Thursday, 17 May 2012

BROOKSGATE, FRIENDS TO THE RESCUE

BUY OUR BOOK. 
ALL PROCEEDS TO US.

Speaking on Bravo TV, celebrities Gerry and Cilla McCann added their voices to those supporting their friends Mr and Mrs Hat, below.

Mr and Mrs Hat doing that kiddyporn thing.

We know what it is like, intoned the headline-hunting, sorry,  grieving father, Doctor Gerry McCann,  to be wrongly accused by the police - only not the British ones, most of whom have been squared away- said Gerry, a handsome young doctor, although I wouldn't want him doing heart surgery on me.  I mean, all we did was leave our three-year old, locked-up, in charge of the two younger children, at night, in a strange place, in a foreign country, while we went on the piss with some highly professional fellow pissheads - and let's be honest, hasn't every responsible, professional parent done that? -   and then the local police let us down by by asking us all sorts of questions which our PR team said not to answer.  So let's be clear about this, Mr and Mrs Brooks-Hat are the victims here, just as we were. And continue to be, chirped Cilla, by his side.  I mean,she giggled in best Scouse, donations to our GetOffScotFreeFund have almost dried up.  But, said Dr Gerry, through his mouthpiece, Mr Clarence Cunt, formerly of the Foreign Office,

Nasty media bullyboy,  Clarence Cunt, the McCann's Mr Make-it-Go-Away. 
 "This man lies with every breath," the Poruguese police.

  it is not helpful for important people to be charged with criminal offences and we would ask our friend, the prime minister, if, as well as sending a load of lazy fucking useless corrupt bastard Metropolitan Filth officers over to Portugal to further muddy the waters over our responsibility - which we don't have - for the disappearance of little Wotsername, he would also dedicate a full team of London's finest to investigate the people who have investigated Mr and Mrs Brooks-Hat-Hair and done it so badly.

It's not a question of guilt or innocence, said Mr Cunt, it's simply a matter of managing perceptions.  Mr and Mrs Hat are clearly, if you don't look too closely, a photogenic couple.  He's handsome in a flabby, louche, Old Etonian sort of way, and if you squint she looks like jailbait, so we're halfway there. And Mrs Hat, with her Puritan outfits and her pre-Raphaelite, even Titian locks, her pre-pubescent figure and her attractiveness  to dirty old corpsemen, like Mr Rupert Filth, is actually Innocence personified.   A sort of jaded, tarnished, phoney, knowing  innocence, but innocence nevertheless.  Just like Cilla McCann. Who could doubt her innocence. Apart from everybody. And Mrs Wade-Brooks-Hat is feisty, too. Feisty and Innocent, that's what they should go for. That'll be three hundred  thousand guineas, please, to the Don'tFindMadeliene Fund (GoldenGooseProductions, Inc, a registered charity, beneficiaries Gerry and Cilla and myself)


Now look, said the unelected prime minister, rolling up his sleeves and addressing a bunch of bemused factory workers.
You know, deputy, they actually make things here, these people do actual work.
That's not what I came into politics for, prime minister.
Fuck no, me neither. But you might take your jacket off, get into the spirit of things.


I'm not saying there has been a miscarriage of justice in the prosecution of my friends and neighbours,  Mr and Mrs Brooks- Hat-Murdoch-Wade, whom I have never met much less gone horseriding with on stolen police horses, just that there might have been.  Let's face it, I didn't come into politics to do whatever it is they say I'm doing.  What's really important, and I say this as a bit of a public relations expert myself, is not to upset the applecart.  And I think we may be in danger of doing just that.  Of throwing the baby out with the evidence from the Leveson Enquiry. No, no, I don't care what it looks like, it's not an Enquiry into Cameron &  Coulson and we must be very careful that in a democracy such as ours that the unelected prime minister is not held to account for consorting with criminals, even employing them.  Even though I was only doing as Mr Murdoch told me.  Like all prime ministers since that mad old bat, the grocer's daughter. Is she dead, yet? Might prove a useful distraction, that, her croaking,  before the Jubo-lympics kick-in.


Nothing I like more than rolling my sleeves up in some hospital.  Quite the Jimmy Saville I am, y'know.  Only not the bling. Or the young people.  Now-now and Ow's about that, then?

And, as it 'appens,  what we don't want to get into is a blame culture. That's not helpful. Especially to those being blamed for stuff.  Like me and Mr Osborne.  I know the law's the law but if we start blaming important people for  genuinely honest crimes they have committed, well, frankly, that gets us nowhere.
The best thing would be  for a fresh pair of eyes, maybe a retired senior judge, to look into the I must say bewildering  prosecutions of nearly everyone I know and rescind them.  is that the right word, rescind? Didn't learn much at Eton. No English, no history, certainly no arithmetic.  Rescind, is that what I mean?  Make them go away, anyway.

