Saturday, 30 November 2013


A few years back I received a letter from the Salvation Army's missing person's bureau. Somebody,  they wouldn't say who,  was missing me, wanting to know where I was.  There wasn't anybody who didn't know where I was that I wanted to know where I was.  Anyone who knew me at all, would know where I was.  And anyone who simply knew my name would googlefind me in seconds;  even people in the Caribbean who didn't know my name were able to find me, or find my young friend, stanislav, who visted me, sometimes;  just a little research was all it took.  This person, then, who wanted to know where I was, was stupid, inept, without resource because they did know my name and address and date of birth;  that was another reason for not wanting them to be able to contact me;  I, none of us, are short of encounters with stupid people and having the brassbanders put me in touch with yet another one seemed to me to be decidedly, on their part, unfuckingChristian. 

Robert Anton Wilson counselled: Remember, before you go out of the door each day,  that ninety eight per cent of the people you are going to meet will be stupid assholes;  not sure how he arrived at the ninety-eight per  cent figure but it's near enough for jazz.

But it was a conundrum, how could anyone who knew my full name and current address and date of birth - with which they had  provided the SallyAnn -  need help in locating me?

The letter, signed  by a Major Rupert Golightly-Gospel, extolled the work of his Army in re-uniting estranged families and friends, the cheeky cunt.  He'd never met my family, obviously.  All I had to do was consent, own-up to being me, it's a fair cop, Major,  and some  cack-handed, confused imbecile would re-enter my life, doubtless to the glory of God, if not to the glory of me, Ishmael..

I ignored the letter.  Three or four more arrived and I ignored them.  Then one arrived from the DWP - Am I Ishmael M Smith? Yes of course I fucking well am, you know I am, you are fucking well writing to me, aren't you, you know my name, my address and my date of birth, don't you, what more do you want, you already have my national insurance number?  And if you are, you see, continued the DWP, the Salvation Army wanna talk to you.

I ignored that one, too, but wondered how the fuck these shinyfaced, tut-tutting, demented busybodies can manipulate a government department.

The letters continued to arrive, one every couple of months, until there was one which identified the seeker;  it was a person who knew me very well, knew where I was, had visited, had sat at this very laptop and needed only to pick up the telephone in order to contact me.

Their enlistment of God's Army is a mystery beyond my understanding and I can only assume that this entirely unnecessary and fraudulent  inveiglement added a frisson of drama to a straightforward estrangement. Too much Cruelty TeeVee.

I don't know what all this cost but this is where your collecting-tin money goes, in fucking nonsense, in employing sentimental half-wits like the Major and in badgering defenceless citizens, like me.  Fucking do-gooding bastards. The nerve of some people, who do they think they are, blundering about, interfering?  

The eventual self-identification of the seeker brought a relief for the letters had stirred painful and disturbing  memories, long subdued, of a different  person whom I had good reason to banish from my corner of reality.  You would, wouldn't you, on receipt of such an impertinent inquiry, scan your recycle bin of horror, thinking Who the Fuck is this,  what  ruinous chorus of complaint am I to hear now? There ought to be a law against this sort of thing.

But that's not the half of it. I was up in Tesco an hour ago,  I was outside with  the Harrisbloke and having just entered a moment ago, mrs ishmael came out of the store in tears.

Wossamatter, what is it?  Oh, Ishmael, I'm crying, I'm so upset. They're asking for food. For the poor people.  A food bank. Here. In our country.

She was weeping, a grown woman, in the middle of the fucking carpark

The store foyer  was bannered-up.  This is what they need, sugar, dried milk, tea, etc etc,  they don't need caviar or parma ham, like decent people do. Whatever you donate, Tesco will add thirty per cent.  In conjunction with the Salvation Army, Tesco is helping you to create a strong neighbourhood by giving food hampers to those in need at this very special time of Consumermas. We even have, via the Salvation Army,  God's own imprimatur,  that's trade mark, for the benefit of customers unhindered by erudition. 


