Thursday, 7 May 2015



This is Huw Welshman, here, with the Six O Clock News from the PBC. 

And the top story tonight, look you, is that Princess and Prince Gormless 

have been safely delivered of a baby girl, who will be  known by her adoring subjects as Her Royal Highness, Princess Kayleigh Demelza Chardonnay Gormless, isn't it.  

The birth increases the number of welfare claimants 

all belonging to the same, German immigrant family, and I should just tell viewers, look you, that  our 'photo shows only the tip,  as it were, of the benefits iceberg, the von Battenbergs of Windsor being very careful never to be photographed together, en masse, isn't it, look you, as it were, fucking hundreds of them, there are, all with uniforms and medals and palaces. All paid for by you and me. And if the nation saw them, all in one place, like, you'd all shit yourselves, bust a gut, you would. Never mind your disabled bastard neighbour, dozing behind his curtains, if you saw Brenda's extended family of ponces and pimps and prossies you'd be tearing-up paving slabs, just like proper citizens. And don't pay no mind to that crap about them being good value, only costing us a halfpenny each every decade, that's bollocks, all that, same with the tourism scam; France doesn't have a family of immigrant benefit cheats in the Elysee Palace and they have plenty of tourists.  Cut their fucking heads off, they did, the Frogs, isn't it, and about time we did the same thing, if you ask me, although no bastard ever does, just expect me to read out all this fucking rubbish every night 
gimme a MickeyMouse doctorate and expect me to keep quiet, 
look you, about all this fucking garbage I have to read out,
 off the autocue, written by some fucking teenager; 'snot easy, y'know, night after night, like.
But viewers should look on the bright side, we were going to bring you a report from our royal correspondent, Nicholas Knobcheese, 

hanging about the palace, like a broken-hearted,  old rent boy. 

But he's quite overcome by news of the royal birth, he is, fell down in a swoon, he did, daft old prat, dribbling about wanting to go to the Christening, about being a Godparent.  If you ask me, we should sack the pathetic, fawning old git and bring back Jenny No-Knickers.
 I mean, I know she's a mad old slapper but so're most of the royals, isn't it, look you.

 So in the absence of our royal correspondent we have this report for you, from  the unelected prime minister. And CallHimDaveBoyo was in celebratory mood about the latest burden on the nation's finances.

Now look. 
Lessbeclear about this.
 In a very real sense, this latest addition to the royal family pumps me right up, bloody right it does. I mean, firstly, there's the growth in employment, the further bloody growth, I should say, and yes I am excited, my govament having created ten hundred  million new jobs in just the last few months, more than in the rest of the entire world. Ever. Yeah! Too right! Way to go! 
Where's my hardhat and my hi-wotsaname vest? 
Oh, right, already got 'em on.

But I just wanna say,
 because it's really important.
 That like the rest of her family, Princess Kaley, Kaley, is it? No?  With a GH? As in Ghaley? No?  At the end? Kayleygh? No? And with an I? What the fuck sort of name is that?  Is it German, like them? No?  Kilo-Alpha-Yankee-Lima-Echo-India-Golf-Hotel? Kayleigh? Fuck me, wasswrong with a proper Christian name. Have they gone fucking Muslim, the Royals? Doesn't make my job any easier, if they have, I mean, not with Mr Poundland breathing down my neck, just imagine what he and the swivel-eyed loons would say about a raghead monarchy. I know I said it was time for a Muslim Tory prime minister, but a Muslim Queen Brenda, that's taking the piss a bit, never get that past the 1922 Committee.  But no, back to the Princess,  just think of the jobs, all those servants required to look after the little poppet, because her parents are too busy and important, dressing-up and what-have-you, nannies and cooks and nurses and servants and drivers and grooms and stableboys and chauffeurs and teachers, no, sorry, decent Tatler people don't have teachers, they have tutors, still turn out thick as pigshit, though,  and bodyguards and dressers and jewellers and hairdressers and I believe some of them have special employees to open the toothpaste and sort-of squeeze it out;  can be quite a distraction, that, squeezing one's own toothpaste when one is so terribly important and I think it is vitally important that we as a nation provide their Royal Highnesses with that type of employee. I mean, what a thing to have on your CV - squeezed toothpaste for Prince Brian, the idle fucking bastard. And what with the new arrival the employment figures are just gonna go up and up, 

look, there they go, me and my colleague, JunkyGeorge, simply cannot keep track of them. 

