Sunday, 19 July 2015



It strikes deep into the heart of every redfaced, blustering, sclerotic, rentagob, hack patriot in Fleet Street, writes Simon Heffer, back ranting4cash in the Filth-O-Graph, that the Daily Rupert accuses our most sovereign and gracious lady monarch, Brunhilde,  of being of Hermannish extraction. Old Edwardian scholar-historians, such as mr ishmael, mr jgm2 and myself, weary ourselves, unrewarded, explaining to our fellows that just because a family of benefits scroungers IS  German, it doesn't logically follow that its members ARE German.

  I do not venture for a moment that if Mr Dusky Patel, from one of the former colonies, changes his name to, for argument's sake, Windsor, he is any the less a nig-nog and he and his family in perpetuity are certainly not entitled to a life of unimaginably luxurious beasting funded by what I understand to be known as the Social. Where we are speaking, however, of Her Serene Highness, Brunhilde - who may yet find it in her royal heart to dub me Sir FatFuck Heffer, of Why-Oh-Why-isms -
it is clear that her especialness entirely absolves her from any charges that her family were Nazi sympathisers.

 Even though they were.

Living in the Metropolis, as one does during the week,  one hears that the magnificence  which is Ruritania uber Alles is saddened by the vile exposure of its treasured family archive to the ridicule and misinterpretation of the uhwashed throng, a collective which should, given Her Majesty's long record of unstinting parasitism, be ashamed of itself. 

  The publication by a newspaper of photographic imagery showing Her Most Royal Serene and Exemplary Benevolence playing at stormtroopers

 is an unwarranted and one might aver treasonous intrusion into the childhood of our dutiful and self-sacrificing monarch. One wonders if the editor of the Rupert is aware that Her Majesty was annointed by God, Himself, to rule over us, and if He doesn't give a fuck about her being a Nazi, then how dare the Sun? Who knows where it will all end? Perhaps the Rupert will fabricate pictures of Queen Brunhilde's grandson in Nazi drag 

or even suggest that Her Majesty  was less than kind to the vixen, Diana, who, streetwise and trollopy, lured our future King,  Brian Bonkers, from his rightful and royal place, between the legs of a married army strumpet, our soon-to-be Queen,  FagAsh Lil.

I raise my glass, which, naturally, someone else paid for, to Her Majesty.

A conscientious public servant who is no more German than a Volkswagen Beetle.

None of the above   is to say that I would never write my scholarly commentaries for the Sun. Offered a befitting emolumentary package with customary benefits, I might be persuaded to defend, in its own column,  the Sun's position vis a vis splenetic, unfounded, muck-raking innuendo and hypocrisy; it is, after all,  a field of endeavour in which I can modestly claim some distinction. But let us not forget, gentle reader, that principled self-sacrifice such as mine

 and Queen Brunhilde's does not come cheap. And that is why my employers, Mr Barclay and Mr Barclay, owners of the august and respected Filth-O-Graph, are so keen to charge you for reading this online, moronic  tripe, even though it is already splattered with revenue-generating advertisements, soft-pornography and rubbish quizes about cars and fuckwit celebrities. 
Were I you, I wouldn't bother.

Next week: 
Why a pathetic, social-climbing,  egalitarian classicist-historian-philosopher such as I prostitutes himself writing this drivel just to pay the school fees of my own brats.


I am not alone, here, in espying something rotten and unnatural in Her Majesty's Chancellor of the Exchequer and Second Lord of the Cabinet. 

There is something uniquely unsavoury and off-putting about his complexion, his speech and his posture.

 Hiss and cackle as he may, pulling figures from thin air and haltingly lying his arse off, he seems to operate from within an aura of industrial-strength Sin.

I read stories, in the nineteen-eighties, about Mark Almond of Soft Cell,

 one of those gay, guitarless ensembles which then  littered the pop landscape, screechy little voices and nasty synthesiser
 noises, producing songs of falsetto grievance and nightclub betrayal. 
There were coachloads of such monsters, back then, Boy George, Adam Ant, Gary Newman and that horrid, pretentious  duo, the Pet Shop Boys; wasn't their sexual practices I objected to, just the dire soullessness of their product. 

One of the stories, anyway, related to Almond making a legitimate lifestyle choice and going on a cocksucking binge only having to have his stomach pumped, not for barbiturates, like a proper entertainer, but for sperm.

It is a mark of my sheltered existence that, happily, I don't know if there is a point at which ingested random ejaculates become indigestible and toxic - mr verge, our literature transgresif scholar,  might know, young men feasting on sperm sounds Burroughsian to me;  a sperm vomitariun probably being an absolute necessity, darling, for the discerning pervert seeking a move up the property ladder  -  but, like Osborne,   he was always a sickly-looking little bastard, Almond and the story might be true. Doesn't matter, it may be what we call an urban myth but it is impervious to mind bleach and so  it remains  true in my own damaged mind;  thirty  years on it still makes my gorge rise and my imagination falter and implode, disgusting little  monster.

Almond, himself, in this fable of degenerate, toilet cubicle gourmandising, has been  replaced, in my imagination, substituted by Junky George Osborne, 


who often appears to me to have sperm running through his veins, applied to his face and hands and - such is his tight-lipped disdain - threatening to dribble from his mouth. In the recent budget speech, his voice continually cracked and creaked and seemed to spontaneously rise an octave, as though he had been deepthroating the brigade of Guards to the point of tonsilectomy.

I don't know, there is just something so deeply unwholesome about Gideon Osborne. And in the Bully Boys 'photos he pouts and poses,  so louche and decadent.


 BoJo and HamFace just look like what they are, rich but not-very-bright prats, the sons of rich prats; George, though, looks like he's in a whole different kind of secret society.

It's not just me,  who finds something odd about this squeaky, innumerate weirdo, but I don't think his abuse substance of choice is booze. 

