NEWS FROM CHIPPING SODOM,
HOME OF DESPERATELY WANNABE WARMONGER, FATBOY CAMERON; OF FAT, INFANTILE, MURDOCH BUFFOON, CLARKSON; OF WICKED, WITCHY BECKY BROOKS & HER HOUSEBOY, FAT PORNO CHARLIE AND OF POOR LITTLE RICH TROLLOP, FORTY-SOMETHING PLAYGIRL, JEMIMA KAHN.
Jemimes, it seems, has been roughing it with ageing Lothario, Mr Russell Brand. Famous for being himself, Mr Brand, once feted by your correspondent for the novelty of his comedic ideas but now just another doomed, tawdry showbusiness slag, is being applauded and celebrated for joining the line - someway behind Hugh Grant - of celebrity Jemima-fuckers and claiming, as he always does, bless, that this time, it's the real thing; Jemimes is being applauded and celebrated for appearing in a 'photo without her make-up, for cancer. Yes, I know, it is an oddly skewed world which has come about, wherein a worthless idle slut like this is praised for appearing as she is and that people need, in order to give2charidee, bribing with a glimpse of some old whore's pimples.
That epic distortion aside, Russ and Jemimes are in the news, well the rapidly collapsing Filth-O-Graph, anyway, for a backfiring attempted threesome. Hoping to give FunnyBoy a birthday to remember, Jem hired a visiting lady to give him what she described as a massage and sent a car and a few hundred quid to bring this person from London to her mansion in Cotswoldia's Chipping Cameron, surely the most rancid and toxic and wholly amoral hamlet in the country, stuffed, as it is with people like those at the top of the post, there to ease Russel's muscular tensions.
It all turned to shit, anyway, for reasons not made entirely clear in the Filth-O-Graph, and the cops were called but no charges made. I think the masseuse was one of those EuroGippoes, so what self-respecting Inspector Filth would take her word over that of two members of the slag aristocracy.
Both divorced, both having fun, nothing wrong with that and Jemimah, anyway, is the otherwise unemployable daughter of one of our most unprincipled, predatory capitalists, why shouldn't she buy some foreign pussy for her boyman, Russell, it probably runs in the family, that sort of thing, Daddy, Sir James Goldsmith, his life wallpapered with injunctions, certainly lived in a menage of at least trois, why shouldn't she do the same?
The grinning cheeky chappie, Brand, though, he's council house, isn't he, single-parented and by his own account some sort of revolutionary socialist; paying a foreigner to spice-up his sex life seems a bit running dog capitalist to me.
Honey, if that's movin' up then I'm movin' out
The reason this sort of thing backfires is that - like Lord FatJohn Prescott on the croquet lawn - arrivistes like Brand think that in banging the repulsive Jemimah he's changing his status when all he's done is change his forelock for his foreskin.
That epic distortion aside, Russ and Jemimes are in the news, well the rapidly collapsing Filth-O-Graph, anyway, for a backfiring attempted threesome. Hoping to give FunnyBoy a birthday to remember, Jem hired a visiting lady to give him what she described as a massage and sent a car and a few hundred quid to bring this person from London to her mansion in Cotswoldia's Chipping Cameron, surely the most rancid and toxic and wholly amoral hamlet in the country, stuffed, as it is with people like those at the top of the post, there to ease Russel's muscular tensions.
It all turned to shit, anyway, for reasons not made entirely clear in the Filth-O-Graph, and the cops were called but no charges made. I think the masseuse was one of those EuroGippoes, so what self-respecting Inspector Filth would take her word over that of two members of the slag aristocracy.
Both divorced, both having fun, nothing wrong with that and Jemimah, anyway, is the otherwise unemployable daughter of one of our most unprincipled, predatory capitalists, why shouldn't she buy some foreign pussy for her boyman, Russell, it probably runs in the family, that sort of thing, Daddy, Sir James Goldsmith, his life wallpapered with injunctions, certainly lived in a menage of at least trois, why shouldn't she do the same?
The grinning cheeky chappie, Brand, though, he's council house, isn't he, single-parented and by his own account some sort of revolutionary socialist; paying a foreigner to spice-up his sex life seems a bit running dog capitalist to me.
Honey, if that's movin' up then I'm movin' out
The reason this sort of thing backfires is that - like Lord FatJohn Prescott on the croquet lawn - arrivistes like Brand think that in banging the repulsive Jemimah he's changing his status when all he's done is change his forelock for his foreskin.
26 comments:
This brought to mind John Julius Norwich's descriptions of the "Papal Pornocracy" - rule by prostitutes. Perhaps we are a 'Neo-Pornocracy'?! SG
I remember seeing a bit of Brand being interviewed by Paxman - the Apotheosis of Ruin; Brand babbling a mile a minute ("Iwannachangethenarrative") as though he'd just been buttfucked with a rolled-up copy of the University of Sussex media studies prospectus and it was spilling back out the other end. Haven't turned anything off as urgently til last night's accidental glimpse of Kylie's puss-in-bootikins horrorshow in Jockland.
verge///
Brand did used to be alright - almost whimisical and ironic yet inoffensively so and quite willing to have the piss taken out of him as though he were the MC and entreated us to join him in some satire de nos jours.
But then, as is so often with these cases, he got himself clean and started believing himself some erudite drug counsellor par excellence using his pride and conceit to rail against current drug policy - failing, completely, to understand the limitations of government to legislate, in part, for decriminilisation to be adopted for the services only come in to play for many when they're faced with the stick of incarceration. That most users, unable as he was, pay for their skag by foul means and are usually one man crime waves - the use of amnesty in such circumstances taking us into the land of equivalence where the perpetrator is really the victim when most rational people would cry 'not on your fucking nelly, he's not'.
