Tuesday, 30 June 2015



The more than six hundred members of the Guild of Nonces, Pimps, Slags, Ponces, Sluts, WifeBeaters, Rapists, Copraphiliacs and Child Murderers 

(afilliated to the Her Majesty's Loyal Drunks, Thieves, Extortionists, Blackmailers, Torturers and Warmongers) 
are deeply disappointed that the Crown Prosecution Service has decided to press entirely spurious charges against a most distinguished member of the Guild, the right honourable and noble Lord Graville ChildFucker of TornArse. It is, in our view, a mistake doubled, inasmuch as it is entirely against the traditions of the Guild for one lawyer to prosecute another.  Lord TornArse, QC, was a prominent member of the Bar and of course should be beyond all reproof, as he has been,
 up until now.
The prime minister poses with another criminal,
 this time a serial child sex abuser.

Well, yes, anyone who knows me, knows I'm prepared to give a chap a second chance, and a third, fourth, fifth,  sixth, yeah, right up to twenty-eight, that's the kinda guy I am. Ask Mr Coulson, and Ms Brooks, and Mr Clarkson and Mr  Mitchell and Dr Fox and Mr Hague, anybody, really.

A word, now, from the Chair of the Nonce Protectors-General, the Lord David Boy Steel,

seen here with Sir Cyril Boys Smith. 

Well, quite frankly, speaking as a Liberal. a Social Democrat, a LiberalDemocrat, a Labour and TorySupporting coalitionist, a former Presiding officer of the Tribesmen's parliament
 and now WildernessParty member and former leader, I would just say that all Lord Graville TornArse has done to children is what happens to them in most public schools and I cannot see what the fuss is all about. I mean, old men's cocks, childrens  arses,  just a bit of good clean fun.
 I'll give you a holocaust, you little tart, 
right up your arse. 
Janner, the Labour Party and the House of Peers
at their very best.


ChavTrav, the tour operators specialising in offering stupid people cheap but murderously dangerous holidays in madly unstable but sunny  locations has said that it hopes to be back to normal,  very soon, peddling its shit holidays to morons who cannot read the fucking newspaper

 and live with their heads up their arses, 

or, as is now the case, spread over the sands of some African shithole. 

We are confident, said Mr Barry Rodent, CEO of ChavTrav, that our destinations are extremely safe, even though, obviously, I wouldn't go there, myself,  in an armoured fucking car.  What you must realise is that the lives of our customers are so fucking shit that anywhere, anywhere else than where they live, must seem like paradise.
 And let's face it, for these people, Paradise with a Kalashnikov up your arse is better than being in Glasgow or Luton, watching the Jeremy Kyle Show.
 No, no, Arab Spring, ISIL? 
No, they think they're singing groups,
 off the X Factor.



Quite what this is to do with the home office is a mystery, Swampy Fallon, maybe, he could've gone, all BuftonTufton-indignant, and waved his white-haired, old  cock around, or even Phil Hammond, William Hague's understudy, he could've gone, but the Dancing Queen, she seldom knows what day it is, does she? And she has a presence which would sour milk at a hundred yards, I betcha those flowers wilted as soon as she touched them and all the sand creatures burrowed themselves deeper and deeper; if I wanted someone to extend my sense of loss and condolence to the world, Tracey May'd be about four billionth on the list of candidates. Maybe it was just a crass attempt, by Downing Street, to show Ahmed that here, in the West, we sometimes let women do shit, even though, as in Tracey's case, they do it far worse even than men would do it. Maybe it was just an unmissable opportunity to grab a photo-opportunity from Mayor Johnson.

Tracey, while my ambition gently weeps.

Meanwhile, Prime Minister TopHat is perpetually chairing a meeting of COMA, 
his cabinet of morons and arseholes, 

more poised to nod-off than to strike. 

which convenes as every opportunity for feasting and grandstanding presents itself, as though  they were all undiscovered Winston Churchills.

Double-Oh Dave.

The Man With The Plastic Gun.
As things, on every front, spiral out of control, Cameron and the rest persist in re-framing a series of measures and intitiatives and imperatives - all just slogans - the implementation of which will return the entire world to Before-Before; to a world in which the nigger knows his place, and his white superior knows that as long as he votes, once in a while,  for one set of thieving child molesters over another, things will continue to continue, the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate,  hard-working people being given a leg-up onto the Housing Gallows of Usury.  Everything under control.  Now, it's all fucked, all that stuff, employment, savings, stability.