 Do you know what it is?  I'll tell you what it is, it's nothing short of a longtermeconomicplan and it proves that even though Ed Miliband caused the global financial collapse, something for which he still hasn't apologised to me, we, in my party, and perhaps with the help of Mr Poundland, this time, and the Ulster Undertakers Party, we stand ready to take the tough decisions necessary to fuck things up completely in an act of unparallelled, stupid, vengeful  class warfare, not seen since the Peterloo Massacre and carried out with great compassion by Field Marshal Duncan Smith, MA (Oxon)  whose mission is to completely destroy the welfare state and all of its clients - ie everybody but us.

But back to the royal birth. What we are witnessing is  what we in my party call a baby bounce.  
And lessbeclear, a baby bounce is a precise, scientific term which means that if people - quite foolishly - feel all gooey at the birth of yet another Ruritanian princess who's gonna shit in their faces while they cheer,  they'll vote for me.  Because of my dead son. Did I mention him?  So it's thanks to Baby Wossaname for getting me re-elected as prime minister. Yes, I know people say I was never elected prime minister in the first place but that's just talking the country down. And quite frankly, do you know what, the country made a judgement, did all the math, and, voting precisely, in effect as one man -  or woman, of course,  or lesbian, bisexual or transgenderperson or poofter, did I say poofter already,  living happily, if temporarily, in a Thanks2Dave GayMarriage, although not obviously in a churchy sense, unless the church wants to, of course, solemnise arse banditry, which I suspect it does, if the clergy are anything to go by - to put me in Downing Street with Mr Clegg as TeaBoy Without Portfolio

But let's get back to the real nitty-gritty, here, the jobs. Good quality menial, low-paid jobs, servant jobs,  which is just what we need in this country if we are ever going to become the favoured destination of tax-free organised crime.  Changing the nappies of other people's kids for a pittance.  Let me tell you, I hear this on the doorstep every day, and I don't mind saying that it pumps me right up; they say to me, Mr Prime Minister Dave, to an unemployed former teacher or nurse of firefighter, like me, laid-off as a result of punitive shitbrain zombie economics,  these sort of opportunities are simply too good to be missed, and they're all thanks to your  party having a longtermeconomicplan to impoverish everyone, apart from the foreign wealth creators, and the honourable and right honourable members of what that Ishmael chappie calls MediaMinster.  I think you'll find very genuine and sincere agreement across all the parties on that subject in a fine example of politicians burying their differences in the interests of themselves, I mean the nation.  And I think that's especially true when it comes to Mrs Gnasher, Leaderess of the Tribesmen.  Did you know, and this is a fact, honest, not invent, that she, as the first minister of that pretend parliament, is paid more than I am;  three grand a week, 'swhat we pay the shrieking wee monster. And her old man, he's the head kiltweaver of the SNP Party, on about a hundred grand a year.

 Quarter of a million quid a year between them, with exes and pensions to match.  

Why bother having bairns, when we're the parents of the nation?

Not exactly austerity in the Gnasher household. But nobody mentions that, up North. And in all honesty it's the Gnashers' own business that they don't have any children. Just saying.