And in any event, I rather have my hands full, sorting-out this European problem.  I am sure that if they just listen to me and Mr Osborne and Sir Mervyn that they'll soon be back on an even economic keel.  Just as we are, here in the UK.  Just ask Sir Mervyn, he'll set you straight about the great progress we're making.

Two times two is seven, three times seven is twelve, twelve times two is eighty-one.
No, look, even I can see that it's all fucked-up.
And I'm a fucking idiot.
Can't find the hole in my own arse, me.
Not without some help from my civil servants.

As for a dedicated team of police officers to overturn the findings of the first dedicated team of  police officers, well, you'll have to speak to Mrs May about that;

Foxy Lady.
Or is it leopardy?

Teresa Shoe-Fetish doing the  DunnoWhatDayItIs Shuffle
at the Tory Conference.

she's around sonewhere, just make an appointment with her. And turn up the day before. Or after. Not too good with dates, the home seckatry. Shoes, yes, she's fine with shoes. And hairdresser appointments. It's just with knowing what day it is, that she has a problem. Facelift?  Fucked if I know.  No, no, has my absolute confidence, Mrs Shoes-May. Can't be as bad as that blind git, Blunkett, the one who wanted to fuck everyone else's wife


Dave BlindBoy Blunkett, The aforementioned blind git.
With  Ms Kimberly Bicycle, someone else's wife.
If nasty, thuggish, blind pianotuners had a pin-up boy,
he'd be it.
But they don't, obviously.

Well, it's true that I was a frequent guest at the Sun, growled the repulsive bully.  Every time I resigned for doing nothing wrong, Rebekah would invite me over for drinks, bit of a cracker she is;  not that I'd know.  And it's true that they paid me forty-five thousand pounds a year for my column of scintillating observations -well, not really observations, not in the strict sense of the word - on such Sun topics as hanging.  And flogging. And wogs. And my pee-ess de blind ray-sistance, machine-gunning prisoners.  But just because I was entirely her creature it doesn't mean that I am biased.  It's just that if I was 'Ome Seckatry,  as I should be, an' she was paying me off, as she would be, none of this would 'ave happened.  Let's face it, if I can fix a visa for for some slut's nanny,  which I didn't, then  I coulda sorted this lot. If I could set the security services on some bitch who'd dumped me, which I didn't, then some bimbo at the CPS would of been feeling the rough end of my cock, I mean tongue. Or both.


And this is a special BBC  Mr and Mrs Hat News Round-up with me, Huw Welshman.
And we're joined now from Afghanistan by Mr Ross Kemp a former Mr Rebekah Hat.
Thanks for sparing the time to be with us, Ross.

No problem, Huw, I'm just with the unit here, tracking-down some real heavy duty villains,  there's some Talimen holed-up over there and me and the boys're gonna flush 'em out, and the waste 'em;  it's what we do, in The Regiment...

The former Mr Rebekah Hat&Hair, Mr Ross Slaphead.

Don't you mean on the telly, you're not actually in the SAS, are you?  But never mind that.  You're a famously hard man. Did she like it a bit rough, Rebekah?  Make you slap her around, did she, like you did with your screen wives, in, what was it, Emmerdale Farm...??

EastEnders...

Yes, course it was. The one where everybody shouts at everybody else.....

Yeah, you slag, cos we're family...

And now you're doing hardman stuff out there with the troops and with some gangs and in some bareknuckle fighting show, too, if I'm not mistaken. Or is that your brother???

'E's not me bruvver. Only in the show, like, knowarramean???

Yes, got that.  But tell us about Rebekah.   She divorced you. Was that because you roughed her up?

Actually, it was 'er wot roughed me up.......


