THE PRINCES AND THE PAEDOS. LIFE IN RURITANIA.

THE BROTHERS BATTENBERG.

 LONG TO REIGN OVER US.

You could be forgiven for thinking that in Charles and Andrew we have two of the most adept and impudent benefits cheats in the world. Were their housing, clothing, transport, food, staff, sporting, travel, booze and totty allowances terminated and reclaimed, the rest of us might feel fewer of Austerity’s unjust barbs. That we might also reconsider the status of our own births compared to that of Baby King George, the new Child Emperor, would be a further benefit. There may, however, be something even worse than their sponging and poncing - can it be that we are funding,  idiotically and sycophantically, the lifestyles, families and various orbital creatures of two Battenbergs up to their inbred arses in child sexual abuse?

THE ORDER OF THE BEAST

His Royal Highness Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Extra Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Grand Master and Principal Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Member of the Order of Merit, Knight of the Order of Australia, Companion of the Queen's Service Order, Member of Her Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, Aide-de-Camp, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland; friend, confidante and admirer of the late Sir James Savile, disc jockey, charity worker, bully, thug, serial child sexual offender and rumoured necrophiliac.

AND A COMPANION OF HONOUR.

 

Sir James Wilson Vincent "Jimmy" Savile

Order of the British Empire,

Knight Commander of the Pontifical Equestrian Order of Saint Gregory the Great; LLD from Leeds University*; Fellow of the Royal College of Radiologists; Cross of Merit of the Order pro merito Meletensi; green beret from HM Royal Marines; PhD from the University of Bedfordshire*.          

(* posthumously rescinded.)

THE ORDER OF THE BEAST.

His Royal Highness The Prince Andrew Albert Christian Edward, Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, Baron Killyleagh, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order, Canadian Forces Decoration, Aide de Camp to Her Majesty. His Royal Highness has innumerable medals, honours,  colonelcies and admiralcies, most of them bestowed upon him by his  doting mother, Bad Queen Brenda. His Royal Highness is friend, confidante and associate of notorious and hugely wealthy  child sexual offender, Mr Jeffrey Epstein, maintaining their close relationship before, during and after Mr Epstein's imprisonment on child sexual abuse charges.

 

AND A COMPANION OF HONOUR

The Prince and the Paedo.

Epstein is a wealthy, New York financier and child pimp who, as well as Andy Battenberg, has other powerful friends in high places, notably in the lawnforcement and prosecutorial authorities in Florida, where he was able to improperly secure a plea-bargain deal by which he was sentenced to a mere thirteen months for a catalogue of sustained, international child slavery and sexual abuse offences but  he has connections, also, among international filthsters,
such as the disgusting Spunky Bill.

Ah feel yo' pussy, I mean yo' tits, 
no, shucks, I mean yo' pain, 
course I do.

Spunky Bill, of course, is notorious for sexually mistreating a young woman intern whilst president of the United States and then deploying his administration to bully and harass her, which might sound like a playbook Andrew and his helpmeets would recognise and admire.

 Epstein also appears to have enjoyed connections to the likes of Peter Mandelson, Tony Blair, Donald Trump, Mick Jagger, and Charlie Spencer, Duke of Earl, a worthless, idle British aristo-ponce no one would have heard of if it wasn’t for his poor, mad sister, Diana, and that funeral speech written for him by, it is said, his priapic school chum, King BoJo of London.

 as yet uninvestigated over his dodgy past;

These, the great and the good, whose lives and doings we are expected to admire, these, amongst many others, are known to have either attended Epstein’s sordid orgies or to have been his friends and associates.

     Andy’s wife, Fergie - Sarah, SlapperDuchess of York - who historically solicits bribes in exchange for meetings with her former husband*, was loaned, as they call it, a large sum of money by Epstein, in order to settle yet more pressing debts, despite the fact that Andy’s family is among the richest in the world. Dare we assume that, in exchange, the Duchess became a member of Epstein’s sex circle? Are those too old for him to be interested in fucking induced to pay their debts by pimping, or by entertaining some potentate in Epstein’s circle of beasts? It seems unlikely she’d have been  employed by Epstein as a Weight-Watching consultant, when it’s said cocaine is much more fun; regrettably we may be tempted to imagine poor Sarah blowing snow up Epstein’s arse while he was buggering a child, a right royal knees-up all round.