Now, it is a Full Spectrum Of Measures, 

sounds like a Bond movie, doesn't it, 
Full Spectrum of Measures; the British Government, flapping around like a fish out of water, gasping platitudes and soundbites.  

There is, Mr Cameron, no stopping a  suicidal man with an AK 47, unless, of course, everybody else has an AK 47. So just fuck off with your nonsense, may as well piss in your top hat for all the difference you can make to the global fucking madhouse which you and yours have wrought.

No, no, I simply do not accept that when prime minister, 
 Tony and Imelda Blair, invaded Iraq, that the die was cast for a century. 


No, as a matter of fact, it is perfectly logical for us to invade a country, put its people, infrastructure and culture  to fire and to the sword,  - yes, yes, I do accept that, until Conservatisn came along, at any rate, Iraq was the very birthplace of   free-market, neo-conservative civilisation, yes, before the Greeks, even before Mrs Thatcher - it is perfectly logical for us to do that and have the recipients of our intervention remain grateful and obedient to us.  

No, no, lessbeclear,  I simply do not accept that Uncle Sambama torturing their asses off has anything to do with the present situation.  

And in any event, as I have said before, without Uncle Sam, even though - as I have since learned from Lord High Executioner Gove -  he wasn't even in the war at that time, we would not have won the Battle of Britain. So in my judgement, if our friends and neighbours choose to wire some innocent, kidnapped people up to the national grid or squirt high pressure jets of water up their jacksies, well, the least we can do is provide the shilling for the meter. Or is it a nickel?

And, actually, it would have seemed mean-spirited of us not to have joined-in, ourselves.

Ahmed,  the late hotel receptionist, 
before and after he met members of 
the Queen's Own Cheshire NancyBoys Regiment.

 No, speaking as an international statesman of some distinction, myself, I can honestly say this sort of thing shouldn't have poisoned relations between the Ragheads and us; I mean, don't they have a sense of humour? 

In any event, whatever the particular circumstances of Ruin may be - global warming, financial meltdown, a plague of immigrants, refugees and numpties; world war three, Ebola, infants driven mad by pornography, systemic obesity and uncontrollable; random  acts of headchopping terror; mutant crops, starvation, drought, earthquake, tsunami,  and superbug plague, whatever it is, inside the charmed circle of COMA, we can fix it. And if we can't fix it, which, obviously, we can't, we can at least say that we can. Make it all go away. There-there, nasty medicine, but it's good for you.

Now, lessbeclear about this, this is not the middle, nor is it the end of the middle, nor even the middle of the middle and it is not the middle of the beginning but if everybody in the world, I mean everybody, the Russians, the French, the Chinese, everybody, the Greeks, the Africans and...., well, whoever the other people are in the world,  and especially Ahmed, if they all pay close attention to whatever it is that my speechwriters in COMA have dreamed-up, today, yes, yes, here it is, A Quantum of Solace, is that it? No? Is it A Fistful Of Dollars?  No, of course it's not, I have it here, it's a Phil Spector  of Cliches. No? Not Phil Spector? He's the murdering record producer? He didn't murder the records? Actually, they were quite brilliant?  No, he just murdered women? .......And then he killed me, da-doo-ron-ron-ron da-doo ron-ron?  Yeah, genius. Right. the Crystals, And Then He Killed Me.  Got that. So what is it? Today's response? Full Spectrum?  Full Spectrum of Cliches? No? Well, what the fuck is it, then?  A. Full. Spectrum. Of. Measures?

Right, we are about to deploy a full spectrum of measures. No, no idea, what it means. But rest assured, there are people who do, people like Lord Foreskinstein,

What is it, with Tories, that they do this shit?
KiddyNewsnight should show this everytime the Fink is on.

and Monsignor Letwin,

they know what it means, they made it up, in the Soundbites Room. And actually, do you know what, it doesn't matter what it means. It sounds good. And that's what soundbites are all about. And, another do you know what, anybody who doesn't sign-up to this Quantum of Measures is not being true to the great values which underpin the values of this country, yes, yes, the ones which we in the Tory party are dismantling, yes,  law for all, freedom of speech, privacy, a fair days work for zero hours pay, a safety net for the poor;  all that rubbish. 