Like young parent, Gordon Snot,

 clunking-down his nail-shredded Claw of Doom, 

 metronoming his lunacy, 
his sol-you-shuns, his crazed Right Things For The Country, 
Osborne has a manic darkness to him, so pronounced that it is almost irrelevant that he, like Snotty, stands at the Despatch Box gibbering fantasy figures, his debt pay-down  as fanciful and entirely meaningless as were Snotty's tractor production statistics.

Well, just because I have borrowed more money - squeak - and printed more money than anyone in history  -squeak and cough - and either pissed it up the wall or given it to criminals with whom I was at school - squeak -  it doesn't mean that I haven't brought the debt down. 
Even though I haven't.

I think that people like these have an office, somewhere, locked, wherein they indulge in whatever is their vice,  Brown's, I am sure, was furious masturbation, so extreme and habitualised that it  developed in him that strange, dry-wank jaw drop, 


and here

which so characterised his proclamations of  moral compassery, the mad bastard. I almost felt for him, when he felt compelled to marry Sarah Gob and breed with her, instead of sitting in his private place, judderingly wanking himself nearly to death.

mr tdg used to say that Brown could not be both patient and agent, needed treatment and I surmise that he wouild say the same about Gideon-George.  
But then, round where mr tdg lives, 

Death by railings in Marylebone.

people hurl themselves from windows onto spiked railings, so maybe his views on therapy differ from mine. They would, wouldn't they, if, looking out, over breakfast you regularly  saw somebody impaled on your neighbours' railings.

I have stopped, anyway, watching Osborne; the vision of the Chancellor of the Exchequer cooking the national books from inside a Spunk Apocalypse is too  much, even for me.
Perhaps, with his predecessor, Snotty, he could enter a symbiotic relationship, as it sayeth in the Book of Sons of the Manse: Lo, and Chancellor shall squirt spunk onto Chancellor.
 Maybe Osborne,  hello-sailoring, whoosabigboying in the spunk palaces of MediaMinster, maybe he'll drown, his lungs heaving and gasping, flooded with the seminal fluid of strangers.


Well, said a grim-faced  Andy Bubbles of North Staffs and NHS Privatisations, it's all very well, letting people vote for a leader but not if they vote for Jeremy Corbyn, that's taking democracy to absurd lengths, people voting for who they want. I mean,  look, let's get real for a minute here,  we're  both Oxford men

 anmd with him, David, with Jeremy, we might even win the election.  With a Labour man in charge. And that would just so undermine all the hard work done by people like m'self and Tony Blair and Lord Peter Mandelson - Pete, I call him, 'cos I'm from the North -  to make Labour truly a party of the rich scroungers, rather than the poor ones.

 I would even go so far as to say he's actually 

a Labour politician;  imagine one a them, David, leading the Labour party, even being prime minister, like that Gnasher woman is, in Scotland. He hasn't even got a proper top hat, Jeremy,  how would he address a member of the royal family, without a proper top hat? 
And quite frankly, as I'm sure the Ice-Pixie 

See me and my husband, Ed the PianoMan, the tax payers paid for both of our fairy dells, and when we swapped them around they paid for them again, that's why I understand ordinary human people so well and why I should be leader and tell them what's best for them.

and the barren slapper in the  bright lipstick 

Labour's Liz.

will agree.  I mean, do you now what,  David, she may not have any kids or anything, nothing going for her apart from  her big gob but she's better than Jeremy Corbyn, he's the very last sort of person we want in charge; we are, after all,  Tories, aren't we, like yourself, David ? And jolly good ones, too, better than that impostor, Cameron.  I mean, David, let me just remind you and the viewers, he hasn't even tried to bring in ID cards and ninety days' detention and the shooting of strikers and prisoners. Like we did. And a fifty-pee rise in the old age wotsaname.

All in it tiogether,
like ferrets in a sack.


Thief, torturer, warmonger and traitor, Jack Torture, despite, or maybe because of his recent disgraceful behaviour, is chairing the full and far-reaching dismantling of the Freedom of Information Act.

 The man who lied his poxy arse off to the UN hissed that he was minded to say that he had been mistaken in allowing the citizen even limited access to state papers. 

 I am minded to say, as a lawyer and a former home seckatry, torture seckatry, war seckatry, leader of the house and keeper of the paperclips, as well as being a distinguished Labour Northern MP for organised racist child sexual abuse and vote-rigging that had I been minded to be more judicious in my framing of the FOI Act, there wouldn't have been one and obviously it would have been a criminal offence for anyone to reveal my interview, in my parliamentary office, by Channel Four, for a position as a corporate whore misusing my former position and contacts to commit crimes against people and nations, bringing parliament into even greater contempt than that in which it is already held, if that is possible.  As it is,  my elevation to having business premises in the House of Lords, there to entertain any filth who can afford me, to free meals and drinks paid for by the taxpayer is likely to be a little delayed, possibly for a year ior two, at great inconvenience to myself and my clients. 

I charge something like five thousand pounds a day.
The case for Upagainstthewallmotherfuckerism is, in Straw, made inarguably.

I am minded to say that having only been paid a six-figure sum for thirty years, plus every conceivable expense, plus food, clothing, travel to work, servants, vehicles and properties, as well as  a superior pension and employment opportunities for my family, that I now need proper money and it is, therefore,  a singularly disappointing outcome that people have learned of my outrageous criminal dishonesty, not to mention the war crimes and the torture, the lying, the bragging, the sexual hounding of a young Labour MP and any other minor errors which a busy public servant such as myself inevitably makes in the diligent exercise of his criminalities, I mean public duties. No, if it wasn't for this absurd notion that citizens had rights to information I would be earning my due reward, standing outside,  under parliament's red light, with my trousers down.

Ruritanian Labour. 
What a cunt that Straw is.


My son, Will, the drug dealer?
Well, I am minded to say that the voters got it wrong.
We'll just have to find him a safe seat, one in which the voters do as they're told. It is, I must say, unthinkable that the son of a distinguished crime family like mine should not be prominent in the legislature.
That'll be five thousand pounds, please. 


