Thursday, 29 December 2016

AN AUSTRALIAN TRAGEDY

And just when we thought 2016 things couldn't get worse, they do.

 Australian bankers, financiers, luvvies and politicians were today reeling in shock, tweeting and comforting each other after the terrible news that a whole bleedin' ton of cocaine had been seized by the rozzers. 


An Aussie rozzer guards part of the seized richman's drug drug, estimated to have a street value of at least five hundred billion trillion Aussie dollars.

 
Strewth, they cried out in anguish, sniffing and rubbing their noses. How we gonna have a proper New Year's do. Stone me, cobber, what's the bleedin' world comin' to? Don't these bastards know that it's Charlie makes the world go round? An' now all the coke's gone walkabout how's things supposed to function round 'ere? The whole fuckin' place is gonna be like a dog's bleedin' breakfast.  Imagine New Year's Eve, and none a yer mates's got a line or two to do in the khazi; fuck me, the markets is gonna go right down the pan.

Support came from all over the world. 
 
 Famous British cokehead and porno-cook, Nigella Lawson tweeted:

Oh, Sweethearts, How truly awful. Better send the servants out to score for you. Like I do.

 Famous young parent and role model Lady Sir Elton John tweeted:



My darlings, this year has just been too, too awful. And now this.
I can lend you some servants, to go out and take the risk. All you have 2 do is call.

And former UK  prime minister, David Fuck-It-Up, tweeted:
 




What rich people do is entirely private and no business of the police's, um, wosssaname, yes, business. 
And quite proply, in my judgement.
Our fawts'n'prayers R with Australia's rich junkies, 
at this difficult time.
Is that too many wotsanames, characters?

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

THE GROOMING OF THE NATION, CONTINUED.




The George Michael lamentations are unbearable. I suppose we should be grateful they;re not driving his remains through Royal Wootton Bassett and that Lady Sir Elton isn't adapting something from his songbook by way of elegy. Or do I speak too soon? He was, after all, one of Princess Diana's winged attendants, George, wasn't he? Hair, teeth and stupendous vanity, all just so. It is for others to say whether his musical gifts were indeed astounding, and whether he was truly a ministering angel to the desperate (stories of his healing touch are spreading). But I suspect that here we just have another of the incontinently mourned, as sure a sign as any that we can no longer bear to look properly at ourselves. on STATUS QUO, A LIFELONG ODE TO HEADBANGING JOY.

and mr mongoose:
Bungalow Bill
at 15:06
Here in Bandit Country we have lost another soldier in George Michael - a close enough neighbour for us to have worried about the cats hearing making his warble in his bath audible. It seems to have been a statistically heavy year on the celeb death circuit. Every one of them someone's son or daughter, I guess. A bientot. The political year starts to turn too. The defeated are wiping their eyes and are staarting to dig in for a counter attack. Look now for the gambit otherwise known as let's call it something else. The LibDems maybe will become the New SDP or some such illiberal madness. Across the water The Trumpster is going to have a high old time this winter's end and spring. Have you encountered Briebart's Milo? A mad, gay, fast-witted lad to strike fear into the footsoldierly plodding faithless of the Democratic Party. And while we are on the subject, poor Nick Clegg. One's heart goes out to him, so it does. Nicola too is about to work out why she and not Wee Eck is leading.

And after that, from the Fake News sector,  
it's the Six O'Clock Boxing Day News, 
with Huw Welshman.


Yes, and good evening viewers, and you're  joining us here at this very sad time, on a day which will surely henceforth be known, look you, isn't it,  as Gay St. George's Day.  Yes, this is the terrible, terrible news that Boy George has passed away.  Wosssat?  Not Boy George?  Sorry, viewers, I'm hearing in my earpiece that Boy George is fine - fat, ugly, earachingly camp, with no discernible talent - but still amongst us, 
 
 Love's own philosopher-poet;
the Karma Chameleon,
 himself.

still with us, here in the land of the living dead. 

