WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE TIMES OF INDIA, RUSSIAN DEMONSTRATORS SAY FUCK OFF PANSY PUTIN.

 LET ME RIG YOUR VOTES FOR YOU, COMRADE-DEARIES.

 MOSCOW: Tens of thousands of protesters gathered here on Saturday for a second large antigovernment demonstration , as a wave of new activists struggle to convert an inchoate burst of energy into a durable political force.

Organizers hope to build on the success of the Dec 10 protests, which mobilized a broad collection of previously apolitical middle-class Russians angry over parliamentary elections earlier this month that many rejected as fraudulent and slanted in favor of the ruling party, United Russia.

If the movement can sustain its intensity, it could alter the course of presidential elections in March, when Vladimir V Putin plans to extend his status as the country's dominant figure to 18 years.

The crowd began forming more than an hour before the beginning of the protest, for which city authorities granted a permit for up to 50,000 people. Organizers estimated the crowd at 120,000; the police offered a lower estimate of about 29,000.

The protests have shaken the Kremlin, which has not encountered widespread public resistance since Putin became president in 1999. It has become clear that the Kremlin is taking the protesters' complaints as a warning signal, and is willing to make concessions to head off a dangerous confrontation. Shortly before the event began, the former finance minister, Aleksei L Kudrin - a member of Putin's inner circle for more than two decades - announced that he would address the demonstrators. 

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Against the dreary, OCD  media backdrop of the Dow-Jones Index, these  events are startling and must foster optimism, all these Occupy this and that movements  in the West,  the violent protests in the Middle East and North Africa - aside from those owned by NATO - and now the Russians are expressing their righteous discontent with their own version of political musical chairs; something is happening, worldwide, and I wish I knew what it was;  wish I had the strength and courage to go and join something.

Having seen the overthrow of  the Soviet Union, modern Russians are less in awe of the repulsive  criminal Putin than he might think.  Vlad and his chums,  trading positions every few years, of course echo the deal in MediaMinster, where, only once in a blue moon is a non-party, independent individual permitted entry to the legislature,  the levers of power passing, otherwise, more or less seamlessly from one dinosaur  party to another.  The BBC and  skymadeupnewsandfilth have always ruthlessly suppressed or ridiculed any alternative political catechism, any on-air voice raised in dissent is Dimblebied with extreme prejudice and audiences are compelled to dutifully applaud a panel of their thieving tormentors - slaghacks, dimwit entertainers and shiteating politicians, all pontificating emptily, yet  carefully within the envelope. The BBC has been doing this  shit forever, forming stooges  into a panel which then selectively addresses approved questions, vetted by the producers,  the governors, the board of trustees and whichever crime  family is  ocupying Downing Street.

I bought a two British pounds,  Christmas Eve, hard copy  of the Daily Filth-o-Graph, a 'paper I read through most of the 'nineties and it was just a big, papery bundle of rubbish - the news, or what passes for the news, was out of date before it was printed,  the op-ed was Home Counties, jingoistic, God is British claptrap, neither informative nor provocative,  as the Filth-O-Graph used to be; the property section was for multi-millionaires, as were all the elite consumer products, Oh, and they have a blonde cookess, called Xanthe,  they would have, wouldn't they?  I have been wondering who on Earth buys these things;  having long ago broken my own newspaper addiction, I had assumed, nevertheless, that the broadsheets must still contain material by authors and in a form  that one simply cannot acquire on CyberStreet,  I was wrong  - everything is online - and since I stopped buying them, the physical form of the newspapers has become, to me, at any rate, just fucking irritating,  the pages stick together; if you don't have a valet to iron them, they are dirty with ink; if you pick them up or set them down carelessly they fall apart, never to be correctly reassembled;  to get to the serious stuff you have to wade through pages littered with out-of-date images of  old crows, lady writers, once someone's bright, shiny niece or mistress, now scrawny and embittered, grinding a shedful  of axes, Vicki Woods, Rosa Prince;  who knows, maybe they started out as buxom, blouse-bursting schoolgirl porn on the Filth-O-Graph's famous A-level results front pages, and now they write columns moaning about the quality of the help - us. Oh, yes and there are vital pages of  closely-printed stocks and shares prices -  the Daily Lie  - which, let's face it, will be flashing away, updated to the second, on the various multiscreens of those interested in committing such offences.  In a way, it was, despite my loathing of the Barclay Twins and most Filth-O-Graph writers, a bit of a disappointment to find that it really was the dead, DeadTreePress, good for fuck all,  and more expensive, even, than proper firelighters.

But even though our own mass media are rotten and corrupt, I have always been suspicious of the Twitter Revolution,  the Facebook Fifth Column and am even moreso having watched Emily Maitless schmoozing the Facebook Founder, wotsisname, Jabberwocky, another autistic, bulletheaded American bleating about Freedom while working for the CIA and Wall Street. The idea that consumerjunky hand-held devices might  spark and enflame revolutions has always seemed risible to me -  I can't come, I'm just so not up for it, I don't have that civil disobedience app, but can we catch up over  a latte;  just as likely, it has seemed to me, that James Dyson and his infinitely recurring vacuum cleaner are the key to true human fulfillment.

But something is going on, something, some movement or movements utterly indifferent to leaderwriters, broadcasters, legislators and all the other forms of Filthlife are undermining the JerichoWalls of political certainty;  it is axiomatic, I guess, that revolutions are not recognised as such until they are over, one way or another.


Which of the old blondes, below, is Madeleine Albright?

My fellow motherfuckers,
Ah did not have sex with either of these Seckatries of State.

Which one of these, below, actually won an election?

Was it Major major or  Major minor?

Spunky Bill, Madeleine Albright, President Hillary Dyke-Trousers, CallHimDave and countless other grinning phonies strutted about, last week, at Vaclev Havel's state funeral, as though they were, themselves, liberationist poets and playwrights and not filthy international criminals.  In their suits and make-up and armoured limos  they all looked as though they had walked, satirising themselves,  off the cartoon screens of Family Guy.

Maybe not all the youth obediently watch Strictly Celebrity Factor, are not habituated to the soma-banality pumped at them relentlessly by GlobaCorp, maybe, despite  the very best efforts of  their creators, the handheld devices will help people to burn down the mission, rape the nuns, kill the children and poison the well, or whatever it is that revolutionaries do in addition to putting govaments up against the wall.

I heard Fat King Alec  Salmond of Scotland, a while back,

smirking in best PutinSpeak, to Scotland's abnormally compliant journalists about what he called political attack blogs;  these, opined the fat, greedy, wife-beating, cross-dressing  bastard - to, naturally,  not one word of protest from the McHacks - were not what the Internet was for -  I think he said...and of course, political blogs are  not what the Internet was invented for. Worth savouring for a moment or two, that one, from the leader of Free Scotland,  your betters will decide what should be on the Internet.

If, even here in the mutha of parliaments, an elected politician can, as did McFatMan, get away with that sort of mediaeval claptrap, then we must send our best wishes to those currently oppressed in Russia by the thinly disguised hand of the KGB.

Is Putin gay? It really doesn't matter, what matters is a new Russian Revolution. All the wealthy bandits and murderers and torturers can all come and find sanctuary in London, where they are, apparently, most welcome. London, the New Havana.


Apples an' pears, apples an' pears, frog an' toad,  trouble an' strife; diamond geezer, that Roman Abramovitch, an 'onorary Cockney, that's what 'e is.