Mr Sid Poundland, leader of the Monster Raving Loony Party Nouvelle,  today joined the debate on the future  of institutionalised paedophilia in the UK. Talking to Andy Jock Neil, Sid expounded on the problems facing the BBC.

To be quite frank with you, Andrew, it's simply not good enough, nig-nogs and gippoes, coming over here, listening to the Archers and watching EastEnders, without ever having bought a TeeVee license. I mean, it may be vile, hysterical anti-social rubbish, the Archers and EastEnders, cultural pap, churned-out by our family-hating  friends in the Jewish-homosexualist community,  of whom, Andrew, I might say, there are many in my party and I have nothing against them as long as they vote for me. 

 I mean, I'm a red-blooded Englishman and I travel the country, rather like yourself, Andrew - although you're not quite English,  are you - feeling the arses of younger women

an elderly journalist relaxing 

and they tell me that  if you had forty or fifty Rumanians, squatting outside your apartment in Mayfair, drinking cider and masturbating while watching Strictly Come dancing on stolen iPads and cheering their bearded, scruffy heads off in a foreign language, I put it to you, Andrew, that you wouldn't be best pleased, I know I wouldn't.

 And I could've made a good deal more money had I stayed in the City, instead of dedicating my life to being an arsehole, Andrew, like you, a media slut.

Well, you say that. But our figures show that wherever there are forty or fifty Rumanians living in a small house next door to you, they tend to watch SkySports, 

in which,  viewers will know, I have millions of pounds worth of shares, in exchange for which  I was destroying trade unionism and helping Mr Murdoch sexually commodify the teenagers of Britain. Oh, yes, nighty-night teenage Page Three girls  of Britain and don't let Kelvin McKenzie bite your nipples off.

I mean, I, Andrew Neil,  am the inventor of modern British journalism.
 Paved the way for people like Kelvin, I did.

And for teenage tits at breakfast and the objectification of schoolgirls.

And for human shit like this.

Who would have thought it, and me just a grammarschool boy who went to Glasgow University,
The Godfather of Filth.
Amazing when you think of it, without me there might have been no Millie Dowler.  Before me, sex with schoolgirls was, at best, a bit naff. Kelvin and the Sun changed all that.

But you haven't answered my question: I put it to you, Sid Farage, why shouldn't a seasoned journalist, who went to Glasgow University, by the way, and helped pollute the entire British newspaper industry and who is a disgusting old playboy, 

why shouldn't he be Director General of the BBC?  I mean, he likes 'em young, young, but legal. And there's a very big difference.

Well Andrew, lessbeclearaboutthis, as we said in our manifesto, written by that woman, who wants my job, 

(both sing) If UKIP Suzy, like I Kip Suzy...

what we want to do is put the British back in British and unfortunately what is happening in your own homeland means that very soon you may no longer be British yourself and under a UKIP govament, led by me, ineligible to serve in the British Broadcasting Corporation.

But I am the BBC's Mr Politics, me and Mick Portillo and that old bin, JoCo, how dare you say I am unfit?

Well, Andrew, 
to be quite frank, Jimmy Savile was the BBC's Mr Fix-It, and Mr Gary Glitter was the BBC's Children's Entertainer; Mr Rolf Harris was the BBC's Loveable Mr Aussie and Mr Stuart Hall was the BBC's Mr Compere; 
being the BBC's Mr Anything is not exactly a guarantee of personal probity, now, is it? And let's face it, you are a vile old bully, a tart, a greedy bastard, a preposterous, wig-wearing narcissist,  a repulsive egotist and your personal life is a bit unwholesome, 

rather like politics itself, in fact, so I can see where you're coming from with the Mr Politics thing  but  quite frankly, given the above, given your age, your close association with Thatcher and Murdoch, it might be in your own best interests to step-down, before people start asking questions about you.


That Serena Williams, stabbed her sister in the back, she did, simply can't be trusted.   Like I said about Ed Miliband.
Nothing against black lesbians, me, wouldn't mind watching them in a catfight - don't misunderstand me, I am a devout electoral Christian - but I wouldn't expect my men to serve under them. Under them in the military sense, the etiquette of which, as with most things,  I am an expert in..... or on, is it in or on, being an expert. If they wanted to serve under them in a shall we say, SubDom BDSM fashion well, that's fine, as long as they are off- duty. We are a broad church in the Tory party. Whip and let whip, that's our motto, in the child molestation suites of Westminster.

 No, I'm alright, took m'pills well in advance.

 I  cannot readily recall a decent defence secretary, decent at his job or even  just decent and Swampy fails to meet either criteria. Not much competition, I know; all the way back to Mike Biscuits they have been stupid, incompetent and boorish, mad keen to get other people killed.

Here's some of them.

Bob Ainsworth

Des Browne

Big John Reid

Geoff Hoon, QC and thief.

Lord Robertson of Dunblane

Phil Hammond

Malcolm Shouty 

 John Flounce 

Mick Portillo

And Lord Mike Biscuits,
mad as a fucking hatter.

What a fucking shower.

Greece, it's right here. 
We attack at dawn. 
Whaddayamean, we got no planes?
Why has no-one brought this to my attention?

He loves it, being Defence seckatry.

 But they better not let him in the regimental mess.

Here'swhat the Tory-supporting Filth-O|-Graph had to say about his expenses 

Mr Fallon, the deputy chairman of the Treasury select committee, claimed for the mortgage repayments on his Westminster flat in their entirety. MPs are only allowed to claim for interest charges.
Between 2002 and 2004, Mr Fallon regularly claimed £1,255 per month in capital repayments and interest, rather than the £700-£800 for the interest component alone. After his error was noticed by staff in the Commons fees office in September 2004, he said: 

“Why has no one brought this to my attention before?” 
Someone else's fault, eh, Mick?
Mr Fallon, the MP for Sevenoaks, who fiercely criticised the excesses of bankers earlier this year, repaid £2,200 of the over-claim. However, he was allowed to offset the remaining £6,100 against his allowance.
After realising they had failed to notice the excessive claims, Commons staff suggested that Mr Fallon submit fresh claims which would “reassign” the surplus payments to other costs he had legitimately incurred.
One official said Mr Fallon should claim for fees he paid when he bought the flat, in south-west London, months earlier.
In an email, the official wrote: “There was also no claim by Mr Fallon for his purchase costs i.e. stamp duty, solicitors fees, land search etc. This may be something to bear in mind”.
The MP retrospectively claimed £3,521 for legal fees and hundreds more for mortgage interest charges and utility bills — all personally authorised by the head of the fees office. Mr Fallon had previously claimed £1,000 a month in second home expenses to rent a property in Pimlico, south west London.