As a parent, myself, a proper one,  I know how demanding the little blighters can be in those years before they're sent off to school and that's why it's best to pay some other bastard to do it, look after 'em. Did I tell you my son died and I love the NHS?  And so, lessbeclear, of course the happy Gormless parents'll need help but thankfully it is on hand in the persons of His Royal  HighGrandadness, 

Prince Brian and Countess FagAsh, 

I say, old thing, these Gormlesses, the one married to the waitress, and the ginger hooligan one, are they yours? Mine? Oh, Diana's?  Well,  one of them, anyway? That explains a lot.

in grandmama Queen Brenda and in Granpops Phil the Greek and of course in  great uncle, the Grand Old Duke of Nonce, 

Well, yes, of course I can get you an introduction to the new princess, but she's a bit young, even for us.
all of whom have had exemplary marriages  and been nigh-on perfect parents. Yes, yes, it will probably require the building of a few more palaces, can't have a princess without a palace or two, can we, with us all being in this together, but it'll be good for the construction industry. What? Council houses, for non-princess people to live in ? I should fucking co-co. Bastards'd only want to buy them, at a discount, like Mr and Mrs Gnasher Senior did.

Funny, how she's so opposed to the Right2Buy.

Wossat?  Bedroom tax? 

On Buckingham Palace and Saint James' and Windsor and Balmoral and Sandringham? No, no, fuck me, no; lessbeclear, the bedroom tax is only for those people occupying a publicly-owned property. Well, yes, the royal palaces are publicly-owned but it's not as though the royals don't need upwards of a hundred rooms each, is it, lessbefair; it's not as though they don't need the rooms.  I mean, where would they keep all the jewels and paintings 

if they didn't have vast empty palaces with hundreds of surplus rooms?  And where would they put-up their distinguished, tinpot, arsehole, headchopping, women-stoning, child molesting, coke-snorting guests

if we restricted their absolute right to have whatever they want?
It's not as though they're poor people or  sick people, cluttering up a perfectly good  - is it boxrooms, they call them? - cluttering up a perfectly good boxroom with wheelchairs  and dialysis machines, which, I should just point-out, these poor people  don't even own but borrow from the NHS. I should think that's a task for Field Marshal Duncan-Smith, finding-out if people with renal failure really do need dialysis machines, or whether they are taking advantage of their neighbours who do the decent thing and go to work. And pay taxes.  Don't get me wrong, I love the NHS, but I hate to see it abused by people who should really be working. Did I tell you about my son and the NHS?  Yes, I know Mr Snot banged-on shamelessly about his dead child, every time anyone mentioned the NHS but that's not what I'm doing, no way. I am simply saying that my child died young and that you, the hard-working families of this country, doing the right thing,  should vote for me out of sympathy. No, no, I know I have no sympathy for anyone else but that's not the point. And stop keep asking me why I am selling-off the good bits of the NHS to Mr Lansley's friends in America. They wouldn't like it. And, as of very soon, anyone who complains about them can be extradited. Just saying. Princess Kayleigh? No, she won't need the NHS;  some people's lives are just too precious to be left to the public sector.  Good enough for me, mind, but not good enough for the nation's premier benefits scroungers.

In this interview, Mr Cameron was asked,  where had Mr Gove gone?


Mr Gove, prime minister, the Chief Whip.

The Chief what?
Oh, yes, gotcha, now, noisy little oik, full of himself, could never shut him up, used to rant like a lunatic, spit flying everywhere, Michael Spit, yeah. Do you know what? I dunno where he is.
 Fucked if I know.

Gone on holiday, I shouldn't wonder. 
With his ghastly baggage of a wife.

 Yes, yes, I know when we sacked him, before he wrecked the education system completely, when we did that we said it was because I needed him to run the election for me and so even though he was demoted and took a paycut he could claim that he was actually being promoted to this grand Sevengali figure, is it Sevengali?  Maybe it's Machiavellus.  I dunno, I was away from Eton that day, lots of days actually but never mind. No, no idea what Michael Spit is up to.

Not a lot, I shouldn't think.

Mr Hague's the real chief whip. Oh, I know he's retired, covered in shit after his little coup against Mr Tiny Speaker went wrong but people do love him, 
a certain kind of people, anyway,
young, vulnerable and pretty men,
for instance.
But do you know what, 
I think the nation has moved-on from that odd couple 

And this one.