 
 But the fact remains, I'm being told,  that this cruellest of showbusiness years - a year in which, startlingly, and entirely uinfairly, some old and sick people have died - has rocked us, once again, to the very fibre of our i-phones. 
And yes, this is the news, isn't it, look you,  that Sir George Michael has passed away, whilst almost still a juvenile, 
 
 Everything to live for,
the careless wanker, himself.

and despite him  having taken such good care of himself. 

 And I am joined now in the studio by Sir Gary Babyman, 

 
a highly-paid spokesman for the junk food industry

 
 Crisps, children, they're good for you;
at least, they're good for me. 

and the PBC's Mr Football. 
Sir Gary is to football what Jamie Oliver is to irritable bowel syndrome.
Sir Gary, you're a complete, irredeemable arsehole; a greedy, stupid, vain, overpaid vulgarian, fucking about with your facial hair all the time, love the snufflers' beard by the way, you could almost be  a leimotif, isn't it, for the age, no, no, no point me explaining it to you, boyo, you'd never undestand, not in a million fucking years, look you, a complete fucking ignoramus is what you are, Sir Crisps, ins't it, sitting around pretending to be sagacious, look you, with a whole fucking army of complete ignoramuses as stupid and gobby as yourself, people like this grotesque Scottish mutant, 
 Hansen, is it, 
and this Geordie guttersnipe, wotsisnname,
 the one always cheating, 

Shearer, 
but only fer m'country, like, bonny lad,
tryin' a do summin fer m'country, I were, doin' that dive,
it wunna fer me, it were fer m'country
only it didna come off. 
Thassowitgoes, in this game,
sometimes ya gerraway with the foul, like,
an' other times ya get caught.

and the whole miserable jumped-up poisonous shower of shit-eating vermin pontificating about the beautiful game as it's played in the Premier Rapists' League, fuck me Jesus, isn't it, look you, boyo, at least Jamie fucking Oliver is only the praise-singer, the herald, if you will, isn't it, of  mr ishmael's le posterieur flambee, the fiery hot, explosive diarrhoea, the shit that keeps on coming, whereas you lot endlessly champion bribery, cheating, gang rape and athletic failure, every time there's an international  tournament you can bet your arse that within a day or so there's a planeload of weeping, millionaIaire rapists flying back to Blighty, gutted, vowing to do better with another manager, another captain, another Bentley Continental, another massive snorting of cocaine, a good, healthy spitroasting of a teenager. The players union, FIFA, the FA, the PBC, skymadeupnewsandfilth, that cuntish newly-wed, Murdoch, all like one great festering anus, the beautiful game, yes, right. 
So  what's your take, Sir Gary Lineker, on this latest celebrity death, the loss of some burbling wanker, drugging or fucking himself to death, because nobody understood him and his art. I expect you'll think it's a fucking tragedy, won't you, isn't it? You're bound to, aren't you? Go on, tell us.

 
Well, Huw, and thank you.
And may I say what an honour it is to be appearing alongside a great star like yourself.
And if I can just refer you to my twitter account......

To your what...?

 Well, Huw, we journalists.......

We what...?
We journalists, Huw, people like you'n'I, as well as dressing and grooming ourselves to the very highest standards, we need to keep in touch with our fanbase, right? The people who buy our crisps, right?  

And that's why it's vital that we connect with ordinary people. By Tweeting. 
Oh, I know that people say you can't actually convey very much in a hundred and whatever letters-including-spaces but lessface it, most of us don't have much to convey, anyway, do we? I know I don't. Eat crisps and watch rigged football played by deviants, that'll do it 4 me.

 
Yes, but what about the ladyman, George Michael?


 Well, Huw, as I said, on my Twitter account, he was murdered, sure as eggs're eggs.


Murdered?  Who murdered him?


 It was the year, Huw, the year, it was the year that murdered him.



No, not George Michael as well. Another musical great leaves us this year. 2016 can just sod off.

2016 can just sod off?
What, you mean the year, the idea that  a wholly arbitrary division of time, somehow brought itself to life, got itself into a homicidal frame of mind and ran amok, slaughtering all sorts of deadbeats and tosspots, people like Ronnie Corbett and Terry Fucking Wogan just because it felt like it? 
 Is that what you mean? 
Christ, you really are fucking stupid, aren't you?

