sir Max Miller, head of sado-masochistic development for Formula One was interviewed yesterday by Mr Hugh Heffner,  on Radio Playboy:

Maxie, baby, tell Uncle Hugh about those whipping bitches,  they hot shit? Well, Hugh, as one playboy to another I can tell you that I am deeply disappointed by the decision not to hold a race in Bah!-rain.  The region, as I am sure you will know, being a filthy degenerate, like myself, is home to many European Nazi-thinking and Nazi-dressing young women, only too keen to discipline older gentlemen like myself with a variety of straps, whips, scourges, crops, ropes and canes in exchange for money.  I was so looking forward to making their acquainance and urging them to beat my scarred old bottom until it lit up the night sky all over Arabia. Seig Heil. And if my wife finds out about this I will sue everybody.

a psychiatrist writes: it's because he comes from a family of fascists - whips, gloves, boots, big shiny cars. Surprised they let Lewis Hamilton in, really.


Now listen, I would simply say this. I only took the million F1 pounds from Lord Ecclescake in order to stop him spending it on weapons of mass destruction. Now, as it turns out, he wasn't going to buy any anyway. But, listen, I simply say, which of  us knows these things at the time? And I answer myself, none of us, save for He who will judge me, up in Heaven. It's all very straightforward and recorded in the minutes which Imelda has carefully shredded.  Mr Cakes wanted to be able to carry-on advertising fags which I, as a concerned prime minister, had banned. What's it worth, shortarse, I despatched Mr Lord Levy to find out, from Mr  Cakes.  He's good for a mill, no questions arsked, said Lord Levy on his return. Just as long as 'e can keep on advertising the gaspers  And the WMD? Nah, he won't be buying none a them.  And that's all there was to it.  The very best of reasons.  I took the million pounds out of a sense of national duty.  Now, if I was misled by Mr Lord Levy, well, that's just because I am too trusting and, in fact, now that I am earning proper money I barely see the creepy little JewBoy. And in the end I gave Lord Ecclescakes his money back AND allowed him to carry on advertising the fags.  Can't say fairer than that. Govament of the rich, for the rich and by the rich, what Labour was founded for. I won't apologIse for ridding motor racing of Weapons of Mass Destruction,  that's just the kinda guy I am. Even if there weren't any.

That's all the F1 News for this week but Jeremy Fatso is doing car stuff on the Dave Channel. All the time, world without end, a fucking men.


mongoose said...

And din't you just know, and especially you, Mr Ishmael, that it was all going to turn to dust. That very day, so early on, and bought for a lousy million quid.

Elmer Gray said...

If Max Clifford is so great at PR then how come everyone thinks he's a total cock ?

Dick the Prick said...

There's a biography coming out about Bernie that claim's his Czech wife used to beat him up in public - maybe Mosely was jealous? God alone knows what Imelda got up to in the bedroom.

Both Imelda an AllyAlky are on a Jamie Oliver vehicle about good teaching or some other spurious drivel but i'll probably watch it as the guest list is decent.

call me ishmael said...

Imelda, on telly? Jesus. Do keep us informed, mr dtp.

call me ishmael said...

It was the urge to ditch Clause Four, mr m, did it for me. And here we are, beggars all, before untiucable Capital.

Woman on a Raft said...

It's the sperm one, Mr Ish. Jamie Oliver's Nightmare School.

Don't. Mr DtP will watch it lest you do yourself a mischief and become the first documented case of human combustion ignited purely by telly.

It's got Ali Campbell and Lord Winston, too, so your insurance will probably refuse to pay up.

call me ishmael said...

He's looking increasingly manic, Olly, like he's got GreasySpoon megalomania, developing an even more bizarre vernacular for his dirty-fingered inventions - just kiss it wiv the oliveoil; this is a gesture salad, as, Mockney-style, he blesses some pile of weeds with an acrid half-pint of lemon juice - but cooking wiv sperm, Jesus. How's he gonna do that, the mind fucking boggles.

I often feel, watching him, or any of them, that I should be sat under a fire extinguisher, so I shall gratefully take your thoughtful advice, mrs woar.

Maybe he could find a series about cooking jellied fucking eels for escapee Cockney crooks, living, my son, on the Costa del Crime, diamond geezers, one and all; didnafta lock yer bleedin' doors when they was around, didja?

This business, sticking his dirty fingers in other people's food, licking them, sticking them in some other dish, licking them again, time after time; you're the lawyer round here, isn't that illegal? Whole fucking country walking about with IBS half the time, down to that dirty little monster, it is. Latex gloves and tasting spoons, that's the thing he should be promoting, never mind rotten hygiene; dirty, gobby little fucker.

Dick the Prick said...

Just to err...rub salt into the gaping open wound that is the whores' d'heuvre of Ruinous gastronomy; the twat has a hardback book accompanying the 'any old shit in 30 minutes' programme which retails at £28 and 'ee's gone and shifted over 1.2 million of the fucks. Lovely jubbly indeed. Probably envy more than anything else - he seems pretty inoffensive whereas Masterchef or Raymond Bonk programmes can just fuck right off.

call me ishmael said...

He's certainly popular, mr dtp that's the problem, the elevation of a gobby cook to super celebrity, maybe he'll do a Beckham and become friends with Tiny Tom Cruise. Those Masterchef people, though, something dark at work there, more cruelty TeeVee, I'd chop their fucking heads off, with a blunt clever.

mongoose said...

Cruelty TV has even turned it all around to maximise the pain. Competitions have always had losers but mostly they minimised the disaster of the losers. Like the FA Cup, for instance. Half the losers lose the first day and are out of their misery. Another half the next and so on. Our TV lords have it the other way - get 'em all in and chuck 'em out one at a time. Masterchef too - and the kids like it in this house - has decided to go this way to maximise the drama of one-by-one Big Brother ejection - a slow assassination of hope.

Verge said...

Heston Blumentube's last book has a recipe in it for Fly Agaric Rissoto. Honest, as our host might say, not invent. No lawsuits as yet, as far as I know, which probably proves that hardly anybody reads these fucking things, let alone acts on their suggestions. (Slightly mystifying christmas present - flicked through before setting aside to sell on at some stage.)