 No other store offers you the chance to work with God. And if they do, we'll give you a free hymnbook voucher and five pounds off your next forty-pound spend. The spend which is really a save.

Good, isn't it, smugged a dopey shelf-stacker, delegated to guard the growing stack of hampers, not even hampers, just those green, plastic bread trays,  the ones with a half-life of forty billion years.  Good, I snarled, raging, good ? Hanging a few bankers would be good.  Oh, yes, he said, nervously. And, as an afterthought,  he said if it wasn't for them we wouldn't need to do this, would we? It was as though he had only just, that second, made the connection, a light had finally gone on in his mind,   maybe that really was the case.  That fat oaf, Carmichael, our hypocrite MP, 

Wossat, poor people, sorry, can't hear you.
I'm seckatry of state for Jock, you know, ho ho ho.

As we predicted, LibDem Big Al is so far doing a great job for the Tribesmen.
Here, in a national debate, he is being Sturgeoned good and proper; every commentator saying that he made a fool of himself.

'as he been down, getting his picture taken,  the useless piece of shit, poncing about?  He stopped following me at that point, wouldn't know who his MP was,  and I bit my tongue anyway, none of it was his fault, except that on reflection he'll think I'm a nutter,  that'll be his fault.

Mrs ishmael was beside herself,  winding herself up, like she does, anxious, worrying; why aren't we paying old people enough money, just to live on, be warm, not be hungry,  we have all this money for war 

- the occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan have cost the UK, conservatively, £20,000,000,000 and achieved worse than fuck all -  and we have food banks, here, in our country.  

Because, darling, of people like Carmichael and people like the Salvation Army, ever willing to hold Villainy's coat, as long as, for a brief moment,  they are in Celebrity's  flickering limelight. Charity is the new rock'n'roll.  Utter filth, like the Windsor gang, have their own charities, Hollywood slags have their own charities, are given charity ambassadorships by thieving gangsters at the UN;  charities like Barnardos have been pimping vulnerable children for decades.  Don't argue, they tried it with me.  Father Hudson's Homes, in Birmingham,  the noncing monsignors,  appointed by His unHoliness, himself;  papal knight Savile,  the greatest charity fundraiser in history; convents full of bitter, harridan brutes, stealing children, enslaving children, torturing children.  How many times, how many times, how many times ?

Mrs ishmael  knows all this stuff, she's worked among human wreckage all her life, the fragile and feckless, washed up on the shores of Insolence,  the meek and mild, disinherited that the Proud may strut.  There's nothing she doesn't know about the over-reach of the state,  the cruelty of its officers.  It was just such a slap in the face, the weasely Tesco sanctimony,  the justifying of Ian Duncan Smith's criminality, - yesterday, some city spivs awarded themselves billions in seasonal bonuses - as though this vile foodbank palaver was no more than an exercise in community singing, was not a clebration of shame. Ah-one-two-three-four  Let's all piss in the faces of the poor. 

 It's the willingness of the community to engage, docile and compliant,  in this charitable sleight of hand and feel good about itself,  that's what shocked her.

Don't get upset, get mad, been telling you for years, charity bandits are part of the problem, sweeping up after the offence, paying themselves bundles of idiotmoney, donated by idiotdonors to salve their idiotconsciences.  And in a way the Salvation Army is worse because its careerists award themselves Ruritanian ranks and ribbons, like the Prince of fucking Wales;  the other ranks, the buglers and the charity shop attendants, they're strictly voluntary, but the Captains and Majors are like all Captains and Majors.  Paving slabs,  that's the thing, lamp posts, crucify the bastards, let them be martyrs, instead of  being do-gooders for Ruin.  Jesus, of course, would've considered Himself a private.     Don't think it's very much to do with Jesus, though, the Salvation Army.

I never responded to the seeker and I haven't had a letter for a while now but the next time I'm in London I will pop-in and see the Major, in his missing persons HQ and put the fear of God in him.  

An afterthought on Money being the root of all evil, courtesy of mr verge.