If you really want to get back to Before - as that Ishmael chappie says - Before, you simply have to listen to me.
I won't get you there, to Before-Before, because it is a place beyond; we burned all the bridges back to Decency, Whisky Maggie and Johnnie Underpants and Tony'n'Imelda and Gordon Snot and Nick Clegg and me. And you all fanned the flames, or enough of you, anyway.

You can't go back, but we can pretend to go back and just blame the workshy, and the wog when we can't. Regiments of newspaper journalists make a jolly good living peddling this nonsense - if it wasn't for benefits claimants this, or if it wasn't for wogs, that. Fat people, sick people and nignogs, black nignogs and white nignogs, they are all keeping us from going back to Before-Before, only with colour teevee, obviously, and dishwashers and anal sex; if only it wasn't for Other people, we'd all be back there, right now, in Before-Before.

So all you can do is buy-in to, sign-up to  my Fistful of Solace or whatever the fuck nonsense it is. Because the alternative is to start to think that maybe it is us, we, who are the bad guys, and not them, that  the ravening  monster is not Ahmed or Stavros or stanislav but John Bull and his master, Uncle Sambama.

To-morow, my sermon will be on the subject of how a poor man shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven unless he does the rich man's bidding, for a wage considerably less than he received last year. As it was in the beginning,  is now and ever shall be, world without end. 

Hush, child, feel the warm breeze of the Jihad on your cheek and sleep, 
while you can.

(sings, quietly, from the Warmongers' Lullaby)
.....And there's some British travellers, undressed in tourist heaven,
and here's an angry Muslim, with an Ay-Kay forty-seven.



Anonymous said...

I know shock does funny thigns to a person but did you see that bloke whose mother was one of the sandmartyrs, interviewed in his shorts on a nice sofa frowning photogenically and telling the world what a star his old mum was? Fucking bizarre. Some cunt shoots your mother in the head and you're straight into Oprah-mode. Cameras are coming and all will be well...


call me ishmael said...

He truly was amazing, been to the hairdressers'n'everythin', you would almost put money on him having paid the gunman, so's he'd inherit the gaff and all the sofas. Funny, neither he nor the programme mentioned Mum's partner, who was just as dead but obviously just some old bit of rough cock. skymadeupnewsandfilth will always sieze an opportunity to further disgrace itself. Mind you, that bloke, he needed no encouragement.

Bungalow Bill said...

I suppose we should be grateful that the coffin fetishists of Wooton Bassett have not been welcoming our tourist heroes home.

Winston, you are forgetting Mr I, has summoned this nation's unshakeable resolve, so Ahmed is fucked. Though, just in case, we have trained a crack special plod force numbering 150, ready to pounce on any madmen. And our unmatched emergency services have had a rehearsal today so that they'll be fully prepared.

All things considered, I think you're being a bit pessimistic.

call me ishmael said...

Looked, to me, like a comic opera, that, mr bungalow bill, with DAC Brunhilde getting her men ''match-fit". And you're dead right, the Wooton Bassett Wailers sure missed a trick, here, coulda had a comeback, chucking flowers, standing to attention, mourning, national freak treasure, they are, bring us your dead, and we'll mourn them for you, fuck me, Jesus, I had forgotten how much I loved those people. Shame that brother Miliband isn't here, to stand shoulder to shoulder with whoever it is, this time, keeping them in his fawts'n'adenoidal prayers. Still, they all had a minute's silence, even the filthy racist bastard tribesmen, some of the martyred being from Scotland, best part of England.

SG said...

Glad to see that you have survived the throat swabbing Mr I - with critical faculties still intact (I'm still clasping various of the more sensitive parts of my anatomy after that and hoping I don't have to present any of them to the National Death Service anytime soon). In the meantime, in your second photo caption, Cameron (to be fair to him), looks as though he's looking at the charge sheet and asking 'and what the fuck do you think I can do with this?'. Keep 'buggering on', in Chuchilian, rather than 'Parliamentary' fashion Mr I.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mr sg, I think the worst is past, now. I am just watching some mad therapy show about people who choose cleaning, rather than cooking, as a vehicle to temporary telly stardom and I think, I could be like them, OCD, better than being a filthy, careless and incompetent nurse. Most of them are OK, it's just the odd one, who can wreak havoc.