Mr Fallon said: “This was an inadvertent mistake for which I accept responsibility. The fees office proposed that the overpayment should be offset by other claims.” 
So that's alright then.

The MP said that all his other claims “were routine costs properly authorised and allowable at the time”. 

He began making the excessive claims after buying the Westminster flat for £243,000 in June 2002 and designating it as his second home.
Various other household expenses he claimed for after September 2004 included a £250 per month cleaning bill, which Mr Fallon reduced from £300 after being asked for a receipt.
At the time, MPs did not need to provide receipts for claims up to £250. In a letter to the fees office in March 2005, he said: “My cleaner has never provided receipts”. 

Why is it that we pay someone - if they actually existed - to clean-up after this bumptious arsehole? Is he disabled, incapable of duting and hoovering, or is he just a cheeky cunt?

In May 2005, he claimed £499 for a television, £69.50 for a digital box and £35 for a radio. Mr Fallon sold the flat in December 2006 for £295,000, making a profit of £52,000. He claimed £1,774.50 in legal fees relating to the sale. In the two months before the sale, he claimed £126 for boiler repairs, £170 for repairs to bathroom tiles, £282 for electrical repairs and £225 for carpet cleaning.
He then bought another flat in Westminster for £728,000. Soon after moving in, he claimed £1,795 for a bed, - two grand for a fucking bed - £1,500 for curtains and almost £1,000 for a freezer, washer-dryer and deep cleaner. The claim for the bed was reduced to £1,000. 

He then began claiming the interest on the mortgage for his new flat, which came to about £2,100 per month — almost three times as much as at his previous property. Mr Fallon also shares a large house in his Kent constituency with his wife, Wendy. The house, which the couple bought in 1997, is about 28 miles away from Westminster. It is not mortgaged.
Mr Fallon is also paid as a director of three companies. His salary from one, a money broker, is reportedly £45,000. He also pays his wife from his taxpayer-funded office expenses to work as his secretary.
He is expected to become chairman of the Treasury committee when its present chairman, John McFall, steps down at the general election. 
Course he is, just what you need scrutinising the Treasury, some bloated, blustering sticky-fingers, like Fallon

 Mick Fallon made fifty-two-grand profit on a flat which we bought him as part of his job and despite us paying for his hoovering we paid him three hundred quid a month for a notional cleaner;  he's a lazy fucking bastard or a crook and probably both, he was bunging his Mrs and moonlighting;  that must be what right honourable means.

Michael Fallon
Job: backbench Conservative MP
Salary: £64,766
Total second home claims
2004-05: £16,825
2005-06: £16,882
2006-07: £22,110 
2007-08: £22,853

Mick, anyway, wants us to bomb somewhere,;judging by his record, somebody'll be paying him  for this big want.  Mick's judgement will be foisted on us  as being in the national interest but it won't be,  he has no record whatsoever of acting in the national interest and he ain't gonna start now. If he gets his way, lots of innocent people will be killed and to no purpose, any strategic situation into which Mick Fallon enters will deteriorate, he is a greedy, lazy, braying, thieving  Tory fuckpig of the worst kind.

 He lived within travelling distance of London, a journey which millions make daily and yet, declining to travel with his fellows, too important,  he managed to fiddle  from us a property portfolio, whilst at the same time, working for another employer.

Mick Fallon followed the usual route to the Commons, worked as a parliamentary researcher until he'd sucked  enough shit from enough arses   to earn a safe seat and he now lectures us as though we were backward, slackers, in need of his no-nonsense, thieving, lying, cheating approach to life.

If I was in the forces and they put this piece of shit in charge of me I would mutiny.  Servicefolk will die because this arsehole wants to throw his weight around, to bully, to lecture, to cynically misrepresent, as he did with Miliband. I hope someone has the dirt on him, the real dirt; somebody like Swampy,  there's bound to be something worse than expenses, my money would be on a dose of the Liam Fox Pox, you know, the more macho the Tory, the more pretty the boyfriend-on-expenses, William Hague-style.

There's no traction in the current fuss about a handful of RAF pilots bombing Syria but give him enough time and Swampy's vile bombast and stupidity will see him back on the backbenches, fiddling his exes, like he does.

Greedy Bastard calling Base, Geedy Batard calling Base. 
Are your receiving ? Over.


This is Huw Welshman, here, with the Six o'clock news, from the PBC where our top story is that, following-on from the death of  former party leader, Sir Charles Dipso, the humiliation of Mr Clegg and the rout of almost the entire party, a new leader has been selected, Tim somebody 

A leader from BarrelScrapingsRUs 

but the LibDems' arch strategist, Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown, is clinging like a fucking limpet, look you, to his delusion of national, indeed, international  power and influence and has denied that he is planning to step down as de facto leader of the ShitEaters  and commit suicide, as anyone else would, if they had any decency, which he doesn't. 

Field Marshal still in charge.