(*The famous NOTW sting, where Fergie was filmed asking for £500,000 from Fake Sheikh Mazher Mahmood, is a matter of record. She was later reported to be suing NOTW owner Rupert Murdoch for £45 million in damages…to cover loss of earnings. Honest, not invent.)

Sarah, SlapperDuchess of York.

Andy and Sarah, despite their divorce, live together in a small house (i.e. country pile) which is part of the Crown Estate, in Windsor. Perhaps cohabiting made synchronising their Epstein watches easier. The last Yorkster house, which we bought them as a wedding present, proved unsuitable, as Andy wouldn’t pay to maintain it and it was bought, dilapidated, for five million pounds over the asking price, by some foreign despot princepig, who also, like Epstein, paid off some of Sarah’s debts, purely out  of the goodness of his black heart. I guess that if you’re using George Osborne’s London to launder billions in filthy money, then having  a pseudo-royal slapper like Ferguson on the payroll makes sense;  she comes cheap.

Andy, his piggy face like thunder, is now vainly trying to con us into believing that his and Fergie’s lengthy relationship with Jeffrey Epstein is not only entirely innocent but actually quite noble, princely, chivalrous, the cheeky cunt; his staff rubbish the victims and insist that he is a selfless public servant, without whom overseas British trade would collapse, even though he is an obnoxious, free-loading dickhead, good for fuck-all and in serious need of a quick rub-down with a house-brick.

 Meanwhile, his big brother, JugEars, manages to evade any scrutiny whatsoever about his lengthy personal relationship with the late Sir Jimmy Savile. Andy, pending further investigation of his imprudent association with Epstein, has behaved badly enough to be stripped of all his titles and honours and medals. His brother, however, the excuse for a man who would be king, can count himself lucky he’s not in the Tower or at the very least in the crosshairs of Operation Yewtree’s investigation into Savile-related crimes. The press should be in full, hot pursuit.

 His Royal Highness, Brian (his ponce fag courtiers will pronounce, as though it were true) gives a great deal of his time to charity and meets, therefore, many individuals from all walks of life; he simply cannot be expected to investigate the backgrounds of all of them. Shut up, therefore, don’t be impertinent, remember your place and go away.

A hundred and twenty days of Sodom,

patron, HM Queen Elizabeth the second.



^{Andy and Sarah, despite their divorce,}

 ^{live together in a small house which we gave them,}

They do keep the strangest company, the brothers Battenberg. 

Meanwhile, his big brother, JugEars, manages to evade any scrutiny whatsoever about his lengthy personal relationship with the late Sir Jimmy Savile. Andy, pending further investigation of his imprudent association with Epstein, has behaved badly enough to be stripped of all his titles and honours and medals. His brother, however, the excuse for a man who would be king, can count himself lucky he’s not in the Tower or at the very least in the crosshairs of Operation Yewtree’s investigation into Savile-related crimes. The press should be in full, hot pursuit.

 
THE PRINCE AND THE PAEDO.

His Royal Highness, Brian, his ponce fag courtiers will pronounce, as though it were true, gives a great deal of his time to charity and meets, therefore, many individuals from all walks of life;  he simply cannot be expected to investigate the backgrounds of all of them, shut up, therefore,  don't be impertinent, remember your place and go away.

Oh, Sir Jimmy, you are almost as funny as the Goons, did one tell you that one can do a rather good impersonation of Seagoon, oneself? It’s like that Ishmael chappie says, there really is no business like show-business. Unless it’s the royalty business. Or are they much the same?

 

It wasn’t just so-called charity meetings, however, which brought Brian and Jimmy together. Brian absolutely doted on him - enough reason, right there, for him to be barred from the throne.