From The Daily Arsebridger:




The story of the soap star and the newspaper editor began on Wednesday evening and involved a cast including David Blunkett, Rupert Murdoch, Elisabeth, his daughter, and PR guru Matthew Freud. Amid febrile rumours - many promoted by rival tabloids - the details of Wade's journey from her office to today's front pages emerged.
Wade, who became the first woman editor of the Sun early in 2003, had spent the day at work overseeing the story of the resignation of Mr Blunkett as work and pensions secretary. Within hours of Mr Blunkett standing down, he was at the Sun's Wapping headquarters being treated to a consolatory drink with Wade, whom he counts as a friend.
Later in the evening she moved on with Kemp to a 20-strong birthday party for Matthew Freud, who is married to Rupert Murdoch's daughter, Elisabeth. Mr Murdoch, chairman and chief executive of the Sun's parent company, News Corporation, in London for the annual general meeting at BSkyB today, was also said to have attended the party.
Insiders said Kemp and Wade, who met 10 years ago, were "in good form". But between the end of the birthday party and their arrival home, a row started. According to sources close to the couple it developed quickly and Kemp rang 999 in a fit of anger - a call which brought police to their Battersea home. When officers arrived they found Kemp with a thick lip and arrested his wife. She had her fingerprints taken and submitted a DNA sample before being locked in a cell to sleep.
At the headquarters of News International in Wapping, Mr Murdoch waited in vain for Wade at 8am yesterday for a scheduled breakfast meeting. Later in the day guests at the 50th Women of the Year Awards at the City's Guildhall were also disappointed when she failed to turn up.
After nearly eight hours in custody she was released without charge.


Rang 999 in a fit of anger, did he,  what a fucking dick, she only weighs  about three stone, cocaine, I shouldn't wonder. But there it is, from, as it were, the horse's ass, I mean mouth.  No. I don't, I mean ass. He really is a horse's ass, look you, isn't he, Ross Kemp?  Thick lip, was it? Match the rest of him then, isn't it, I should think, stupid fucking bastard. I betcha, viewers, look you,  that Sky gave him all these ridiculous machoman shows where he pretends he's a fucking psycho camp follower, trailing around after special forces units, just to shut him up, look you, isn't it. Wouldn't be any good to have the chief exec's ex-husband gobbing-off about her kicking the shite out of him, would it.  Funny old world, television. I bet you he's the camp fluffer, over there, is Kempy, ministering to all them guardsmen, standing to attention, like,  with their weapons, if you know what I mean. Well, he is a bleeding actor. And we all know what they're like. New one's not much better, is he, Charlie Brooks might not be an actor but he  looks like a bookie from an Ealing Comedy,


 'spect to see him getting into a Mark  10 Jag with a bunch of fivers sticking out of his sheepskin. And as for that speech he gave, outside his brief's office, well, fuck me gently, it was all just You rozzers ain't got nuffink on me, you'll nevah mek it stick. Never quite grow-up, do they, these public school wankers. Just look at that cunt, BoJo, people think it's all a clever act that he does, but he really is as thick as two short planks;  why anyone voted for him I'm fucked if I know. Mind you, that Livingstone, I'd rather have leprosy than vote for that whining, know-it-all  cunt. Not much of a choice was it,  for the pearly kings'n'queens, knees-up-muvver-browning, 'Okey-Cokeying, maybe-it's- because-I'm-a-Lahndunnering, Gawd blessya, my old Dutch, apples-an-pearsin', trouble-an-strifin', whistle-an-flutin' Cockney sparrers, was it? On the one hand they've got this stuttering albino moron with his cod latin his retarded father and his dick hanging out and on the other hand there's  Chairman fucking Mao, preaching revolution and trousering the money that any decent socialist'd be happy to pay in tax for skulezanospitals, the fucking irritating adenoidal arsehole hypocrite.  And then, coming up the middle, so to speak,   there's this fucking joker, from what's left of the ShitEaters Party.

A MAYORAL MESSAGE FROM COMMANDER BRIAN PADDICK.
Honest, not invent.

PADDICK FOR MAYOR.

I mean, it's ok for him to be a fairy, nothing wrong with that, most policemen are, everybody knows that, fags and sadists, everybody knows that.  It's just why does he release pictures of his arse.  What's that to do with the cost of tube fares? And of him snogging this young bloke, below. His husband he calls him. Fuck me, I have to read some shit out in this job but blokes with husbands and baring their arses in the attempt to be mayor, Jesus, it'e enough to make me long for my days as a repOrter on tHe Merthyr Tydfil Chronicle, I can tell you.

Joined together in unholy deadlock.
I now pronounce us man and manwife.


But she's cleary no stranger to the cells, that  scrawny ginger bint. And of course we mustn't say anything that would prejudice her getting a fair trial, not that that ever stopped her, over there at SlagCentral, but no smoke without fire, as we say in the valleys, and on the hillsides. And now it's   the weather with Jayne Tits.