Be very interesting to see what comes from Janner, if he puts others in the frame. Or mysteriously dies.

mongoose said...

Some bad craziness about today, don't you think? A lunatic terror panto in London. Bodies all over the place in North Africa, and not just Tunisia. The stock markets are touching the skies still and pretty much everywhere you look. And yet Greece just went properly broke; the Euro and the IMF busted flushes now. The EU itself to follow? "Alternative? There is no alternative." Oops. Dear me. (BTW that idiot off Newsnight was just doing the Ladybird Book of Modern European History. He needs shooting. It would be a kindness.)

It could get seriously ugly. One almost hopes that some despotic bastard somewhere has a plan but I doubt it.

call me ishmael said...

And that's without M. le Frog setting fire to the Chunnel, bladerunners leaping on all the lorries. Newsnight hasn't been on here, yet, in Scotland. But that's what I mean, it's all impossibly crazy and fatface is holding COMA meetings, like anybody gives a fuck what they say. Lesbo football, that's the thing. And Lesbo Wimbledon, of course.

Poor mr mike, he's in there, somewhere, the EuroMadhouse.

tdg said...

The pictures of bikini-clad grief, still topping up their tans in mourning, are wonderful to behold.

mongoose said...

All sorts of rumour and alienation going on today re our poor Grecian brothers. "Can't pay - won't pay. But would like to stay in the Euro, pls." If the price is being able to say that Stavros capitulated I would imagine that that at least is worth paying. All go home and reconvene on someone else's watch when the caravan has moved on.

The Tunisian Fallen are coming to Brize Norton btw.

call me ishmael said...

I haven't seen any of the bereft since I watched Tracey May, crocodiling with the fatman, mr tdg, but I can all too easily visualise what you report. And I mean, lessbefair, the wevver 'ere bein' worritis, may as well take advantage, while y'can. Fuck me, Jesus, my dog, Harris, behaves better than these people.

call me ishmael said...

It's all showbusiness, mr mongoose. I watched Newsnight's giggling sewer rat, Evans, and a chorus of numbskulls getting their rocks off, in Athens and earlier it was Matt Frei and Paul Thicko, off the SnowNews, literally stroking each other at the news potential of this Greek tragedy; worthless fucking tarts, British journalists.

I just hope that enough poor Greeks tell the Hermanns AND their own filthy rich to go and swig hemlock. And that if that doesn't work, they start stringing the fuckers up. Courage, Stavros, courage.

yardarm said...

I wondered what May was doing there too, Mr Ishmael. Hammond as Foreign Secretary should have done it but he`s too stupid to find the hole in his arse never mind Tunisia and yes, she was after a photo op over Pansy Face and Cock.

Apparently Ahmed Kalashnikov trained in Libya, another terrorist shit hole thanks to Top Hat Dave imposing democracy from 30 000 feet. Ham Face is the gift that keeps on giving to piss takers; he`s such a thick useless cunt.

And the top Lady Brother in charge of the Met exercise yeaster day, Assistant Commissioner Maxine de Brunner was in charge of the triumph that was the trial of Paul Burrell. So she`s obviously the one to save us from the headchoppers. Fucks sake, I wouldn`t mind if it was the lunatics who took over the asylum but the thick bastards ?

call me ishmael said...

At least it wasn't Clarissa Dick, eh, that would really be taking the piss, putting that terrorist bitch in charge. I get a horrible feeling that, what with le Pen, in France, Hillary Trousers, Chrissie la Vache, Gnasher, UKIP Suzy and some really insane, shouty female Tory MPs, we are about to witness some bizarre outbreak of militant faux-feminism which will be far more oppressive and violent than the ghastly patriarchy it seems to replace.

SG said...

I think you may have meant Cressida, Mr I. Clarissa is (or was) one of them fat lady, alcoholic, motorcycle, cooking ladies I seem too recall...

call me ishmael said...

She can call herself what she wants, mr sg, but she'll always be Clarissa to me. The fat lady was a pain, pretending to haute cuisine mediaeval, like a bloated Dr Lucy Lisp. I imagine she never washed her filthy, sausagey fingers, and died with them coated in dried offal blood, breadcrumbs, minced gizzards, snot and port wine, mad old bat, more of a health risk than Jamie Oliver, and he's just like VomitingShitDisease on legs. Worst of all, though, is that she claimed, from their time together in the same legal office, to have evidence of Tony Blair's cottaging record but never revealed it. Neurotic telly lawyer-cook-motorcyclists,what are they like, eh?