That was Gary Crisps there, for us. 
Elsewhere, slithering about in the Showbiz Sewer, Dame Esther Crow, yes, I know, viewers, the mangy old shitbag simply can't miss an opportunity to get her raddled face on the telly, pontificating. 
Here's what she had to say:


Me, me, me, me, me, poor George, me, me, me,me, me, knew nothing about Jimmy Savile, absolutely nothing, fearless, campaigning journalist, championing bullies, against weak people, I mean beasts against  children, rich people against poor people, I knew absolutely nothing about Jimmy Savile, 
 
nothing at all, how could I, I'm only a trained, investigative journalist who went to Oxford so's I could get into showbusiness despite not having any talent, yes just like Pissawful Sue Perkins,   nor about Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, how could I kinow he was a beast? I only slept with him many times becuase he was famous, knew nothing about him being a beast, why would I, me who has an unerring antennae for wrongdoers, me, me, me, me, me. Yes, poor, dear, sweet George, me, me, me, me, in my business, as a temporal saint, did a lot for victims, did George, with my guidance, and he was quiet  and self-effacing about it, only did it in private, modestly,


like me, me, me, me, me, me, me. 
Yes, what was I saying, George Michael? 
Well I probably shouldn't say this but he was a very, very  great fan of me, and of all my good works, on behalf of ordinary people. (Or any other way that I can use his death - or anyone else's - to promote myself.)


I'm sorry, Dame Esther, 
we are hearing of s disturbance from across the Thames.

Youse're all cunts, cunts is what y'are, fer votin loike dat. Don't youse know who Oi am?
 Oi hope yer woives an' children all kill demselves wid drugs, loike moine did,
or starve or some focking thing.

An dat's not focking true, Lineker, ya fockin' gobshite.
 Everyone knows it was focking Brexit, which killed poor, dear, great, sensitive George Wham.  Youse focking ignorant focking rabble, youse robbed us of the greatest ever male vocalist since moyself. He wuz moy dear, dear friend and he confoyded in me his total and utter despair at how youse focking ignoramuses had stolen the result of an election which should unequivocally and indisputably and wholly incontrovertibly expressed the will of all them people who matter, people loike moyself, the great and the focking good, the artistic and creative. It may well focking be the case that moy own family, dazzled boy me own shimmering brilliance has largely focking killed itself wid drugs in order to escape moy own endless focking sermonising on  stuff about which Oi don't have a focking clue. But that actually makes me an authority on the subject of showbiz wasters killing themselves as a result of too much focking money, or too much arse-fisting and gang-fucking, Or both. Oi mean,  wasn't it moy own good self who resurrected the career of Freddie Mercury, a man who quoyt literally fucked himself to focking death. So, it's not as though Oi don't know what Oi'm lecturing youse about. So youse must now hear this, a proclamation from me, Sir Bob Geldof.


Oi'm a modest man, me, only wearing my medals and honours to show-off, not really believing in a class system in which some are elevated above others, because that leads to some people havin' more than they can ever possible eat or wear and to others literally starvin' to focking death.  Or it did, before Oi eradicated it. Oi'm just a rock'n'roller at heart, me, an' Oi love nothin' more than sittin' on me estate, composing great works of art,  knowing' dat moi security men're keeping all the ordinary people to fuck outta moy  exalted way. But anyway, Now Hear This:  George Moykul, he was a great talant, not, as Oi cannot overstate, as great as moyself, he never, for instance, wrote Oi Don't Loyk Mondays or saved the whole focking world  from itself, but he was pretty, for a time, and he sold a lot of records, an he was queer as arseholoes, so what, in showbiz terms, is  not to loike? And that someone loike George should take his own loife over Brexit is just a damnable state of affairs. An' if only youse'll send me all your focking money Oi'll use it so's that we don't leave Europe. I fed the focking world, eradicated hunger, Oi'm sure I can overturn Brexit, Yes and get Spunky Bill back where he belongs, him and his old lady.