Thanks, Huw and although we weather girls don't usually do editorials, I'd just like to say that I'm in Dundee at the moment, where it's pissing down, threatening snow and, having nothing else to read in the TESCO coffee shop,  I glanced at a copy of the Scottish Sun and fuck me sideways, just a peek at it  reminded me why hereabouts it's known as part of skymadeupnewsandfilth.  This fucking rotten bastard cunt Murdoch, his poisonous spawn, that worthless piece of self-congratulatiory Glasgow shit, Andrew Wapping Neil and that scrawny, ugly cunt, Brooks, not to mention all those tuppence-halfpenny slags like Ian Cardigan Dale, and Micky Portillo and Michael Spit who take the syphilitic Murdoch shilling, the mean-spirited fucking mongrel misfit,  Margaret Man Thatcher, the fairy slags Blair and Brown and now the dimwit wanker Cameron  have poxed-o'er my country like the Black fucking Death;  nasty, vicious cocksuckers like Colonel von Fawkes's hero, Kelvin McKenzie,

 
Fuck you all, says Kelvin to his adoring readers and listeners.
I'm rich and you're not. Cunt.

have debased, degraded and utterly devalued our public discourse - once albeit in the Sketch and the Mirror occasionally risque and in the Empire News a bit prurient - my country, uniquely,  in its press is  now home to lies and filth, nastiness, brutishness, hypocrisy and stupidity, Rupert fucking Murdoch is  a vile, obnoxious, wicked, thieving, lying bastard  cunt who has sexualised our children, demonised our decent instincts, slandered  a  labour movement which gave us, over a long struggle, some meagre, basic  rights and  a national health service;  decency and fairness are anathema to this disgusting, greedy, lying, worthless fucked-up mutant. May painful and incurable arse cancer take him, his stooges, his spawn and all those in British public life, like Alex Salmond, who so shamelessly kowtow, buggering themselves - Jesus, the likes of Salmond would bugger their own children  - if they had any -  on Murdoch's say-so AND publish the pictures - may they all drown in boiling  shit and may they thereafter spend Eternity with Satan's barbed, redhot phallus up their arses.  Especially Rebecca Hair-Hat-Wade-Brooks the loathsome witch. It will be bright over Dundee and Inverness tomorrow.

8 comments:

tober said...

It's still pissing down in Dundee.

call me ishmael said...

It's stopped now, over the Invercarse Hotel, anyway.

Rightwinggit said...

Epic.

More, please.

yardarm said...

Paddick`s bare arse is utterly emblematic of what they think of us. He ought to have tattooed above it " Kiss this, pay up and fuck off ".

So now Merv, the Mr Magoo of Threadneedle Street, reckons the Euro is up the creek, well, blow me down, that`s a surprise. Although if Merv`s woken up to it the danger is long passed, he`s usually several epochs behind everyone else. His next wheeze will be to give a speech on how a six mile wide asteroid is going to hit the earth and wipe out all the dinosaurs.

Wasn`t it Mr YAIC, on a much earlier thread who said that Ginge was having Ross Camp`s phone hacked and that`s why she came home to find him with some bloke, indulging in a little bit of Hague and Spad ?

Hopefully the slow but inexorable melt down of GobaRupe and all his foul appurtanances will give us plenty to chuckle over in the next couple of years. Amen to that.

call me ishmael said...

I believe you're right, mr yardarm. Sounds like mr YAIC. And our Ross does appear to be tne Rock Hudson de nos jours. The ginger minge also seems to have had Ffffffion Hague troubles down below. Maybe current hubby, Chuck, will be pleading the old miscarriage defence when he comes up before the beak. I wonder if the filthy old bastard, Rupert, himself, will attend the trial, in support of his number one girlboy, or if he'll just send a bunch of skymadeupnewsandfilth money.

tober said...

tober..
Ah the Invercarse. Had some good funeral wakes there. A few pints with sarnies and a lovely view across the gardens.
Sunny in Dundee today although I see the chemtrailing planes have been over in the wee small hours and clouded things up a bit for us again.
Spray baby spray.

call me ishmael said...

It's like Heartbreak Hotel, mr tober,the number of funeral teas they have there. We've stayed there a lot. The rooms are a bit dingy but the restaurant is fabulous and as you say the grounds and the view across the Silv'ry Tay are gorgeous and that pair of giant redwoods make this old furniture restorer's heart beat faster.

Must've been a great private house, back when you could get servants and people knew their place.

tober said...

I'll have a wander around the gardens the next time I'm there Mr I and look for the redwoods.
The warmer weather has slowed the death rate amongst my elderly relatives but winter won't be long in coming and funeral do's will start afresh.
Illness and death is like the sound of distant thunder at a picnic on a sunny day.
I read somewhere.