Have you got money for me?
Sir Ian Pissflap, OBN.
The unfunniest man in Britain was today knighted for his services to the Establishment. Licensed fool, bore, public school Torybastard, BBC gravytrainer, mock historian and all round wanker, Ian Pissflap, was today made a knight commander of the order of the Brown Nose, Tongue and Chin for his unfailing devotion to himself and to the ruling class. Knighting the worthless little turd, Queen Brenda said Arise, Sir Ian, Oh, one is mistook, you are already standing up, hard to tell there for a minute, still, one meets all sorts in one's line of work.
Satirist? Hislop? My royal arse.
And they tell one that you are hilariously funny, on the television, at pulling a funny face. And saying Not after everything. Just to let one’s audience know one was being ironic, or sarcastic. Or stupid. Isn’t that a faux-ironic device which the dimmer young people used a little while ago? That Not business? But even they’ve given it up. Even my grandson, Prince Gormless has given it up, now that he's married to Wotsername, the party planner, and his half brother, the drunken Nazi thug, one knows he can barely speak at all, unless it's some made-up bollocks about his mates in Afghan, who'd probably punch his bastard lights out if they saw him swigging eighty pound a throw cocktails, at my expense, I mean theirs, everybody's, but even Harry Shitbrains, a stuttering redfaced moron, he doesn't say that Not shit. Like you do. Moved orn, one believes they say. Only not you. Still, cutting edge of satire. And the Beeb pays you for it. That other chap, Merton, is he gay, d'you know? We queens have an eye for this sort of thing and he certainly seems to be fishing from the other bank. One really must say, Sir Pissflap, that what with the limp magazine which has never changed anything worth fuck all, the tedious railway programmes and that Have I Got Stale News For You, you really do demonstrate the advantages of a good education, how the public school and Oxbridge really do make a man excel. Not. A-ha-ha-ha. One’s little joke.
And Yes, one understands you do edit a magazine, sort of, which has been publishing the same old jokes for fifty years. Mr Auberon Waugh and Mr Peter Cook and Mr Richard Ingrams and Mr Paul Foot. Yes, nearly all of them dead. Just as well, really, one imagines. Don’t know what they’d make of you doing your funnyface trick every week on the telly. And cleverly saying Not after everything. No, no splitarses, of course not, not at your mighty organ, wouldn’t be the same would it, having women around, apart from Matron.
And one understands that you and those rotten greasy smarmy pimping child molesting slags in the parliament, you give each other awards? Quite so. And that you have jolly nice dinners together, in rather louche establishments, how very daring. And that one of them moved a vote of thanks to you for your sterling work over five decades - well, not just you, but Ingrams and so on, whom, one understands you have completely ignored in this fifty year bash - in keeping things just exactly as they have always been, never having, as young mr stanislav would say, called a cunt a cunt. Yes, of course, one quite understands, you have to work within the law; although you should try telling that to Mr Blair or Mr Brown or Mr Cameron or any of the jumped-up cocksuckers, and don't for fucks sake get one started on that whimpering little shit, Wotsisname, Clegg is it. I'd chop his fucking nodding head off if I had my way.
Well, there you are, little chap, knighted for holding the Establishment in check. Not.. So sorry. Couldn't resist. Who's next, don't tell me it's Bruce fucking Forsyth. Well, at least he can sing and dance. And be quite funny.
a reader writes.