Worse than dodgy Mark Thatcher, this  but couldn't happen to a more deserving family.  Brother Dominic is a failed, whining,  right-wing hack, migrant guest from Filth-O-Graph to Mail to Independent, probably his next stop is the Redditch Advertiser.  Pops is a freak show, an eighty-two year old with strangely thick, richly coloured  auburn hair and a recurring penchant for women young enough to be his grandchildren.  

On marrying his second, trophy, wife,  the former chancellor - catchphrase: unemployment is a price worth everybody else paying  -  Big Fat Nigel Lawson shed stones of lard so quickly that one would think he was on speed.  But no, he wrote a book about a miracle diet that he'd invented.  And everybody believed it.  Everybody but me. And anybody else with any sense. 

 Now, in his dotage, his Lordship maintains that despite a gazillion extra people on the planet,  churning out body warmth and burning fuel for heating and cooking; despite everyone in the developed and developing world  blasting the atmosphere with all their cooking, heating and lighting devices; their cars, their trains, their planes; despite the massive expansion of light and heavy industries and the massive Oriental and Asian expansion of coal-fired power stations, despite all this extra heat a closed biosphere can easily and harmlessly absorb and neutralise it all,  maintaing a steady, business-friendly temperature, doesn't matter what the thermometers say, there is no such thing as global warming.  He's a fool or a knave, probably both and the sooner he's dead and shut the fuck up, the better. 

What is certain is that as well as proudly being a Thatcher spiv, he is a nasty, amoral, narcissistic, elderly predator.  No wonder his daughter is a fuck-up; shaking her tits at the nation, at her age; doing food as soft porn.  I have never seen more than a few seconds of her dreadful show but it was enough; corny and hammy,  pouting and slurping and licking, ridiculous rubbish,  

I can't see Lawson's culinary bump'n'grind arousing even a fourteen-year old schoolboy,  who normally walks around with a permanent hard-on, but the telly folk loved her,  she is Oxbridge, after all.

And now, former hubby, Champagne Charlie,  is pissing into her souffle erotique.  It's lovely to see but barring a jail sentence she will survive it all, the charmed circle of celebrity knows how to care for its own.  People will be taking sides as we speak,  the poor woman, such a shame, all she ever wanted to do was help us cook and this nasty brute is saying all these terrible things.  Or, I dunno how poor Charles put up with her, she was an absolute horror, selfish, spoiled and a dreadful drug addict.  The TitFoodies will win of course and Lawson will be rehabiltated, her struggle serialised in the Mail,  a new series launched, with much greater depth and maturity, following her ordeal.  Cookery Confessions of a Crack Whore, PBC2.  Don't miss it.

Friday, 29 November 2013




 There comes a letter, every Christmas, it's not to me, it's from a childhood friend of mrs ishmael.  The good thing about it is that it's not one of those grotesque, braying, ink-jetted roundrobin affairs, filled with self-praise and  how wonderfully the children  and increasingly the grandchildren are doing, the horrid little bastards.  I must say we don't get any of those any more, we no longer know such mechanised and conceited authors,  we have done but we don't anymore.  A mental hygiene recommendation would be to swifty clear one's life of such dross, to just mercilessly fuck them off out of it, out into the Land of Arseholery. That's what I do, anyway.

Susan's letter came early this year.  I have read  about thirty of her letters, without ever meeting her or even seeing her photograph.  They all contained just nice, homely news -  school results, weddings, illnesses, how Dave was doing in his job - and they all came from the same, Northern address,  the same house that she and Dave had married into.   Although she was mrs ishmael's  childhood friend her annual letter was a comfort to me, stabilising and reassuring;  never thought of her through the rest of the year but the little note chronicling her uncomplicated life was a seasonal treasure.

This letter came early, providently including her change-of-address postcard in advance of mrs ishmael sending her yearly update.  And the change-of-address postcard came enfolded in  an explanatory  sheet of paper.  She had moved South, to live adjacent to one of her children;  after forty-three years of marriage, Dave had left her.