Critics - ie everybody in the country - have said that his part in the coalition, his showboating and particularly, look you, isn't it, his leadership of the election campaign 

Go back to your constituencies and prepare to eat your hats.
And die of alcohol-induced  brain haemorrhages

were all an unmitigated disaster,  a monumental, shit-brained catastrophe, which saw the party wiped-out, it's senior cadre,  people like Straight Simon Hughes, 

It was me or the homos
and the homos have spoken.

out on his sexually ecumenical arse; 

 Danny FatBoy Alexander, 
Chief Seckatry to the mens locker room.

now rumoured to be seeking a return  to his old job, as snowshoes monitor in the Cairngorms National Park, which is about all he was ever fit for; 

Dr Vince Cable, also known, unaffectionately, as the Fox-trotting Nitwit, 
Vote for me, dearie, there's a good old girl,
one-two-three, one-two-three
sent packing  and now this, former leader, Sir Charles Dipso, has lost not only his seat but the will to fucking live. What, remaining Liberals are asking, 

is this prat, Ashdown, good for?  
We can eat shit, 

piss on each other, 

go to jail for perjury, 

molest children 
and shoot dogs without his help.

Earlier I put that question to Field Marshal Ashdown, as he was taking a break from flogging his batman.

Now look, Huw, he said, gazing, steely-eyed, with his thousand-yards stare, 
 into distant threats which mere voters  cannot see, now look,  I simpy cannot  understand people expecting me to kill myself.  My performance as general election  CO was truly extraordinary, from having over fifty seats in parliament, we now have eight, well, eight at the moment, second lieutenant Clegg might yet do the decent thing, and my esteemed Caledonian colleague, private Big Al Carmichael, may also find himself court martialled,  making six.  But six is still a very good base from which to march purposefully, watchful and disciplined, mind, into Oblivion, our - might I say - natural territory, on which we perform best.
No, let me finish, because this is very important, and also because I'm a shocking bully. As an international statesman, warrior, philosopher, political scientist, humanitarian, theologian, economist and TeeVee personality I am uniquely qualified to lead the party I helped found back into it's rightful place. Into  the Wilderness of Toilets.
Quite simply, put so that the ordinary viewers at home, in their ordinary houses, leading their ordinary lives will understand, Huw, the party needs me now more than ever, as does the country, ordinary people really need chaps like m'self, to look up to;  y'know, heroes ......

 But some might say, isn't it, look you, your lordship, begging the Field Marshal's pardon, that you have done quite enough for the party and the country, what with the coalition and everything;  hard, in fact, to see quite what the fuck else you might do to what's left of it, a handful of disgruntled misfits. And that a military leader who has failed as badly as you have, look you, traditionally falls on his sword, isn't it. 

Well, quite frankly, as you know, Huw, that's absolute poppycock,

yes, and balderdash, and stuff and nonsense.  I am not being immodest when I say that I am the greatest election strategist in history and it is crucial that I remain at the helm, reminding people of my uniquely distinguished record of public service to my party and my country, to, may I say, the entire world

This Fallon chappie, is it Fallon, 

Farrow, somesuch? 

He's a sound fellow but only basically an adjutant. Oh, I will allow him the illusion of Leadership, after all, as an international statesman I have little need of titles per se, that's latin, by the way, Huw, we military men can be cultured,  too. What, what does it mean? What, per se? Haven't a fucking clue, how should I know? Ask the Education Officer, you'll find him on rthe other side of the parade ground  Never mind a poxy  Field Marshal's baton, I should be Commander-in-Chief of the world. Shirley Williams? Never heard of her.  So shut up and fuck off or it'll be the firing squad for you, my lad. By the centre-left, Quick March. 

You'd think that anyone who had fucked-up as badly, so conceitedly, so arrogantly  as Ashdown would just slink away and spend his last days  dropping  his pants  with any passing secretary, bound to be some old bags'd give him one, if he can manage it. But no, shameless to the end, he blusters away, I Know Besting. 

If Tim Somebdoy has anything about him he'll send Ashdown to join the Chelsea Pensioners, in quiet retirement; mind you, if he had anything about him, he wouldn't be in the ShitEaters, would he?

Elsewhere, in the Gardening Section, 

Mad Monty Don tells us how we can grow our own ethics but warns that they won'e be as earnest or sincere as his

Are you the Queen? If you are I am delighted, in an ethical sort of way, to meet you.

  and National Treasure, and regular ishmaelite,  Alan Titmarsh tells us how he went from being a gardener to being a friend of the royals,

I say, who IS this appalling, 
grovelling little prole?
Is he off the television?

 writing books, hosting afternnon chat shows  for barmy old women and presenting  the BBC Proms. Once.

In the Cookery Section,
How TeeVee cooks can damage your health.
Heston Wotsisname,
that mad bastard
 shows how to build a simple nuclear reactor
 in order to produce the perfect brandy snap
for your kid's birthday party

Ring a ring o' neutrons,
A pocket full of positrons
A-fission, A-Fission,
We all fall down.   


DtP said...

Trust the hyperbarics have kept you in fine fettle.

Excellent dude, like the PBBC's Pick of the Week but without the self serving adulatory conceit. The thought of No 11 being a spunk trough is gonna stay in the mind for a bit - err...cheers for that!

I've been wandering over to the Guardian's comment section and the amount of people on full throttle fury reminds me so much of 2007-08 when us lot were bloggo auteurs at Colonel Fawkes and I feel like piling in and offering therapy but that level of hatred is like a step down memory lane and they need to turn their fucking computers off. Seriously, I am a bit worried about some of them.

I really hope they go for Corbyn and the fact that it's a fucking ridiculously long leadership campaign can only help - apparently when asked if he wanted to be on the ballot he said 'well, I guess it's my turn' (to be kicked in the teeth and excreted for some Tory-Lite-Shite) so his momentum is probly shocking him more than any of us and he can practice - much like a US Presidential campaign, the campaign is more important than the job - any fuck can do the job, most better, but winning the campaign is the hard part. I saw him on Ch4 news getting arsey with that Krishnan Guru Murthy chap and whilst it was pretty bad, most people would have decked the cunt so I'm not sure what standards I've been programmed to expect - in fact, most people would refuse to be interviewed by CH4 News at all but.... That Krishnan Murthy fella got Tarantino and Robert Downey Jr to walk out on him after calling him a cunt so hardly Robin Day with his 'transient minister' quip - more a hectoring pie fetishist warped in some random competitive interrogation with imaginary objective. They do it on Rd4 Toady, too - ask longwinded questions and 3 words into the answer go 'ah, ah, so you're not saying no then, minister?' and the listener ends up thicker than had the interview not been conducted. They probly teach shite rhetoric in PPE courses rather than history or some other such nouvelle irrelevance.