- allowing him unprecedented access to both Highgrove and Clarence House, where it appears that Savile wandered in and out at will, molesting staff, slobbering over them*, no doubt to the Prince’s great amusement. Brian had Savile sit in on interviews conducted to select courtier-ponces and secretary-slags, allowing him the final word on who was to be, whatever it is called, Principal Private Secretary to his Highness, some such propaganda post. Savile’s opinion was canvassed by Brian on NHS reform; seriously. Savile, lest we need reminding, was a semi-literate buffoon, patently a bully and clearly a man of - at the very least -  questionable character. Brian, nevertheless, permitted Savile to edit and amend royal speeches and correspondence; maybe he had a hand in the infamous Spider Letters, in that scandal of royal meddling, the story of which the PBC has so bravely buried, at Brian’s insistence, an odious secrecy in which successive Attorneys General have colluded. Brian, quite improperly, has been lobbying ministers to change their policies and now that the Guardian is trying to see the relevant letters it has been told that the half-wit’s princely meddling is a matter of national security and to fuck off.

 *“Dickie Arbiter, who handled media relations for the Prince and Princess of Wales while spokesman for the Queen between 1988 and 2000, said the suspected paedophile TV presenter used to rub his lips up the arms of Prince Charles's young female assistants as a greeting.”

“Charles reportedly sent him a box of cigars and a pair of gold cufflinks on his 80th birthday with a note that read: Nobody will ever know what you have done for this country Jimmy. This is to go some way in thanking you for that."

The Guardian, 29 Oct 2012

We do not know if Savile brought his erudition or constitutional expertise to these letters but considering his bizarre ubiquity amongst monarchs and prime ministers it wouldn't be surprising if he had.  Nonce-protector General, Margaret Thatcher, MP, PC, MA (Oxon) was so utterly bewitched by Savile that she lobbied four years in succession for his eventual knighthood

and welcomed him regularly into her family home.

One must wonder which areas of public policy benefited from Sir Jimmy's wise scrutiny, either personally or as amanuensis to the dunderhead Prince of Wales.  Savile often shrugged-off questions about his sexuality with threats of friends in high places, as well as low. They don't come much higher than  the residents of Downing Street and the palaces.

We are expected to believe that the highest, brightest, best-in-formed and-advised  people in the land suspected nothing, heard no alarm bells as they scampered about the corridors of power in the company of this repulsive creature, telling him god-knows-what, providing wholly inappropriate sinecures. A prince or a cabinet minister need only have picked up a phone to learn the truth about Savile; even back then there were rumours which should have deterred any intimacy with the Beast of Broadmoor; we are asked to believe that no one in the palace or in Downing Street thought to run a check on such an extraordinarily presumptuous, eccentric and menacing freak.

There are only two explanations for Jimmy Savile’s having enjoyed the royal and ministerial imprimatur: either, firstly, everyone concerned in Savile’s license and promotion is unpardonably stupid, naive, wretchedly incompetent and thus unfit for office (and this applies, also, to their courtiers, SPADs and bag-carriers) or, secondly, at least one prime minister but probably more and the entire house of Battenberg-Windsor are part of the Paedophile Establishment. There is no other reasonable explanation, for until, after his death, a few victims spoke out, the whole of showbiz, royalty and politics bust a gut eulogising Sir James. Now, they expect us to believe that those who take us to war, plan our futures, guard our treasure and manage our daily affairs as well as those who will so lavishly and comfortably rule over us were all fooled, beguiled by this gross mutant, Savile, as though he didn’t have ChildMolester written all over him. The reality of course is that there are enough fellow-travellers in high place, in palaces, courts, constabularies, secretariats and newsrooms to make easy Savile’s path and, coincidentally, their own.

There might, however, be light at the end of Satan’s Noncing Tunnel. Brian is such a fucking idiot he might inadvertently blow the whistle on himself. Everything he’s touched has turned to shit; he is staggeringly inept and cack-handed; despite the best servants, tutors and advisers our money can buy for him, he is useless; how he manages to ski a hundred metres without causing injury to himself or others is a matter of wonder but his other, more serious efforts  at accomplishment and expertise fail. No matter how many arse-wipers, toothpaste-squeezers and bath-runners we employ for him, he is unable to excel at anything.