I guess it happens all the time, every time you turn around there's another hardluck story;  people's ability to damage one another is, as we know, limitless.  I can understand this desertion in ten-, twenty-, twenty-five year marriages but after forty-three years of blameless, conformist living,  you have to think it must be something dramatic  which wrought this change and although one's sympathy is spontaneously with Susan one wonders what it was, what was wrong  about those forty-three years that he could just walk away from them. We'll never know what feuding dualities co-existed,  what irritations went unvented, what individuality lay smothered under a myriad such Christmas billets doux;  maybe it was by the writings to others of steady domestic progress towards the grave that Susan camouflaged  the chasm beneath her plodding feet.    

I hope that their remaining time proves to be - from whatever over-niced  existence they shared - a liberation,  despite their wrecking my Christmas, selfish bastards.             

Wednesday, 27 November 2013



Actually, Mister Seckatry, manlove is,

 in my view, indeed, 
in my judgement, rather preferable.

 Is that right, bubba? 
You do that shit, that, um shit shit?

That's not how I would, in my considered judgement, describe it but clearly that is what it is; the downside, of course 
 being just the, ah,  might I say inevitable miscarriages...

You sayin' that fairies have miscarriages?
How's that, dude?

 Well, it is ay strange thing, Mr Seckatry.  
You see, whenever anyone calls me gay,
 which is nearly every day,
my long-suffering official wife, Fffffffion..................

She what you Limeys call a beard...?

Yes, quite, ay, ah,  beard, but she  has to have ay miscarriage or two,
just to indicate to the press that I give her her fair share of what I believe you Americans call Meat'n'Potatoes. Even though I don't.

They call you a faggot much of the time, then....?????

Largely so. Pretty much, ah, always.

Jeez, these Limey fairies, what are they like.
By the way, foreign seckatry, my new face hasn't slid off, has it?

No, it hasn't, 'srather attractive actuallyI do like that in a man, a plastic face.   Is President Hillary Trousers having one, too?
Ay face lift, Mr Seckatry, I merely ask is she having ay facelift, too?

Fucked if I know, how would ya tell?

Gimme that fucking job.
I must have that fucking job.
I deserve that fucking job 

She's a fucking raving mad dyke, ain't she?  Mad as a fuckin' hatter. And who could blame her, what, with ole Spunky Bill stuffing her full of the contents of a tobacconist's store every Saturday night, ya don't think he just done that shit with little Monica Lewotsit, do ya? 

Yo, sweet thing, I want y'all to think of me 
as a big brother, doin' some good ole incest on your ass.

Hey, purty first Lady,Hillary,  y'all wanna  just walk around the Oval Office for me with a Havana ceegar stickin' outa yer ass, eh? 
 That ceegar still in there, bitch?
Just so long as I get to be president, big boy.

An' if yer real good I'll jizz all over yer dress, bitch. Don'tya just love it when I talk dirty presidential talk to ya?   

A fine man and a fine president, William Jefferson Clinton;  a thief, a liar, a massmurderer and a whoremaster;  a great, great American. Ya know BillyBoy, he toasted a mentally ree-tarded nigger on his first Inauguration Day,

 just to show he wasn't soft on crime.  

Yeah, burn, baby burn.
And don't. Stop.  Thinkin' about tomorrow.

Guilty, what was the nigger guilty of?  Hell, he was a nigger, ain't that enough? But no,  she's one a your kind, Hills,

 well, not exactly one of your kind

 but ya know what I mean.

Yes, quite, what we would call ay muncher... 
A muncher? 
Carpet, carpet muncher ...
'Sat what you call them down the Conservative GayBlackLesbianTransgender Association? Only joking. I know your folks don't go for them perversions.  Leastways those a your folks that's left after you legalised faggot marriage and let all the gipsies in.
And anyway, can't you just tell everybody the baby's gone tits-up, fucked, SNAFU, you could say the little fucker failed to initialise or something; I mean you don't have to prove the bitch dropped one out, gasping an' lookin' like fried eggs covered in tomaytoe ketchup, do you?
Oh, I rather think I do........
Why in Hell's that?
Well,  I have to show the newspapers the scans and x-rays and all that stuff .......
And why ya gotta do that?
Because if I don't nobody will believe ay single word I say.  About not being gay.