The Eye published a self-mocking cover to mark its fifty years in the business; side by side 'photos of Harold Macmillan and CallHimDave, with a caption to the effect that See, satire does work, fifty years apart and we have two Old Etonians fucking-up the country with a government of their cronies; Macmillan at least had fought in the Great War, whereas CallHimDave has been mentioned in PR despatches, Public Relations, the last refuge of the scoundrel. Aside from that, they are one and the same, doing the same shit. It was a rare moment of insight from Hislop, if, indeed, he had anything to do with it. For all his smugness, all his Bananaballs, all his claims to litigative heroism the Eye is as much a part of the Establishment furniture as is the Church of England
But the Eye as public sentinel, as keeper of some sacred flame of accountabilty, of investigative journalism of whistle blowing, is no more risible than is the idea of the BBC covering politics and current affairs. As the unelected fascists of the EuroReich make economic blitzkrieg on the Greeks the repulsive Jock Neil, on his putrid pantomime, This Week, fawned over Big Al Campbell, the man who, inter alia, made millions fucking the labour movement up the arse with a Perrier bottle, blatantly faked the cassus bellus which saw Iraq invaded, burned, tortured, occupied and looted and who carpetbags, yet, for the infamous Blair. Even by Neil's dismal standard of guest this is a truly pistaking choice, Tony McNutter, Peter Stringpenis et al are bad enough but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit. But together with an uncomfortable-around-women Michael Portillo, of skymadeupnewsandfilth, Campbell and Neil drooled over dreadful old baggage, Nancy de Lollypop, courtesan extraordinaire et antique just like, well, just like dirty old men. Cheers and laughter and big cheques from the BBC all round.
It's as though just as long as we, we in the know, get a fix of sarcasm now and again it doesn't really matter that the people in charge are the very same people who fucked things up so badly, are paying one another more for continuing so to do and are, with redoubled effort and increasing pungency, voiding their bowels in the faces of those they piously claim to represent. But who may not have a referendum.
Oh, for sure, the people who toil at the InTheBack section of Private Eye do, fortnightly, reveal the leprous hand of the great and the good, as it fists the arse of Decency; they do expose the rottenness of councillors and chief executives and honourable and right honourables; often they hymn the breathtaking brutality of PC Plod and Chief Constable Gob presided over, serenely, by Right Worshipful Brother, Mr Justice Slag but, you know, if the Eye was really any good, wouldn't Hislop have committed suicide, by now, in some twee woodland, or be on the plane to Sweden ? Isn't that what happens to proper whistleblowers?
Sir Ian and Lady Pissflaps. Scourge of the Establishment,
Shurely shome mishtake.
Sir Andrew Nonce, BBC's Mr Playboy. Jesus fucking Christ
. Nighty-night. I'm off to Annabels with some wanton teenager; that's how funny I am.
And one understands that you and those rotten greasy smarmy pimping child molesting slags in the parliament, you give each other awards? Quite so. And that you have jolly nice dinners together, in rather louche establishments, how very daring. And that one of them moved a vote of thanks to you for your sterling work over five decades - well, not just you, but Ingrams and so on, whom, one understands you have completely ignored in this fifty year bash - in keeping things just exactly as they have always been, never having, as young mr stanislav would say, called a cunt a cunt. Yes, of course, one quite understands, you have to work within the law; although you should try telling that to Mr Blair or Mr Brown or Mr Cameron or any of the jumped-up cocksuckers, and don't for fucks sake get one started on that whimpering little shit, Wotsisname, Clegg is it. I'd chop his fucking nodding head off if I had my way.
Well, there you are, little chap, knighted for holding the Establishment in check. Not.. So sorry. Couldn't resist. Who's next, don't tell me it's Bruce fucking Forsyth. Well, at least he can sing and dance. And be quite funny.
a reader writes.
The Eye published a self-mocking cover to mark its fifty years in the business; side by side 'photos of Harold Macmillan and CallHimDave, with a caption to the effect that See, satire does work, fifty years apart and we have two Old Etonians fucking-up the country with a government of their cronies; Macmillan at least had fought in the Great War, whereas CallHimDave has been mentioned in PR despatches, Public Relations, the last refuge of the scoundrel. Aside from that, they are one and the same, doing the same shit. It was a rare moment of insight from Hislop, if, indeed, he had anything to do with it. For all his smugness, all his Bananaballs, all his claims to litigative heroism the Eye is as much a part of the Establishment furniture as is the Church of England
But the Eye as public sentinel, as keeper of some sacred flame of accountabilty, of investigative journalism of whistle blowing, is no more risible than is the idea of the BBC covering politics and current affairs. As the unelected fascists of the EuroReich make economic blitzkrieg on the Greeks the repulsive Jock Neil, on his putrid pantomime, This Week, fawned over Big Al Campbell, the man who, inter alia, made millions fucking the labour movement up the arse with a Perrier bottle, blatantly faked the cassus bellus which saw Iraq invaded, burned, tortured, occupied and looted and who carpetbags, yet, for the infamous Blair. Even by Neil's dismal standard of guest this is a truly pistaking choice, Tony McNutter, Peter Stringpenis et al are bad enough but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit. But together with an uncomfortable-around-women Michael Portillo, of skymadeupnewsandfilth, Campbell and Neil drooled over dreadful old baggage, Nancy de Lollypop, courtesan extraordinaire et antique just like, well, just like dirty old men. Cheers and laughter and big cheques from the BBC all round.
