Monday, 11 July 2011


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, 

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.


Mike said...

Unlikely Rupe will get his comeuppance in the UK - unless events really develop a momentum of their own.

However, the good ol' US may be a different matter - if the suggestion he hacked into the 9/11ers has substance. Then the rightious indignation of the mighty US will be unleashed.

call me ishmael said...

Aye, and there's talk about Junior getting his collar felt in the States - he does seem remarkably vain and stupid, even for someone in journalism - and there is already quite a head of steam about the dirty old digger, notably in the NY Times but probably, more quietly, all across the piece - not even the Republicans are happy about Fox News and the Tea Party.

Those pictures of Rupert and Rebekah grinning like loonies might spark the momentum you mention, buy I doubt it, too.

Mike said...

PS: I can almost sympathise with old Rupe - he's obviously a bright, hard, old bastard (being an Aussie) - but having dumb kids must be a disappointment.

PT Barnum said...

Hmm. Rumours about 9/11 'hacking' emerge. That US/UK extradition treaty might yet come in handy....

I gather (from my excitable brother) that Sun journalists were dispatched to check that NOTW hacks had not placed any covert messages in yesterday's memorial issue. It seems they forgot to check the crossword which consisted almost entirely of words and phrases directed at Rupe's favourite girl. Leopards and spots, eh?

yardarm said...

Nail on head. A predator is very dangerous when cornered or wounded and Rupe is both. For the first time since he was toilet trained Rupe hasn`t been getting what Rupe wants and if he goes down there`s a fair few he could take with him. The more the merrier.

mongoose said...

The world, it little needs saying, has changed in Murdoch's lifetime. It is now madness - the cost and madness of printing your bile on bits of dead trees and having children distribute them on bicycles! Who invented this bollocks? Nowadays the juicy stuff can be pushed to your iPhone before the vicar has got her knickers back on. And Rupert knows this. So newspapers are electric now and that is that. Why has The Times got a pay-wall? I do not understand that mis-step - unless it doesn't matter and we may as well get whatever few bob the mugs pay.

I thought Rebekah was toast when this started last week but before that day was out, it was clear that he would do any damn thing to save her. "Not family"? My arse is she not family. Not to say that he would not sell her to save the boy.

The dosh involved in the Sky buyout would bend your mind. Jeez, it would be enough to refloat Greece. Well, not quite. The whole game is about getting your mitts on Sky. £50 a month from every layabout scrote in Europe - me included. It is a very large amount of money indeed and Rupert wants it. And it is more than money too; it is the framing of the political landscape. Whether Rupert makes or follows the tide I do not know but he sure as hell surfs on the crest of it, the vile bastard.

call me ishmael said...

My late friend, Dick, in many ways virtuous and noble, had been brainwashed, early, into feverish support of Birmingham City Football Club. I thought his support might wane when the Blues were taken over by the vile pornograp[herm David Sullivan and chaired by his house slut, Karren or Karon Brady.

Now, there's porn and there's porn but Sullivan's mags were plain degradation, he set the tone for that other press baron, Richard Desmond, in his wholesale objectification, in the worst possible way, of half the population. Now, as you kow, mr momgoose, I'm liberal but to a degree, I want everybody to be free but I never wanted my daughter to think that gangbanging in public was, as Ms Brady would have it, an informed career choice. I thought, in short, that even though the verminous Murdoch had cleared a path for the likes of Sullivan and Desmond, that Sullivan's attempt to launder his image via football would fail, at least when it came to my friend, Dick, and others like him. Not a bit of it. I didn't understand, I was told, the uncompromising passion of the true fan, happy, it seems to pay hundreds on a season ticket to a man who would organise a squad of neanderthals to ejaculate all over his daughter, or, indeed, his wife, even his mother and flog the imagery off the top shelf.

The same went for Sky's TeeVee packages - Oh, I have to have it, for the sport.

I have long been of the opinion that football supporters are some way further down the evolutionary chain than normal folk but the choice of both Sullivan and Murdoch as conduits for audience participation in these tribalised rituals was profoundly depressing.

Unlike my friend, I am not virtuous at all, no role modelling lustre attaches to my journey through this vale of tears and shit. And maybe that's why I could never permit myself to have a Sky subscription, holding out against the shit tsunami is the one decent thing I can do. And as everyone here knows, my rage against skymadeupnewsandfilth is long-established and as unforgiving as Jehovah, it is not of the moment, it abides with me, sure and steadfast. Rupert Murdoch is a fucking bastard and none of his products enter my home. Give it up, mr mongoose, you don't need it, you don't even want it. You will feel better and you can tell the baby mongeese what Daddy did in the Great War of Decency, like what I do.

call me ishmael said...

Yours is a delicious thought, mr yardarm and I do hope that the rotten old shit spills the beans before he joins the Devil. He's eighty isn't he? Not long now, maybe these upsets will put him on life support equipment. He certainly looked fragile in his ruby red Range Rover, fingers crossed.

mongoose said...

Well, I no longer take The Times, Mr I. So some improvement has been made. The telly is there for the cricket and that is that. And Miley Fucking Cyrus for the junior mongoose who still cackles like a mad thing at the nonsense. Not even any TV news is watched these days. I have had enough of being lied to.

Standing in a cricket field earlier in the year, I was minding my own business watching kids play cricket badly when one of the non-batting lads quite violently pushed another one of them over. The square leg umpire held up play to walk off the field and expel the little brute. The expression on the boy's face was a picture. "You can't-". Gone. Out. The footie season starts in a fortnight and he can get his fix of cunthood aplenty between August and May - but not here.

I was talking to the other coach after the game and he - God knows how many summers given away free teaching kids to play cricket - said that he had always seen teenagers become a pain in the arse for a year or two but they had never had violence or the stealing of other peoples' kit until this last decade or so. There is no longer any sanction, any authority, any standards anywhere. The cricket field the last redoubt of play up and play the game, new batsman at the wicket applause, and "Did you catch that clean, son?". Sadly, it seems that the enemy approaches even this gate.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Mongoose - the interweb has saved the day: - all the sport you need for free. Get yerself a decent connexion, hook the laptop up to the telly and fuck Sky sports off forever - hurray!

call me ishmael said...

Good for you, mr dtp.