But personal troubles aside, I do believe we done sorted this Eye-ran shit. Goddamned beardy sonsafuckinbitches.
You ran where, Mr Seckatry?
God fucking dammit, HagueyBoy, Eye-ran's the place we're in.
Ah, I see, like aloominum.
Like what?  Never mind, don't explain, it'll just be some Limey dogshit.  But we do seem to have at least made a start.  Sorted all that centrifuge shit, gonna give 'em back some of their own money. let their sick folks have some medicine, but not too much. Them coke-snortin', head-choppin' cocksuckers in Saudi Arabia ain't too happy, whole deal put 'em off their sheeps eyeballs, fithy fuckin' savages.  But fuck 'em anyway, we already let 'em away with 9/11, what the fuck else do they want?  Main thing's keeping Hymie onside. Y'know, Billyboy, some of my best friends are Hymies, trouble is, though,  mosta them seem to be Jews.  This Israel shithole, seems to be fulla fuckin' Jewboys.

 I beg your pardon, Mr Seckatry.
You didn't really say that, did you?
Yeah, fuck me Jesus, they seem to be crawling all over the fucking place, crying and banging their dumbfuck Hymie heads against the wall,

 like the whole motherfucking world was just one big Temple to Abraham, or whoever the fuck it was held a knife to his kid's throat. Anybody'd think they won the fucking war, the Hymies, the way they go on.
Well, I hardly think so, Mr Seckatry,  I hardly think that.

Well, maybe, but at least that war got them a country they've been desperate to steal offa the Ay-rabs for thousandsa fuckin' years.  Just marched in here and stole the whole fuckin' place, just like that.  An' the nukes, where do they get off, bitchin' at Eye-ran,  kike sonsafuckinbitches got huge amountsa secret nukes, secret bugbombs, secret nervebombs, fuckin' uranium shells,  plutonium blowpipes, napalm flamethrowers an' enough landmines to blanket the fuckin' Sahara.  Hymie's pointin' that shit at every bastard on Earth.  Takes his orders from some stone-age books  written on fuckin' goatskin an' full of fuckin' superstition,  worse than  our own Creationist assholes back home.  An' he, too, Hymie, just like Ahmed, he don't give a fuck either, if he blows us all to bitsa fuckin' shit, goin' home to Jehovah, goin' home to Allah,  they're all the fuckin' same.  No point playing lawyer shit with Eye-ran, not when  all that Hymie arsenal's fuckin' illegal and no motherfucker says fuck all about it.

But, Mr Seckatry, didn't you, ah, sell them all these weapons?

Shit, no, boy, we give 'em that shit.  
Didn have no choice, Capitol Hill's got Hymies comin' out the cupboards, hidin' in the fuckin' johns, lurkin' in the fuckin' corridors, just waitin' to bribe decent white christian anglo-saxon legislators with their filthy Hymie gold.

Mainstream America.

No, it ain't right, BillyBoy,  if the Jews got nukes and gas and megadeathshit, then why not the Eye-raynians?  Just as long as Uncle Sam got a thousand times as many as anyone else, shouldn't be a problem.  And ten million men - and broads - under arms.

But Mr Seckatry, you don't, with the, ah, greatest respect,
 have that large ay military.

Just you wait til I'm in the White House, boy, I'll militarise the whole fuckin' nation.  Trust me, I'm a liberal. 