I think Corbyn's a daft cunt but at least he seems to offer something - fuck knows what - maybe just a full stop. As you know, I'm not exactly his target audience but it'd be nice if there is some kind of vaguely coherent intellectual compassion, some kind of electoral bulwark against the Teenage pseudo Tories we've got at the moment. Fuck me, Osborne is an imbecile and I speak as someone who cares about history books. To get rid of scrubber kids maintenance grants to increase inheritance tax thresholds takes a wrong sort of Tory and that's just a fucking footnote to his unbelievable patheticness - it's in the fucking appendix grand scheme but - gsus, what a fucking prick.

All these professional psephologists who so brilliantly called the last election are saying he's gonna return them back to 1983 and the 'longest suicide in history' era but how the fuck that became a meme when the SDP got something like 2 million votes fewer than Labour that year seems to have just fucking vaporised into irrelevance. There's 6 million UKIP and Lib votes out there up for grabs - actual fucking voters not people like me lying to every pollster I meet just for kicks - but fucking voters looking for a party and we may have reached peak Tory so....

Again, cheers for the wank dungeon thought - maybe that's why Fallon has a £250 pcm cleaner and needed the carpets cleaning afterwards - perma-dried crust all over his Pimlico brownstone - nightmare to shift, 3 or 4 chisels a day I'm sure.

Anonymous said...


call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mr dick, and you're right, our best blogging days were a long time ago.

Haven't been in the tank, yet, had to postpone it due to medical incommopetence during the preliminaries.

I agree about Corbyn, almost completely. The fact that he's been there so long means he's dipped his hands in enough blood, turned his eyes from enough beasting and bribery to be as flameworthy as the rest of them but at least he says something different. I might join up and vote for him,just to spite the other vermin.

That KGM off C4 News is just showbiz shit, he'll appear on anything, time the public funding of that channel was stopped, too.

Any idea who the senior Labour MP beast is, the one in the 'papers?

As for AusterityMan's Spunk Apocalypse, well, you know what they say. a nightmare shared is a nightmar halved. Don't see why I should endure it alone.

Thanks, mr rwg. I have had people here all week, old friends and been unable to finish anything, just tied them all up, this morning, the posts, now that the Past has gone home.

DtP said...

Kaufmann's been political rather than Father of the House - he's been a right partisan cunt; wouldn't fall off me chair is all I'm saying. It did say senior so....But no, no idea - it used to be me who made up shit like this!

Anna Raccoon has done some marvellous blogs on the 'I believe her' culture as to any accusation is now taken as CSI shit - quite scary. Defo recommend them.

Golf in St Andrews has been awesome - middle of summer, play suspended because the wind was knocking stuff down. Seriously, in Dubai and shit they're spending hundreds of millions on making golf courses which are the absolute exemplars in civic engineering - 50+ controllable strata in greens and shit and a little bit of wind makes an Irish Amateur kick the best golfers in the world. A lad wandered over with an 8 iron and shat on a £20 billion industry (guess). Football needs sponsorship and connexions. Golf is like snooker - just win the match in front of you.

It really has been a wonderful competition because of the history - bit like Rugby School I guess in that someone twatted a ball on a stick and the people in St Andrews were pretty fucking bored or something. But the weather has made it so hard. The Americans have absolutely thrived on it, bless 'em. Peter Allis is looking well. Best golf comp for about 8 years, give or take. If you're proper bored tomorrow dude, keep an eye on the amateur - massive fingers crossed.

DtP said...

Nick Clegg's story in musical in 3 mins - bit tame but..

DtP said...

Defo reckon Queenie released her own video herself. Awfully good timing what what?

call me ishmael said...

Ah, much rumoured about, over the years, and he certainly looks the part, what's the word for his dress code, flamboyant, isn't it. Senior and a former minister, too. An old poet friend used to say that he hid behind a forest of injunctions, him and Janner, both Jews, the latter ebing the member for Tel Aviv, the former quite the opposite.

The weather is unhelpful; here all the agricultural shows have been cancelled, the farmers are unusually worried and my garden has suffered, almost half of my willow hedges destroyed by relentless wind and cold. On the bright side, half of them have survived although I bought a weeping willow tree the other day which I may just keep indoors until next year. I am unsurprised that conditions further down Scotland are unfavourable, although golf and I are, unfortunately for this conversation, estranged.

I went to St Andrews,though, the once, with a pro-golfer courting my daughter and I am sorry to say I thought it a windblown shithole

SG said...

A fine satire but also a depressing catalogue of the realities of modern political life. But then it was probably ever thus - politics, a grubby business mostly pursued by grubby people. I take slight issue with your diagnosis of the Chancellor though. Whilst I am sure that the activities you describe fall within the range of those pursued by 'honourable' members past and present, I don't reckon that's it with him. Whilst I agree that he has a pale and, at times, glassy-eyed demeanour, I'd put my money on a undisclosed health issue that demands some serious medication.

Regarding MPs salaries, expenses, house flipping and all that, one could be forgiven for thinking that it is a system designed by greedy people for greedy people (loved the Heffer cartoon by the way...). The obvious solution, which should have been implemented years ago (when property prices were relatively lower), would be for Parliament to buy and furnish a range of houses and flats that MPs genuinely living beyond a reasonable commuting distance would be billeted to according to need and circumstance for their period of office - thereby eliminating the opportunity to make capital gains and purchase chattels at public expense. The role of an MP should be a responsible and demanding one and, that being the case, I would have no problem with paying them a salary that is commensurate with that and for them to be reimbursed for expenses genuinely and necessarily incurred in the performance of their public duties. Maybe an element of performance related pay could also be introduced to encourage the right behaviours? That way we might attract more people into politics who genuinely seek to act in the public interest and perform their duties in a conscientious manner. Then again maybe I'm just being naive!