And now, full home made arrogance established, he's wailing at the walls of democratic legitimacy or societal consent with less than a by your leave as to protecting minorities or how to administer compromise - it's like the ravings of a petulant teenager, unsullied as is their want to the vagueries of regulation, restriction or propriety. Again, fair play, I guess but even though Newsnight has become the PBC's output for the polytechnic undergraduate clique - it really is taking the piss to give the lad air time. I remember watching Michael Ignatieff interviewing Isiah Berlin - may have been the late show - but in 20 years to go from critcisms of liberty to reformed alcoholic bottom guff is quite a fast paced ride on Ruin's highway.
And actually, mr dtp, I thought Ignatieff was pretty fucking dire but I know what you mean. He fucked off back to Canada and led some pseudo liberal party to its worst defeat in history; what can you expect from a man who describes his occupation, in his passport, as thinker.
I don't know what Brand's view is but I would decriminalise eveything, curtail this monstrous, impertinent overreach of the criminal law and let drug use find its own level, for as things are the rich junkie is soireed in Downing Street and the poor junky goes to jail; somehow or another a rich junky seems to be able to self-sentence to Re-hab pre-emptively and all other charges are dropped. And in any event I don't know what is meant by Re-hab; if it works, it only works in the My-kull How-ard, Prison Works sense; they don't do it while they're in there, which is meaningless.
That's slim pickings, mr verge, Kylie Minogue, Christ, her name and the words erotic or sexy don't belong on the same page, not for me, anyway, although she does it for millions; some kind of sub-division of beasting, these KylieWankers.
I know nothing about the woman apart from staring at her name and realising that it is an anagram of 'minge you like'.
Perhaps a near-anagram, mr mirage,
Sister of Tory eco-wideboy, Zac Goldsmith, daughter of Sir Jams Fishpaste, bandit, roue, megalomaniac and the original EuroSceoptic tycoon; former wife of cricket idol, Imran Kahn and former bitch of Hugh Grant and that lot.
The man(?) is sick. He needs aid, but all he will get in the end is aids.
Jemima Khan no good for anagrams. Jemima Goldsmith, on the other hand, gives us GIMLET MOM'S JIHAD.
verge///
(it now appears the luvverly couple are suing the mass-ooze.)
Magic. They're suing her. Fuck me, Jesus.
Hush, mr alphons, you'll get us in trouble. Everyone knows that AIDS was invented by straight homophobes, living lives of disgusting, filthy normalcy.
I was anagramising K.M. Mr. Ishmael. One of the more interesting jobs in my career at the arse end of publishing was the setting of cryptic crosswords. I even managed to cause trouble there.
As for the Khan's, I automatically prefix them with the (non)Christian name 'Ufarkhin'.
Brand has what the Chinese call "four eye white", where the whites of his eyes are visible all around the iris. It is a sign of incurable insanity. Poor Jemima. Brought up to love narcissists and psychopaths.
It must be those stupid pills which I take, mr mirage, sorry; Kylie, of course. I wish that Pete Waterman'd fall in front of one of his steam locomotives.
I knew there was something, ms lilith, about Brand's features,, and that does make sense. Seems about right on Jemima, too, 'tsa family having an affair with itself, brother, Zac, is Narcissus made flesh, if you watch, you can see him playing with himself, as each green soundbite rolls from his pink lips, his golden frame. Pretty boys. Yuk.
Mr Ishmael:
Your fame proceeds before you (see comments):
http://hat4uk.wordpress.com/2014/08/05/were-only-human-worse-luck-celebrating-the-centenary-of-mass-slaughter-while-condemning-it-in-gaza/
Sorry, make that 'precedes'.
But anyway, I declaim you too as a WOTHO (wordSmith of the highest order).
Aye, I read that post, mr mirage, I think I wrote it, too, some years ago, most of it.
Zac is my ex's image. To the extent that I double take when I see him in photos. Then I remember that my ex these days looks more like Zac's portrait in the attic...is this his secret?
Jemima bet a few quid on that Assange person too when she put up his bail. That worked out well for her.
Christ, musta been a fight for the mirrors in your house, ms lilith, with a bloke like that. Of our exes, mrs ishmael's is brown bread, while mine is black-hearted; both, God be praised, out the frame, so to speak.
I am perplexed about the need to ship the not-apparently-a-hooker from London for the gig. Do they not have their own not-hookers over there? Or did she just get there and the sight of the reptile brought up her supper?
I hadn't worked out the mad, staring eyes thing but, yes, very disturbing. I suspect though that nature has had help from chemistry.
Chipping Norton; Christ, for druggies, slappers, losers, crooks, ponces and wastrels it must be worse than any sink estate.
“These dwell among the blackest souls,loaded down deep by sins of differing types.If you sink far enough,you'll see them all.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno. (SG sans Foreword).
Thirty years ago, I loved the Cotswolds and I'd take an old aunt-in-law for Sunday afternoon tea, now the area is simply verminous, Jemimas and Jeremys and the filth who ponce off them, as they ponce off us.
Bigger fleas have smaller fleas upon their backs to bite 'em, and smaller fleas have smaller fleas, and on, ad infinitum
Are they relevant anymore? Why have people that have as much relevance as a wankstain still walking around tv land?
You’d think when they come out of rehab they’d fuck of and shut the fuck up…but no…they’re back on media with a new formed fuckishness parading their point of fucking view for all to be in awe of….cunts
Because there is no business like showbusiness, mr shoulders; be we looking-in or looking-out, we gaze, shitfully, on the worst of ourselves; the viewed and the viewer, each as bad the other. Just say no to showbiz. We can frame our own imaginings, now more than ever. Who needs Bruce Forsyth and his cavalcade of vile grotesques?
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