Tuesday, 26 November 2013


Like a lot of English folksong, Spencer the Rover was written down and preserved by generations of the Copper Family of Sussex, to be revived by the likes of Fairport Convention, Steeleye Span and John Martyn. Martyn was part-gabshite, part-genius, his drinking, his contrariness and his diabetes leading eventually to amputation and early death; so far I've avoided both, more by luck than judgement, but have come closer than I'd like. Driving across Scotland recently with Martyn on the player I kinda re-evaluated him and his work; his own compositions are psalms for our times, hewn from his anger as he hurtled to the graveyard called Excess.
 These fuckers at Transatlantic Sessions manage to unfailingly over-syrup everything they touch, their company rich in virtuosity but not a musician amongst them. Spencer the Rover just manages to survive the sugar rush; the album version is far superior, worth however long it takes.

Monday, 25 November 2013


I have a soft spot for Owen, just a small one, his heart is in the right place, just that his head is up his arse;  he works as a commentator on the dreadful Independent so he can't be all good and the amount of exposure he gets on stuff like Question Time means that  like Billy Bragg and Benjamin Poet,  he is just another one of Power's licensed rebels,  nothing wrong with being a Fool, I'm one myself but Owen isn't a fool such as I,  he confines his foolery to nostalgifying about a mythical halcyon day, during which writers, playwrights, hacks like himself and politicians coalesced into a band of brothers whose sole purpose was dignifying their horny-handed brothers, ennobling the clothcap and the public bar, fighting the good fight,  the rich writer in his castle, the poor labourer at his gate;  nauseating, really, if a little easier to digest than today's cross-party spiverry If only we could get back, he implied, last night,  to the days when party politics was genuine and when artists were radical,  that's all we have to do.  As bad, in his own way as Michael Spit-Gove's educational back to the futurism, is Jones's longing for decent, transformative teevee.

Believing that things stayed still,  something I find impossible to do, Owen wrote a proper, grown up  book, Chavs, The Demonisation of the Working Class, which was a well-intentioned but belated study of spite; an examination of how skymadeupnewsandfilth, in all its guises, trashed and vilified the poor for their poverty.  It's what I called, years ago, Cruelty TeeVee. 

 I remember, also, en passant, damning the cock-waving, class-traitoring, hypocrite lard bucket, John Prescott - one of Owen's tribe - for his use without irony of the term Underclass, the cheeky, fat, money-grubbing arsehole.  Prescott, for his despicable Blair-stooging should be first on the People's Guillotine, followed by his Mrs;  working class heroes, both.

In this televised lecture to a tame audience Owen earnestly damned  programmes like Jeremy Kyle, Shameless and, well, I can't remember any more of his specific examples, even though I saw the programme  less than twenty four hours ago,  they could all, in any event,  these series - Skint, was that one of them, variations, anyway, on scrutinising the benefit claimants' fecklessness -  they could all have been  written by whichever  cunt wrote George Osborne's Weimar Republic Curtains speech.

In contrast with this shit and with soul-bludgeoning predictabilty,  Owen cited Boys From The Black Stuff and God fucking help us, Cathy Come Home, as the twin pinnacles of social justice delivered  via the idiot box.  Oh, if only, Owen seemed to say, if only we lived in the good old bad old days, still, of Alan Bleasdale and Carla Lane and Jimmy McGovern and Jeremy Sandford. Jones's confirmation of the - non-existent - impact of Cathy Come Home was that lotsa people watched it, just as as they do Strictly Come Dancing.  Quite a confused young man, actually, is Owen;  ratings and social justice are not the same thing;  the Ratings War, in which the PBC should never have engaged, is just one septic province of Murdoch's cultural colonisation, a signpost on Ruin's Highway;  that Owen engages in its battles shows the paucity of his principles.

The paradox,  the contradiction in Jones's lecture - and I must say I could only bear to watch half of it, strolling about in his shirt he seemed like Ed Nobody-Miliband on speed  
Give that man a Workers' Bafta.

- is that as the dogs in the street know, if all this wonderful, gripping, social realism docu-drama was worth more than a cup of piss then things wouldn't be as bad as they now are, would they?     

The fact of  TeeVee's losing battle with the bewildering cornucopia of cyber devices is no consolation,  all that stuff is worse,  much worse, than Owen Jones's ossified sixth-form  mewlings but  I'm tired, nevertheless,  bone-weary  of telly moralists,  tired of people who confuse - as does Jones - showbusiness with reality  and would similarly and wilfully confuse me.  

