WOTSONTELLY. OH, DO FUCK OFF, ALL OF YOU.

It was my decision to employ Mr Coulson in Number Ten, 

my decision and mine alone.

And Mr Murdoch's.

 A bit lost for words, just now; all that is being revealed to a wider public about skymadeupnewsandfilth - filhty, bent journalists;  filthy bent coppers and filthy, bent politicians  - has been grist to our mill for so long that it's actually quite boring, a bit of a side show to the financial terrorism in Greece, the New Feudalism emanating from the Global Banking Mafia and shored-up by shitty, treasonous  parliaments all over Europe; Murdoch's doings are small beer in comparison, save that his filthy rags act as  diversionary entertainment  for those upon whom he is most predatory, towards whom he is most contemptuous -  we can bet that when the Soaraway Sunday Sun comes out,  Wayne PlasmaScreen will be buying it in his million-strong, shitbrained horde, even though FilthyRupe - may the Devil call him home soon, but not before an agonising arse and bowel illness - and his gang would shit all over him, destroy his life, bribe his family, set them one against the other and pat themselves on their scabby backs, for a job well done.  Maybe our greatest living journalist, Kelvin McKenzie, the  bloated filthy, rotten, traitorous tub-thunping, puce-faced  cocksucker will rally to the editorial flag.

The teevee, too,has been beyond satirising, Thursday night resembling a hallucinatory farce, something from the  opiate-dipped pen of William Burroughs, rage, hangings   and deathbed ejaculations  be upon his unholy name; Question Time,

always a showcase for the  copraphiliac, the  vain, the  disreputable and criminally dishonest,  was surreal, last night,  and black almost beyond belief, certainly beyond accurate description, you just had to see it. The infuriating know-it-all midget,  Douglas Let's Be Clear Alexander, protege of the repulsive Gordon Snot, scion of the Congenitally Mendacious Edinburgh-Fishface Alexanders, 

McMidgetMan.

Let's be clear,  I do go to Mr Murdoch's parties, but I don't enjoy myself.

vying with the unspeakable   old witch, Shirley Williams

You know, the viewers might not remember but I'm one of those, the Gang of Four Cunts, they called us, who was committed to breaking the mould of British politics - trans: shifting it permamently to the right - and that's why I'm now a Tory, bombing Libyan schools and hospitals and  dronekilling Paki wedding guests. It's because I care, so very much.  That's what my party - whatever it is - is all about.

- once Labour, then SDP, then Liberal, then LibDem, now shrinking, dissolving into her own putrid arsehole, barking mad, unknowingly lampooning herself,  apologising, magisterially, the despicable old cunt,  for her Tory masters, not only the preposterous, stupefyingly cack-handed, babbling Bullingdon wretch, Cameron,  but also  for  the braindead, gibbering charlatan,  Jeremy Hunt - and some smirking, whining, gabshite imbecile called Grayling,  a minister for something or other in the  ShitEaters Coalition,   it doesn't matter what he does, he's just a piece of shit, dessicating, turning white in the daylight, he never had any facility with anything except lying and he's pretty fucking poor at that, an embarrassment, even by CallHimDave's miserable poxy, spivvy standards - as they all feigned incredulity and outrage at the pretend news that All Coppers Are Bastards - but best that they be left to conduct a full and far-reaching cover-up into themselves, Commissioner Sir Paul Gob is in the best tradition of great British, Met Commissioners, queer as arseholes, brutish  and bent as a nine bob note. C'mon, now, who the fuck do you think you're kidding here, might have been the response of a proper invigilator but instead we had the self-congratulatory, national hereditary broadcaster and fellow Bullingdonee, Dimbleby,

You can trust me,  Oxbridge and the BBC, 

real man of the people, that's me.
Now shut up.

smirking and asiding, almost as though he was at an Oxfordshire dinner party.  There was one hysterical little fag, too, from the press, or talk radio, Christ knows where he plies his rancid trade,  John Gaunt, he calls himself, squeaking in a high-pitched, indignant, rabble-rousing fashion, archly similar to McKenzie or that other cunt, Piers Moron,  if the filthy little turd lowered his voice to a high soprano, people might take him a bit more seriously, but not much; you know you're watching hundred-octane nightmare shit when you start agreeing with the ridiculous cock-waving non-actor, Sir Hugh Grant, but that's what happened. Grant wiped the floor with the slimy little muckraking pipsqeak. And everybody else, too.