SG said...

That has me reaching for the mind bleach Mr I!

call me ishmael said...

I know, I know, mr sg; had her producers a glimmer of kindness they would have said, You have a good voice for radio, Clarrie, darling; I used to watch her through slatted fingers, poor, fat, filthy cow.

Anonymous said...

"In the year of 2000 there were seven countries without a Rothschild owned Central Bank: Afghanistan, Iraq, Sudan, Libya, Cuba, North Korea, Iran."
Amazingly, the exact same countries are, we are told, evil in some way. Muslim, mostly, whose law says that to charge interest on loans is immoral and that there is no such thing as a legal person. To be clear -a "company" - such as a bank - can't be fined as a company for criminal behavior, only the actual living people who have fucked us over - the individuals who have conspired to beggar the rest of us would, under Sharia, have no hiding place. The mainstream media doesn't mention this Muslim propensity to judge the actual people accused of corporate crime.
The Muslims still remember Richard the Lionheart and are unlikely to forget what has happened to millions of them courtesy of Blair's Great Dick-waving Contest, and if there is any justice they will have their day.

call me ishmael said...

Interesting, I don't know for sure, mr richard but I believe that some of them, Muslims, some of them, at any rate, do not believe in insurance, that accident and mishap are the will of God and that the community must care for the widow and the orphan; I don't know how true that is but I know that a handy book of everyday scripture is The Way Of The Prophet, by Kahlil Gilbran, all of my copies of which, and more, I have given to young men who, over the years, have grown into rabid consumers, Godlessheathenbastards, stoney ground.

Aside from the art they inspired, I care nothing for the Abrahamic religions but all of them would endorse your view of justice for Blair and his masters; a shame the sandmartyrs died before reading your words, maybe they'd have stayed at home.

Anonymous said...

Unfortunately some young men are determined to act instead of wait for something to happen. Enlistment if it's your son or neighbours' or radicalisation if it's someone else's. Everyone should stay at home, especially on election day.
Yes, insurance, a bet that something bad will happen. I think something bad is going to happen because of western interference in the middle east. Look what Islam achieved militarily when there was but a few followers.
Arthur C.Doyle describes this when he wrote about Muhammad in an imagined meeting with a Roman trader. The story terminates thusly, as the trader describes to his friends a remembered night-time discussion with the prophet when their caravans met in the desert.
"'He had with him a holy book, written, as he said, from the dictation of an angel, which he carried in tablets of bone in the nose-bag of a camel. Some chapters of this he read to me; but though the precepts were usually good, the language seemed wild and fanciful. There were times when I could scarce keep my countenance as I listened to him. He planned out his future movements, and indeed, as he spoke, it was hard to remember that he was only the wandering leader of an Arab caravan and not one of the great ones of the earth.
"When God has given me sufficient power, which will be in a few years," said he "I will unite all of Arabia under my banner. Then I will spread my doctrine over Syria and Egypt. When this has been done, I will turn to Persia and give them the choice of the true faith or the sword.having taken Persia, it will then be easy to overun Asia Minor, and so to make our way to Constantinople."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "And how long will it be before your victorious troops have reached the Bosphorous?" I asked.
"Such things are in the hands of God, whose servants we are," said he. "It may be that I myself have passed away before these things are accomplished, but before the days of our children are completed, all that I have now told you will come to pass. Look at that star" he added, pointing to a beautiful clear planet above our heads."That is the symbol of Christ. see how serene and peaceful it shines, like His own teaching and the memory of His life. Now" he added, turning his outstretched hand to a dusky red star upon the horizon... "that is my star, which tells of wrath, of war, and a scourge upon sinners. And yet both are indeed stars, and each does as Allah may ordain"
'Well, that was the experience which was called to my mind by the sight of this star tonight. Red and angry, it still broods over the south, even as I saw it that night in the desert. Somewhere down yonder that man is working and striving. He may be stabbed by some brother fanatic or slain in a tribal skirmish. But if he lives, there was that in his eyes and in his presence which tells me that Mahomet son of Abdallah - for that was his name - will testify in some noteworthy fashion to the faith that is in him.'


call me ishmael said...

Thank you, mr richard, for that.