One of the biggest and most corrosive conspiracies of our time, uniquely of our time, is that of those working for skymadeupnewsandfilth,  the PBC - whatever you want to call it - against those watching it.  In acknowledging that, of course, jumped-up Wheldon song-and-dance lecturers like Owen Jones  would be pissing in their own champagne.           .

Sunday, 24 November 2013



This is the news from Gerry and Cilla McCann's PR team - the British Government -  that they're  now convinced that the infamous master assassin was seen near their Portugese  apartment carrying a blonde-haired, very well cared for and perfectly properly parented neglected child.

It was sometime between Oswald's second and third impossibly accurate head shots 

that he slipped from the Book Depository, into the famous Texan Time Tunnel, through Time and in   - a micro-nano-milli-second - into Portugal.  Once there, he grabbed the missing child, walked past several witnesses who can now identify him positively, warped his way back to 1963 and took,  from behind the president,  the final shot which  blew his head to fucking pieces, from the front.

Holder of the illustrious UN Child Welfare medal, as well as Viz magazine's Biggest Cunt of All Time award, Dr Gerry McCann 


sneered that it was very well known among intelligent people,  like Cilla and himself and their staff -  that as Mrs Kennedy climbed frantically across the back of the doomed Lincoln - strange that, isn't it, if I was a president I wouldn't ever, ever travel in a car called a Lincoln - gathering-up her-soon-to-be-late husband's brains,

 she saw, in the distant book depository, a very well parented blonde child who could only have been from the future. 

 The former First Lady would often, in later life, wonder who the little girl was but was too busy  at the dressmaker's or the hairdesser's or  with being taken, 

Greek-Style, up the Acropolis, by her second husband, the dwarf Aristotle Ownalottashipsis.  

Although she never said anything officially about this, JackieO is known to have gossiped about it widely among her jetset court of pimps, slags, whores, rentboys and drugdealers.

This proves beyond doubt, continued Dr Gerry, 

 that the Portugese police sent an agent back in time and  recruited Mr Oswald to steal our little girl whilst we were very responsibly getting pissed, some way away from the apartment where we had locked her securely in, or not locked her in, depending on which sounds best.

Cilla and I have said all along that there was a link between the Kennedy Assassination and the abduction of Maaaaadlin.  This proves it.  

And if anyone says different we will sue them for every penny they have.

Fuck, not those two again

In Downing Street, unelected prime minister Cameron  said This may well be a job for a Time Lord.  Clearly, like my friends Mr Coulson and Ms Skanky,
 the McCanns are innocent of anything, of everything in fact.
 As am I.
 I did not have sexual relations with that woman.
Or her horse.

Later, in the house, Mr Cameron continued....And having lost a child myself, Mr Tiny Speaker, people can rely on me to safeguard the NHS by not re-organising it or selling it off to Mr Lansley's friends, which I am busy doing.  No, sorry, this isn't about the NHS, is it, slipped off message there, it's just that Gerry and Cilla are both fine doctors, fine people, and, let's be clear about this, who hasn't left their kid alone at the pub, or wherever, certainly not me.  No, I'm sure I speak for all in this house when I say that the PBC should do the right thing and make an episode of Doctor Who  which proves beyond all doubt that the McCanns are   right in everything they say, however  bizarre, incredible and insulting it sounds  to the rest of us.  I call on the PBC for once to do the right thing.   

cheers, waving of order papers, hear-hears.

Speaking  at Paedo House, the new Doctor Who, that jock prick luvvie, Capaldi,

 said  to young a fan,  SeeYouYaWeeFairy, if ye dinnae do as I tell ye, I'll rip off yer stupid fag heid and shit doon yer throat, now, fuck off oota here and wait fer me in  the Savile Suite.

Bravo!  Gosh, isn't he wonderful, screeched the assembled 
Doctor Who production team, our jobs're safe for another fifty years.