Dimbleby might have said, to Williams, for instance, Listen,  you've been on this show for a lifetime, speaking for Labour, praising the DogShooting ShitEaters' Party and now you're hymning David fucking Cameron and his cowardly spivs, do you have any fucking political principles, whose knob will it be next week, that you're sucking, as a means to  some spurious, lightweight political influence, UKIP, the Ulster Undertakers, Fat Alec Salmond's  Angry Tribesmen,  there's probably plenty of opportunities remaining for you to turn your coat and show your scabby old arse to the taxpayer, you ridiculous old crow.  Aren't you just a shabby, worthless opportunist fuckpig, who's got away with all this shit for years, for ever? Don't you have any fucking shame, coming on here, decade after decade, doing moral contortions, turning yourself inside out, like a gynaecologist's visual aid, but drab, pasty, shifty, ungroomed  and unfuckingwholesome?   He might have said to Alexander, Listen, you irritating shortarse git,  do you seriously expect people to believe that all this shit about Old Bill is a complete surprise to you,  when every sentient adult in the country knows it's been going on for years, do you think everybody is fucking stupid, you're as bad as your fucking sister, never done a days work in your life, good for fuck all, save lecturing decent people with a pack of fucking lies, why don't you fuck off and work in Ethiopia, do something useful, give people a break from your endless,  counterfeit cleverness, you're just a pollutant, a cancer, go on, fuck off, before I clip you round the ear.

Dimbleby and his panel of talking arseholes can be seen for twelve months, yet, on the BBC iThing, performing for the sort of people who write-in for tickets for his particular shitfest, who clap like fucking zombies at some feeble mot juste  and however dismal the show,  clap with enthusiasm and gratitude when instructed, at the end of the show, to do so, by some embittered, pimply floor manager; they think they're taking part in democracy, if you told them they were unpaid extras, volunteers  in a piece of establishment sleight of hand show business they'd probably have an attack of the fucking vapours. Cross section of society my arse;   tossers and morons, holding the Andrex for those shitting in their faces.

Former Murdoch lieutenant, the ScabPrince of Wapping, repulsive, wrinkled old playboy and holder of millions of pounds worth of NewsCorp shares,  Jocky Neil , the BBC's Mr Politics

Andy, an elderly Scotsman, relaxes after a hard day,
pretending to grill his  mates in MediaMinster.

- is it any wonder we're wading around in rivers  of shit, with this toupeed turd asking his mates the questions - had a different kind of equally bizarre fun on his grisly This Week show, with Dame Portillo, Victorian railways expert,



Dame Michael Portillo of  The Times and the BBC.

the breathtakingly over-promoted postman, cuckold and singing and dancing nitwit,  Al Johnson   and the worms' worm, Max I worked for Frank Sinatra, as though the nasty little over-rated spic warbler and Mafia bumboy was better than the shithole-crawling celebrities who make up Maxy's contemporary clientele of whores and rentboys and born-again scumbags Clifford.  Jesus, a wilderness of mirrors, if ever there was one, Not one of the worthless, hypocritical  monsters daring to ask the others about their own Murdoch connections. No, Now, Michael, we all have a crafty wee joke about you being gay and that's alright, no harm done, and about you being too cowardly to run for Tory leader which at least might have spared us the execrable, shitmouthed, aberrational  dunderhead, Ian Duncan Smith, but whaddabout Murdoch, you've worked for him for years, are you gonna jack it in, at The Times, out of principle, maybe concentrate on the railway programmes.....are you fuck, as we say in Glasgow, where I went to grammar school.  Don't you care about Dead Milly Dowler? No, there was none of that among Murdoch's servants on This Week.

Well, Andrew, my moment of the week was talking to some friends in America and they can't understand what the fuss is all about,  they get their news from Fox and they are all as happy a pigs in shit, which is what they are, of course, and by the way, Max took a million quid keep-quiet bung from Rebekah Wotsit so it's no wonder he's sticking up for her, so leave me alone and pick on him. Is David Cameron in  trouble? Yes, I should think so, but I always say that.

It was a typical BBC night of snivelling, unmitigated cowardice as our Corporation stooged for the worthless legislators who  have, for decades, since Whisky Maggie, let Murdoch off his tax and permitted him to shit his Ruinous shit all over us, the filthy, disgusting old bastard.

The biggest, the most obvious question of all remains, of course, unput:  What is it that skymadeupnewsandfilth has on so many of the greedy jackasses in Westminster?  For this is what it will be about, this is why they are all worried to death - they don't give a fuck about the integrity of the press or aboyt Milly Dowler, these people only care about themselves. Murdoch's power as Elector, as KingMaker, is exaggerated and in any event it doesn't matter to him who's notionally in charge, obedience to him is cross-party.  What matters to those in MediaMinster sitting, constipated with worry,  on the Great Latrine of State, is what Rupert has in his safe - all the good stuff which he hasn't published; he will know the truth about the Miranda Blair cottaging rumours, for example, he will know the truth about Dunblane, and the police, bless them,  envy of the world,  will have sold him copies of all the evidence they held; Cameron's drug use; Osborne, Mandelstein and the Russian gangsters;  if there's fraud, murder, noncing, treason, blackmail and worse in high places, and we know there is, Murdoch will have it all in his safe   and nobody - nobody - will want him to open it up.