During his pretend military service he had command of a minesweeper, His Mummy's Ship, Bronington and 

All engines, Full ahead-astern

when the real Captain was asleep or off-duty, the prince, in the tradition set by his uncle Louis Battenberg, another fucking useless crash-happy mariner,

Prince of Wales to  engine room:
maximum thingies, if you please, Mr Chief Engineer.
Look lively, there.

ran the fucking thing aground. 
The records show nothing of this, instead, First Lieutenant JugEars is compared favourably to Admiral Horatio Nelson, but I remember it well.


Prince Jonah is now, of course, Admiral of the Queen's Nay-vee

In 1995, as  Prince Biggles, the fucking nincompoop  was landing a plane of the Queen's Flight in the Hebrides he royally crashed it.  The board of enquiry ruled that the official pilot, a common serviceman, and not Brian - who was actually flying the fucking thing - was to blame.

I own these fucking plane thingies, son, or I will.

Prince PilotError is now a Marshal of the Royal Air Force.

Best of all, if you can call anything about the royals best, Savile was appointed by Brian to ensure that in the days around her wedding to his brother-beast, Andy, the bride-to-be, Sloane-slapper Sarah Ferguson, behaved herself so as not to embarrass the throne, as if such a thing was possible, greedy, grubby, cowardly fucking slags that they are. That’s right, it is a matter of record; Savile, protecting the reputation of the House of Windsor. At the request of the heir to the throne.

I was just saying to mr yardarm that when you wander into this Internet nightmare of royal beasting (you won't find a word of it in  MediaMinster's output)  into  this netherworld of Ruritania-cum-Lilliput, it grows difficult to sustain a belief in Decency, in Virtue and Reason and easy to imagine that such virtues are impressed upon us only to keep us in line. How can it be that to huge public acclaim a  beasting, bullying prince weds a greedy slapper with a massage-parlouring, pisshead father 

Major Ron Handjob Ferguson.

 while the heir to throne appoints his kingdom's biggest sex criminal to keep things proper, tickety-boo, and above board. 

Mr and Mrs Battenberg-Slag.

Fuck me, Jesus, if Jonathan Swift lived now this'd fucking kill him stone dead.

I really do need some money;

why can't I just take some off the proles, 

like my mother-in-law does ?

I am a fucking Duchess, after all.

 

Sadly, like most of the Prince of Wales's plans, Savile, unsurprisingly, was unable to tame Sarah the Slapper and within months of the wedding no less a moralist that Princess Margaret wrote raspingly to Sarah, damning her for having - get this - lowered the standing of the family firm. As fucking if.

'You have done more to bring shame on the Royal Family than could ever have been imagined. Not once have you hung your head in embarrassment, even for a minute. Clearly you have never considered the damage you are doing us all. How dare you discredit us?' 

?' 

 Discredit us, fuck me gently, way to go, Maggie.  But you get the point,  even Margaret Rose, thwarted in marriage by her big sister and thereafter a freeloading,  pisshead,  trampy wreck, even Margaret was incensed  at Sarah's haughty sluttishness.

  
But the absolute best of all possible bests relating to the Prince and the Paedophile is that Brian, having consistently and contemptibly betrayed and bullied his own child bride,

 
 poor, mad Diana Spencer, driven her from her wits, 
such few as she possessed, 

then selected the bachelor nonce, Savile,
 as her personal marriage guidance counsellor

 - not their marriage guidance counsellor, hers. 

Poor girl, married to a much older man, a pampered loser, a pig, a brat and an oaf who not only from the word Go! cheats on her with another man’s wife - it is, incidentally, in the armed forces,   of which Brian is many commanders, supposedly infra-dig, a duelling matter, to fuck a fellow officer’s Mrs - but also briefs against her in the shitpress and conspires against her with his loathsome courtier-dingleberries. By now the mother of his children, Diana    is victimised by simpering palace cocksuckers and by Brian’s own wretchedly inept and grotesque parents. As if all this wasn’t enough mistreatment, her husband now seeks to deliver her into the hands of the United Kingdom’s most infamous child sex offender.         

 
 No wonder the poor woman went nuts.

Now then, now then, His Nibs tells me that a certain princess has been a naughty girl.....