It's as though just as long as we, we in the know, get a fix of sarcasm now and again it doesn't really matter that the people in charge are the very same people who fucked things up so badly, are paying one another more for continuing so to do and are, with redoubled effort and increasing pungency, voiding their bowels in the faces of those they piously claim to represent. But who may not have a referendum.
Oh, for sure, the people who toil at the InTheBack section of Private Eye do, fortnightly, reveal the leprous hand of the great and the good, as it fists the arse of Decency; they do expose the rottenness of councillors and chief executives and honourable and right honourables; often they hymn the breathtaking brutality of PC Plod and Chief Constable Gob presided over, serenely, by Right Worshipful Brother, Mr Justice Slag but, you know, if the Eye was really any good, wouldn't Hislop have committed suicide, by now, in some twee woodland, or be on the plane to Sweden ? Isn't that what happens to proper whistleblowers?
Shurely shome mishtake.
. Nighty-night. I'm off to Annabels with some wanton teenager; that's how funny I am.
5 comments:
The fucking Dimblebys are alike a sick joke Question Time and Any fucking Questions and plebs get charged cash for that shite. Private Eye's good to take a dump with. All the very best dude
I managed ten minutes of QT and ten minutes of TW, Don't know who I despise the most, the applauded panel or the applauding audience. That's my Eye experience, too, but only once in a while, Swapped my subscription years back for Viz magazine, that's proper satire.
but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit.
Lower than that. Freddy Mercury foretold:
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for Ali.
Campbell was merely the useful idiot. True, he was a vile, stinking, bullying bastard of a brute but drop him up Charter Avenue of a Friday night and they'd be selling his bones for glue on Saturday. He is just a gobby arsehole insulated from his just and deserved comeuppance.
I was on a train to Exeter once and there was not a seat to be had and there he was with part of his family (a teenage lad, if I remember). He couldn't get a seat either and wore the same look that Marie Antoinette must have worn that day. "They can't do this - to ME, can they?" Horrible fucker. Another one who thinks that he is better than the next guy because he is able to bully him with an impunity that he neither earned nor deserved. Not worth the cost of the rope.
Call him any name you like,he can never deny it but my point was not so much his preeminene in the Gang of Four, rather it was the ease with which the political criminal is rehabilitated into skymadeupnewsandfilth. The ridiculous Hamiltons are more to be pitied than reviled, well, he is, anyway but Lord Archer, Jonafun Christian-Aitken-Spanker, Jacqui Schmidt, Tony McNutter, Blind Boy Blunkett and that wretched little prick, the one who recently lost his seat over dodgy election claims and who lied his fucking face off through environment and immigration, Woollas, that was him, popping up all over the place, he is, these days.
It's as bad in the best part of England, former Tory leader, Dave McLetchie, a typical pinstripe Jock lawyer carries on as though he didn't have to quit his job for, inter alia, getting Joe McTaxpayer to pay for his mistress's taxi farez and Henry McThief, former JockLab First Minister, had to quit for fiddling his rent allowance, although he'd done nothing wrong and after only a few weeks as First Minister still copped a grand a week pension; he's still all over the meeja.
It is Neil's - and his producers' - willingness to embrace celebrity noire which so disgraces the Corporation, he, himself, is, of course, beyond disgrace.
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