Monday, 26 December 2011


Welcome to the BBC Duke News, with me, Huw Welshman,  the Dimbleby of the Valleys, as I like to think of myself.  And of course the big story is a sick old man, who nobody likes, or is it whom,  fucked if I know, but whose death would just be  the news  windfall which the unelected govament and its friends in the media would love.  It's not as though just because the govament controls the BBC's money we do it any special favours, as this picture of our political fellator in chief, Mr Nick Toenails reveals.
Chancellor Osbum, please accept this gift, given  on behalf of all the Lobby correspondents;  we are, all of us, in this together and  we don't know what we'd do if we didn't have your press releases and secret gossip  to recycle, probably some proper reporting.

But the Duke dying would certainly give us all a break from the terrible fuck-up that the govament is making of, well, everything, really. And so  we go cver now to our Royal correspondent, Mr Nicholas Knobcheese, who is at Papworth Hospital  for us, even as we speak.  Nick, what's the latest?

Nicholas Knobcheese, the BBC's Royal Correspondent.

Well, Hugh, even as we speak, His Grace was visited by  a whole slew of benefits scroungers, yesterday,  there was Prince Gormless and his half-brother, Hewitt, the drunk, there was Princess Anne's daughter and her husband, the drunken rugby player, wotsisname, him who was snogging that blonde bint a couple days after his wedding,  and then there were the daughters of  that fucking slobbastard, Andy - the one who flies around the world on benefits, playing golf with child molesters - and his former  or current, who knows, Huw, with this shower,  totty, Sarah Pork,

Well, effendi, a threesome with me AND the Duke?
Would half a million be too much?
Oh, alright then, since it's you, a hundred quid it is.
Right, and no condoms.

- the one who flogs access to royalty -  their two royal, so-called,   brats, Eugenie and Beatrice.  Fuck me, Jesus, Huw,  cost the taxpayer a pretty penny that lot did, I can tell you, each of them in a taxpayer-provided  armour-plated RangeRover with a gang of randy coppers in attendance.

And the heir to the deathbed, I mean throne, Nick, was he there with his old totty, was  Tampax Charlie present ...?

Nah, Huw, he was leading the traditional orgy of killing things at Sandringham and strutting around like he was already King.....

And whaddabout the Duke himself, Nick,  any signs of him dying, what a story that would be for the New Year?

Wouldn't it just, Huw, wouldn't it just.  Christ we'd all be on overtime for months, me especially, what with the lying in state, the state funeral, the state mourning;  would Brenda abdicate in favour of  Brian?  She's always  said she wouldn't but you never know.  What sort of monarch would Shithead make?  Would Camilla be Queen? Although the answer to that, Huw, is of course she would, don't be fucking silly.

So, lots of excitement, then  in the various benefits scroungers' palaces, Nick?

You could say that, Huw, Gormless and his waitress will be thinking that Granny might abdicate and make them King and Queen,  over the heads of Brian and Horseface, who  will  themselves be thinking that they'll soon be on the throne...

And the Duke, woddabout the Duke, Nick?

Well, if I were him I'd be hoping that the stent'd collapse and I'd be able to bugger off out of all this poisonous, disfunctional family  rivalry, and get up there in Heaven, having arselove with Zeus, or woddever it is that Greeks believe in.

Well there you have it,  that was Nick Knobcheese for us, there, reporting from outside Papworth Hospital where he's right at the heart, so to speak, of the action.  Jenny Bond used to do that job, Royal Correspondent, or Keeper of the Golden Microphone of Shite, as we call it here, in the Corporation;  yes, the one with no knickers, she was always telling people that, silly old tart.

Famed for her deferential reporting style and occasionally queenly manner - not to mention her admission that her failure to wear knickers caused her periodic embarrassment when climbing to vantage points - she held the job for 14 years, covering some of the most turbulent times in the royal family's modern history. The Guardian, March 2003.

She does cookery programmes, now, like everybody else.  Hasn't it been shite, though, all these wankers and their take on Christmas Dinner, or Fayre, as some of them call it.  Hairy Bikers, bumming each other around the NorthEast, sticking their shitty, spermy  fingers in the brandy sauce, revolting, beardy,  old queens.  And that cunt, Heston Blumenthal,  I lie awake at night, in Merthyr Tidfyl, I do, honestly, dreaming up exotic ways to torture that bastard to death.

Over now to Jayne Tits with the weather but don't go away because after this we'll be right back at Papworth to see if the Duke has deteriorated.  Unless anyone else famous dies.  In which case he can go and fuck himself, look you, isn't it.

But first a Christmas Message from the Prince of Benefits Scroungers, himself,  the worthless, idle fucking bastard.

Well, as we all know, or my sons do anyway, it's a dreadful thing to lose one's parent but the sooner we get it over with the sooner I can be King.  Yes, the sooner they're both, sort of, thingummy, dead,  the sooner we can have a youthful, vibrant and  environmentally concerned monarchy back on  the great Spongers' Throne. The Queen'll soon be dead, God save me!!  And Queen Camilla, ot course, only not as much as me.


Trevor said...

I think it will be sad to loose old Philip. Granted he is older the Bruce Forsythe, but he's a bloody sight funnier!

call me ishmael said...

Maybe Mr Ian Duncan Schmidt will get him off his arse and down stacking shelves in B&Q, like he wants all the old folks to do. I do agree, mr trevor, that the dook has a good sensayuma but then if I was him, I would, too.

Did you sort-out that rice issue, by the way?

Trevor said...

I tried to, be there was an old fellow at the back, and he came in just after Donald had swallowed that lefthanded reindeer.
That left the other fellow, the one trying to shoe the centipede, with so little time per shoe that he over-ran and the recording was stopped, just where the albertross had invented a reverse thrust hadron collision avoider......what could I do?

call me ishmael said...

Yes, it certainly sounds as though you had your hands full. Have you tried the blog: "chase me ladies, I'm in the cavalry," they seem to be au fait with those sorts of matters, and many others, besides.