And this one.
No, let me make it quite clear that when I said Mr Coulson deserved a second chance I was only doing what Mr Murdoch told me.
And lessbefair, it's him I answer to.

That was the unelected prime minister, there for us, on the royal baby and on the right royal fuck-up he's made of the country.
And not just this country.
HMS Cameron, 
overloaded with refugees fleeing North Africa.

It has been truly fucking awful, this time, like in one of those Big Fat Gipsy Weddings, everywhere you look is a horror show, one grotesque colliding with another, talking shit, as though they could think in a straight line. Doesn't matter which branch of the festival they represent, hackslags, politicians or the people, they're all fucking retards, mutants, shouldn't be allowed to vote and saddle me with fucking thieving, child-molesting nincompoops. Anyone who votes in this farce should be stripped of their citizenship and sent to a labour camp.
  The only sane person I have seen was Peter Hitchens, poxing all their houses, praying for the death of the Tories, which would mean the death of Labour  and the possible emergence of  something better.
But not until afterwards.
I'd vote for him, even if he is mad.


SG said...

I voted for a plumber though alas he isn't Polish. Early night I think unless they're re-running that canal boat programme again - two hours with no commentary or gabshiteing of any kind. See you on the other side of the shitfest.

mongoose said...

So off I went to spoil my ballot paper and they had arbitrarily divided this tiny town into two. And two lines into which we had to be sorted - although the sign was a handwritten afterthought. One old boy was in the wrong one and was fucked off by the jobsworths on their big day to the other queue to wait again. It's no wonder the council offices got burnt down.

Now that there is a NOTA club not to belong to - and thanks for that, Mr I, not a moment too soon - Viva la quinta brigada, I wrote on mine this year. There'll be a singalong later.

call me ishmael said...

I expecct I will fortify myself and watch for a bit, until I see, as I expect to, that my dog, Harris, could do as good a job as Peter Fucking Kelner but I will have a look for the canal show, too; seems the PBC are beginning to get the message about the tyranny of the gabshite presenter, walking about, gabshiteing.

The bullying industry really is in full swing, you should try travelling through a Scottish airport, it would make your polling station seen heavenly. I try to drive everywhere for i know that the airports are an invitation to get arrested. Or shot dead; McPlod, now, under Gnasher centralisation, tooled-up. That's what nationalism is like.

SG said...

The eponymous Taiwanese animators have an excellent take on the UK election shitfest right here -

I think they should be awarded the status of Honorary Ishmaelians

SG said...

Sorry Folks - wrong YouTube clip. Try this one:

Bungalow Bill said...

The caption for the Quiet Man has cheered me up very much. May they all rot.

Anonymous said...

My face hurts from laughing. Absolutely brilliant!


Doug Shoulders said...

A fine description of the state of the nation. And what a state it’s in.
Round ‘ere we have a coupla SNPers who pratte on every Monday morning for an hour or two about the weekend fitba. Then when there is election or independence on the telly they prattle on about that as if they are suddenly of a political knowhow.
I shall, at the next opportunity, remind them that the gnashers probably earn more in a year than they will earn from now until their pension runs out.
Anyway; I think the princess wotsit will be named soon….not to be missed. I’m putting my money on Princess Rihanna Marks n’ Spencer -Wimpey Holmes-Wonga-loan.

SG said...

God help me I'm watching QT. What a collection of scumbags. However, most risible of all is Field Marshal Pantsdown - talk about sour grapes. 'Bastards' - you have him perfectly Mr I. Politics is a rough business - what is this man doing in it? I wouldn't want to have been in his platoon...

call me ishmael said...

No, I missed it, mr sg, out walking, down along the cove. Ashdown is one of those, like Dame Shirley, Grant Schitts, Caroline Flint, Eric Pickles, , Gnasherjust for instance, who endanger my television set.