Alphons said...

An astoundingly detailed exposition, Mr Ishmael.
It makes one proud to be British! (if one is a fairy or a coke head or anything else other than the six or seven of us who are still sober and straight.)

call me ishmael said...

I assembled the cartoon myself, mr sg, years ago, pasting the text into the Billy Bunter drawing, in honour of Heffer, who was then at the Filth-O-Graph, despairing humourlessly for a living, and I like it, too, thanks. Of course the MP s should have a campus, some tower blocks, or a ship in the Thames, we could call them The Reptile Houses, HMS Greed. And if The Right People were discouraged by this it would mean they were The Wrong People.

As for George, by medicatiom I assume you are referring to Cocaine, too much of a coincidence for both Snotty and Osborne to be zonked on tranx and other nail-biting remedies, I feel.

I agree that 'twas ever thus with the Filthsters but it never was the subject of such massive and lengthy exposure and scrutiny, yet still they do it, robbing and beasting.

Where I differ from you is that I reject the idea that public service should or can be a career when they are ckearly mutually exclusive. If they're in it for the money, fuck 'em, let 'em go and be headteachers ir GPs, if they can. And the idea of the second or third job is outrageous.

tdg said...

None of these people is in power by force. If they shit in our faces it is because enough of us like it. Revictimization is amongst the strongest forces in history, so beautifully encapsulated in the most enduring piece of S&M: the Crucifixion.

call me ishmael said...

An expression of pain in itself, your comment, mr tdg, and beauty; thank you.

call me ishmael said...

Levels my head and eases my mind, mr alphons, getting it all writ down.

yardarm said...

Magnificent, Mr Ishmael. Gideon`s sneering pallid visage has always irritated me, the result of lurking in offices, plotting and politicking, licking his bloodless lips at the thought of more class war and social engineering. Or in gimp suits and S & M dungeons; the cocaine fuels his snot snobbery and his devotion to flagellation inspires him to visit pain on us. Many times here we`ve discussed that he kept his habits up much later than he would like us to believe and Coulson`s exposure led to a terrified Ham and Pansy Faces employing him. And this fearless fucking free press tolerates this debt inflating prat, a failure on his own terms, instead of laughing the effete towel folding wastrel to the Job Centre.

Straw always struck me as worse than Brown or Jug Ears, a slimy, lip licking whisperer in ears, a careerist, in the Middle Ages he`d have been a cleric, smoothly alternating between dynasties. As for Fallon, Ham Face can`t be serious about any war on the Headchoppers with that clown wielding the might of the nation.

Corbyn`s rise is causing the careerist to soil themselves. All they had to do was pander to the spivs and social climbers but he`s threatening it. The harpy Kendall has been hissing in rage at the possibility of her entitlement, her damned big career threatened.

Dunno re the ID of the Labour nonce but Kaufman sounds plausible to me: always Rupe had something on him.

call me ishmael said...

CorbynGate really is a delight, isn't it? Christ, mr yardar, how they've fucked-up here, the people ready to vote for anyone but them, and they are already plotting an anti-democratic coup to unseat him, should he win, and Andy Bubbles treating him like Diane Abbott, promising him a non-job, as long as he shuts up. I do so hope he wins and have been trying to join and vote for him but the e-form doesn't work for addresses in Orkney, I will have to steal myself and speak to some fucker in wherever Transport House is, now, Mandelson Towers, I should think, stocked with rentboys and guacamole, paid for by Geoffrey Robinson and David Abrahams. It's only three quid to upset Bubbles and Cooper and the Hag and inasmuch as I am an urger, I urge everyone to do it.

I think there might, whatever happens, be a Corbynite split from Labour which would align itself with the Tribesmen and actually firm-up the GNU which we have long predicted, Tory and Tory-Labour against the country, you can see it with Harrier Soursister supporting the welfare cuts and doubtless some further atrocity against the nig-nogs. Alec Fatman was good on the subject of Swampy, tonight, doing what should be Labour's job.

Strange silence about Gerry K, don't you think?

SG said...

Well I still don't buy the Gideon 'coke head' hypothesis Mr I & Mr Y - but no matter. In the meantime, Mr I, your observations on the lamentable performance of those at the 'helm' of the MOD (which should be shut down and replaced by a proper High Command and Quartermastering function), together with Mr Mike's Peninsular campaign, reminded of this dispatch from the Duke of Wellington in August 1812, to the then 'War Office' which suggests that these issues are of a longstanding nature:


Whilst marching from Portugal to a position which commands the approach to Madrid and the French forces, my officers have been complying diligently with your requests which have been sent by H.M ship from London to Lisbon and thence by dispatch to our headquarters. We have enumerated our saddles, bridles, tents and tent poles, and all manner of sundry items for which His Majesty's Government holds me accountable. I have dispatched reports on the character, wit and spleen of every officer. Each item and every farthing has been accounted for, with two regrettable exceptions for which I beg your indulgence.

Unfortunately the sum of one shilling and ninepence remains unaccounted for in one infantry battalion's petty cash and there has been a hideous confusion as to the number of jars of raspberry jam issued to one cavalry regiment during a sandstorm in western Spain. This reprehensible carelessness may be related to the pressure of circumstance, since we are at war with France, a fact which may come as a bit of a surprise to you gentlemen in Whitehall.

This brings me to my present purpose, which is to request elucidation of my instructions from His Majesty's Government so that I may better understand why I am dragging an Army across these barren plains. I construe that perforce it must be one of two alternative duties, as given below. I shall pursue either one to the best of my ability, but I cannot do both:

1. To train an army of uniformed British clerks in Spain for the benefit of the accountants and copy-boys in London, or, perchance,

2. To see to it that the forces of Napoleon are driven from Spain.

Your most obedient servant


Sorry, but who is Gerry K, by the way?

