Thursday, 9 May 2013

RURITANIA NEWS


ON THE STREETS OF RURITANIA, TODAY

A cardboard, cut-out queen in diamonds and sequins   and a ribboned prince with medals and sashes and earls and lords, falling all over themselves, ingratiating and poncing over some gang of immigrant German parasite arseholes. The well-oiled courtier machine smoothing and hissing and whispering;  Diana who?  My dear chap, I think you'll find that it's Queen Camilla, just as the people would want.A coronation in due course? Just the thung the country needs at a time like this.
  What price austerity?

One does not have the shits today but one's  old chap is a bit one-foot-in-the-graveish so we have, instead, one's son and heir, the Duke of Cornwall, Christ fucking help us, I mean one, Christ fucking help one, the Duke of fucking Cornwall, that's a laugh, isn't it, useless fucking git. Look at him, looks like a fucking admiral in a Gilbert and fucking Sullivan comic opera. And he has people to dress him like that. Can't do it himself. Catch his John Thomas, he would, in his zipper.  Is he awake,  or has he nodded off? Abdicate? Abdicate my arse. Are you fucking mental?


Anyway, talking of the shits, my govament has them right royally, one might say. This Farage chappie, he's really making them shit themselves, isn't he?  No need,  in one's view. Something will turn-up - some boy, some totty, some bribe.  He's been in Europe for fucking ages, hasn't he?  And one knows what they're like, fuck anything that moves, steal anything that's not nailed down, someone will have the goods on him, I mean, look at that velvet collar, last time one saw one of those it was on, wotsisname, Jeremy Thorpe, one of one's privy councillors, if one recalls rightly, and look what he got up to. Fuck me, if the judge hadn't have been an Old Etonian old Thorpey Darlimg would have gone down for attempted murder. As it was, one thought it was terribly bad form, shooting a dog, one is so glad he never kissed one's ring again, filthy fucking degenerate. This Farage bloke is a bit like him, looks a bit fragrant. Have to ask one's household cavalry if they've seen him in the local cottages. They do still do that don't they? Even though one made it legal for them to, you know, do that thing that they do.

   


ARE THEY PART OF A REAL VELVET UNDERGROUND, NIGEL AND JEREMY?

Anyway, it's a UKIP speech,and one must press on.

My govament hates immigrants and will keep the bastards out.

My govament will welcome some immigrants with open arms, mainly Russian criminals with loads of stolen dosh to invest in my govament's members, I mean, the United Kingdom. Not, one might say, if this oaf Cameron has his way, a United Kingdom for much fucking longer, silly fucker.

My govament will make everyone else responsible for cracking down on immigrant bastards.  If nurses treat a non-British nignog in a hospital they will be struck orf .  If landlords rent a flat to a non-British nig-nog they will be sent to one of one's prisons  which my govament is making much less like holiday camps, not that they were, just the ones which my govament members occasionally enter, like poor tragic family man, Mr Chris Huhne, him who left his wife for a lesbian.  That Helen Mirren, always playing oneself, is she one, too,  a carpet muncher, most of them are, in showbusiness.  Fair few of them below stairs, in the palaces, I can tell you.

One's judges, anyway, will have to do as Mrs May tells them, when she tells them and throw out on their arses anyone Mrs May doesn't like, which will be nearly everyone in the country, silly fucking cow. What WAS that silly fucker thinking about, making her home seckatry, she is good for fuck all, doesn't even know what day it is most of the time. Doesn't quite seem to grasp, the silly fucking tart, this business of the separation of powers that one has one's legislature, which keeps an eye - or is fucking well supposed to - on one's executive and one has one's judiciary to interpret and maintain the laws, you know, all this shit that one is reading out, here, today.  This fucking strumpet-hag believes that one's judges should do as she tells them, thick as pig shit, typical Tory bint, all furcoat and no knickers. Christ, the mind boggles.




 you put yer Abu Qatada in
you put yer Abu Qatada out,
in-out, in-out, you shake him all about.

So, there you are subjects, lower standard of living all round  - apart from oneself, of course - and a whole new set of hate figures for you to, well, hate. Same old stuff.  See you all back here, next year. And do somebody find out about that Farage, one thinks that he probably travels on the wrong 'bus.

God save me. 















3 comments:

yardarm said...

Annual day out for benefit scroungers and layabouts, Mr Ishmael. As you say, no business like show business; a phrase applicable to everything now.

And an excuse for backslapping and hail fellow self congratulation in the House of the Entitled; all in the same club, helps when they have to form a junta or circle the wagons when their thieving gets exposed.

Farage is certainly frightening the Top Hatters out of their half wits; about the only thing a Tory MP gets sexually aroused about is the EU, apart from his expenses and SPAD`S buttocks.

It comes from having a political class composed of cranks and losers. Speaking of which is it just me or is Milliband looking increasingly terrified at the admittedly slim prospect of power ? Always a hopeless cretin he`s becoming even more incoherent, lacklustre and uninspired ? The wretch looks palsied with terror. The prat can`t get a sentence out of his mouth, an idea in his head. It`s like the Junta`s self immolation is making his knees clatter like castanets with abject terror.

I wouldn`t be surprised if on Election Night, two years hence he collapses before a hereditary broadcaster, soiling himself and sobbing ' I didn`t mean to '.

Old timer said...

Nobody but nobody does Ruritania better than the Brits - with the possible exception of the Sultan of Brunei and his half-wit Toytown-soldier-clad off-spring(s). But at least he can afford to pay for the bread and circuses himself from the country's oil revenues most of which would appear to be regarded as his own personal property.

The Sultanate is, however, an interesting little place to visit if you have a spare afternoon.

mrs narcolept said...

I always think he would be perfectly at home on a racecourse. And he reminds me of my dad, always having another failsafe business idea, and then us having to move house suddenly in the middle of the night.