Of course, it doesn’t follow, from his decades-long close friendship with Savile, that Prince Charles Arthur George is himself a beast but if he isn’t  a beast, why did he hang out with one? Why was Savile allowed such intimacy? The Battenbergs wouldn’t speak to you or me, so what was it about a world champion nonce which so seduced the Prince of Wales? Surely not his conversation or erudition; surely not his tastes in art; what was it that would lead the heir to the throne to repudiate what must have been the cautionary advice of his counsellors and consort with a low-life like Savile, not only consort with but clutch to his pampered, worthless bosom?


It is not even as though Savile was a  comedian;
he was as funny as cancer.

Brian even visited Savile's hideaway hovel.
     

and met his staff, 
in their uniforms.   
   
Such fun, living like common people.
Such a tragedy, when one lost Sir Jimmy's friendship and counsel.
 

The Duchess and I are just sort-of appalled at the death of Sir Jimmy,

 he had been one's friend, it seems, forever. 

What shall one do?

The Palace’s alleged links to the Westminster Paedophilia establishment are all over the web; just search for Dolphin Square or Elm Guest House and ignore the usual press suspects - the Guardian and Filth-O-Graph and so on, all of whom worshipped Savile until they could no longer, all of whom worship the Monarchy, but be warned, many of the blogs and sites are written, incomprehensibly, on a dark background, in tiny fonts and are very difficult to read. Some of it may seem contentious but much of it smacks of Truths spoken to Power.

What is indisputable is that the heir to the British crown had a long and very intimate relationship with probably our most notorious sex offender. Savile was not, like Myra and Ian, a snatcher and killer, at least we don’t think so, but his life of crime was nevertheless utterly repulsive; Prince Charles lent him succour, bestowed upon him status and, unforgivably, provided him with cover. At the very least. In a decent society there would be a press-led demand for Charles’s demotion and removal.

What is also indisputable is that Charles’s brother, Andrew, enjoyed             a lengthy and equally intimate relationship with Jeffrey Epstein, which extended beyond Epstein’s conviction and imprisonment. Further, although there is no evidence placing Charles at any of Savile’s crimes, there is plenty connecting Andrew to Epstein’s orgies and his common-law wife, Sarah, to Epstein’s dark largesse.

In a decent society there would be a press-led demand for Andrew’s demotion, removal and imprisonment. He blusters that he will fight these allegations and clear his name. He can’t. (In early 2022, Andrew settled out of court with Virginia Giuffre. Time magazine estimated the deal at around $16 million. Andrew made no admission of liability – sixteen million dollars’ worth.)

     These are not errors of judgement, honestly made. Two princes tightly linked to two notorious beasts; why are we so silent?

After they were published in the States we began to learn the details about Andrew, although without Uncle Sam the British shit-press would otherwise have been as quiet as the grave. The deafening silence around Charles and Savile, however, makes it seem that, as usual, like Savile, he has done nothing wrong. And as they did with his mate, Savile, the press believes him. I fucking don’t.

 * * *

The crash-landing incident happened on the Hebridean Isle of Islay in 1994. Prince Charles was at the controls of the Queen's Flight passenger jet when it overshot the runway. The crash left the royal plane face down in the dirt.

 Squadron Leader Graham Laurie, the pilot at the time, was later found to have been negligent in allowing the Prince to take the controls. There were no reported injuries. In a later Channel 5 documentary, Laurie said “with hindsight…I should have got him to overshoot and make another approach but I actually told him to land so he did exactly what he was told to do.” In the same programme, “plane expert” Keith Wilson said “The damage was well in excess of a million pounds - but then to be fair, any aircraft accident is always expensive.” In July the following year (1995) St James’s Palace announced that Prince Charles had given up his license to fly.

 *  *  *

 “The DJ was given an unlikely character reference by Charles's favourite uncle, Lord (Louis or 'Dickie') Mountbatten - the peer had reportedly known Savile since the 1960s - which further smoothed his path into the royal circle. (Since Mountbatten's death in an IRA bomb explosion in 1979, FBI files from the 1940s have emerged alleging that Lord Louis had “a perversion for young boys”.)

Daily Mail, April 6/7, 2022

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