SG said...

It's OK, the penny has dropped - you're talking about Kaufmann. I'd long since bleached him from my mind - but now he is resurrected? Did someone fail to nail the lid down properly?...

call me ishmael said...

That is nice to read.

It is often remarked, mr sg, that the Empire was won with a fraction of the bureaucracy we now enjoy, and nowhere near as many generals and admirals; what is less frequently observed is that nearly all the wars of our time have been lost - Suez, Ireland, Iraq, Afghanistan - the only unqualified victory being in the South Atlantic. Still, now that we have Swampy in charge, things must look rosier for Tommy, Jack and the Brylcreem Boys, and, indeed, for their symbiote morbid exhibitionists in Wootton Bassett, Village of the Dead, garage floriculture and the Widows' Weeds industries will surely be boosted, marking a further improvement to the national economy thanks to our long-term economic planning, amazing what a deluge of seminal fluid can do.

I do believe that George's early coke use is not denied, I will do some ree-surch and report back, and I believd that he shows the signs of continued use - his pallor, his incoherence, his mania and his dramatic weight loss, none will say of course, as none would say Kennedy was a dipsomaniac. But we shall see.

Anonymous said...

How dare they publish pictures of the juvenile Queen doing a fascist salute? Now that she's older and wiser, people seem to have forgotten how Her Majesty's Customs and Excise help themselves to half their pay, how Her Majesty's Constabulary arrest them, to be thrown into Her Majesty's prisons, if they don't pay Her Majesty's Inland Revenue, and how this vast fortune, extracted by threat of imprisonment, is spent paying her Majesty's Government which sends Her Majesty's armed forces to deal death abroad? What's wrong with people? Don't they know when they're well-off? Even their coins, the ones they're allowed to keep, would be worthless discs of pot metal without the noble likeness; not even worth melting down to make a Jubilee State Coach. All Hitler had was an open-top Mercedes and an income derived from his book sales, plus an electoral mandate, so The Sun should make it clear that there is in fact no resemblance whatsoever between Her Majesty and Adolf.

Anonymous said...

Nice of you to think I might adjudicate on Almond's mythical jizzbinge - was there not a remixed version where the exenterated fluid underwent analysis and came back partly canine? As you say, mindbleach is no defence against some of this shit.

The Bukkake Chancellor it is, then...


call me ishmael said...

I think, mr richard, that you have captured Fatso Heffer's view, there, better than did I. I would be careful, nevertheless, with whom I shared it, in your neck of the woods, where, I fondly recall, they paint the kerbstones Brenda and the gable-ends celebrate her notional ancestry back to when God was a boy. It was old but it was bew-tee-i-ful, and it's colours they-ey were fine......Sometimes I feel I need the mind bleach, three times a day, with meals.

call me ishmael said...

I knew that if scholarship in this subject abided anywhere, mr verge, it would be with you. Not the finest compliment you have ever been paid, I know, being cited as an authority on the Spunk Armageddon, as well as, it emerges, on the fellating of Man's best friend but warmly tendered nonetheless. The Bukkake Chancellor, I am still lolling out-loud.

Anonymous said...

Thanks for that Mr I. There is indeed a North Korean flag-waving mindset here, coupled with the bizarre fact that leading so-called republicans are happy to shake hands with HM the Q and HRH Prince Charles. There are people here, of course, who see through the Royal nonsense but if I had been brought up in such circumstances that I had spent time in prison, and/or had the taking of human life on my conscience, I would be somewhat cross with Marty et al for their forelock-tugging about-face. But life's lottery cast me in the role of Brit and not IRA. I never had any great sympathy with the latter and advancing middle age has diminished my belief in the God-given rightness of the former. Men with guns are men with guns. The net result of active service - whichever beret graces the shooter's noggin - is that some poor bastard's mother spends her life in tears and this must stop.
If I've already said what I'm about to say, apologies but having a limited understanding of insect societies - I was a keen entomlogist in my youth - I was struck, as is everyone, by the similarities between ant society and human. The parallels such as farming, warfare, cast system, domestication of livestock, slavery etc are numerous and well-known. Ants are not clever in adopting human methods. On the contrary - human society, due to numbers and a natural law to do with a numerous society, are developing parallel to that of ants.
So along with the benefits that ant society gives them, there are drawbacks. The main one is invasion and paratisation of ant nests by predators which the ants cannot detect. These may be other species of ants or sometimes insects or their larvae which, because of the ants' reliance on scent rather than eyesight, go undetected because they have evolved to produce the comforting smell of ant. Some ants even invade nests and plunder after they produce a chemical means to make the targeted ants fight amongst themselves. To us they are obvious, for instance parasitic ants of a different appearance or comparatively huge stink-bugs disguising themselves with the exoskeletons of ants that they've killed, and so forth.
If the analogous behaviour of crop rotation etc has evolved in human society, surely it can be hypothesised that we also have predators which, as with the ants, we can't detect. We rely on sight and sound so the predator, if it exists, must look like us and instead of giving off comforting pheromones, will sound highly plausible.
In fact the only way to detect them will be to examine who has the most resources, how they are obtained, who makes people fight amongst themselves to their own benefit and which individuals, in a nutshell, are surrounded by piles of impoverished people and/or corpses.

call me ishmael said...

It is always the families of Bobby Sands and the others who spring to mind when I see Marty and the Nonce kow-towing, all Animal Farmish. Did they really starve themselves to death so's these wretches can dress in white tie and tails at the Galas of the rich? I remain surprised that no proper Republican has yet taken the Black and Decker to Marty but it may yet happen, they have long memories, the Hard Men.

I think you overestimate the British electorate, comparing it to insects, dumb ruminants is more like it, we see our herdsmen and slaughterers walking amongst, sizing us up and cheer when they are given knighthoods and peerages; we would burn our own children, that Prince George stay warm.

It is not that I didn't try, with the young people, it is just that those who farm us tried harder; now there are more people educated in stupidity than ever before, twittering their way to slavery and Ruin.