Oi don't suppose y'know nothin' about these Sweet Little Sixteenies Sex Island Sluts, do you, Bill?
More like Sweet Little Thirteenies Sluts,  Bob. 


Sure I do.

So, Spunky Bill and me back addressing the issues dat matter an' dat Brexit bollocks reversed.
And that's exactly what George would've wanted.


That was Bob Geldof there, graciously sharing  his views with we ordinary people. And now this from wotsisname. Yes, from CallHimDave, Mr Fuck-It-Up.


Thanks Huw, anthassright, as my foredecessor, Winston said, Give Us The Job And We'll Break The Tools. 
And we so did, didn't we?


But what about the tragic news, you must have a view, he was your generation, after all, wasn't he?


Well yes, tragic news, indeed, and lessbeclear,  
I simply must say that George Osborne was the soundtrack to my teenage years, at Eton and Oxford, and to Samantha's, too, to her teenage years, wherever she was then. 
AnallIcansay is that our fawts'n'prayers are with his family and friends and fans, now that he's dead. I mean, bad enough, his brother being struck-off but now this, him OD-ing, as I believe they call it, on drugs. We always did think he did too much of that white powder. I mean, fancy standing up at the despatch box, off your face, like he usually did,  these things catch up on you.

 
Twenty-five joints a day? Kids' stuff.


Wossat?  
Not Junky  George, the Chancellor? 
But Junky George, the bloke from Wham!? 
Well, that's even better isn't it? 
No, lessbeclear, it's tragic when someone rich dies, no, yes it is, because they have so much more to live for than, say, ordinary people.  

Wossat?  
Living on a minimum wage that isn't a living wage, yes, I see what you mean but on the bright side, I know that he was very keen on my Gay Marriage Act, George Wham was, yes, thassright, the one that says homosexual marriage is just the same as heterosexual marriage. Except  only moreso,  obviously. I mean, just ask Dr Liam Foxx.


Or the Earl Hague, Lord of Miscarriages.

Love and marriage, eh?


 And even though he never actually married, himself, Mr Wham, he could of have done, probly, and  therefore the people flash-mourning him now -  yes the NewPeople, as that chap ishmael calls them, yes, the stupid ones - all wetting themselves simply  because they're fed-up with Christmas, the New People  will at least agree that thanks to me he died much happier than he otherwise would of have.  Would of have been.
An' quite proply, too, in my judgement.


But no, yes, Sir Bob is right. 
And that's the last time I'll give the people a referendum on anything.
 Populism, it's a worse epidemic than AIDS.
Much worser.

mr mongoose is right to say that we are all someone's brother or friend or sister or mother: that no man is an island thought bears  constant repetition; if only it was in the minds of the flashmourning mob, mr tdg's death cultists, the New People, who only find Life in Death, be it in Tinseltown or, as mr bungalow bill reprises, in Wootton Fucking Bassett, there are millions mourning people they never knew, people who gave them nothing, but sold them miserly, parcelled-out product. Their friends and neighbours will have done far more for them than ever did George Michael, Victoria Wood or Leonard Cohen, all of whom have shoved, hissed  and elbowed their way, front and centre, into the charmed circle of celebrity, there to charge us for their insignificant mewlings and pukings, Alan Rickman, according to his friends, his foulest burps and farts were  as a heavenly descant.

I never tire of repeating George Steiner's observation that the Holocaust happened because the Berlin intelligentsia was too enraptured by the string quartet in the salon to hear the cry in the street. 

Whatever befalls us, shortly, as Ruin marshals its forces against the Insurrection, it will happen all the swifter and more potently as a result of grown men and women screeching  their way through the streets of cyberspace, lamenting the fact that Death takes us all, whenever he chooses;  that, to Him, all men are equal, even pop-singers. 

Funny, there's been none of this hysteria  from Russians mourning the 'plane crash dead - whom they actually knew and were related to; instead, we have seen distress, regret, affection, loss and love but also an acceptance that shit happens and life goes on.  I saw them, once, the Red Army Ensemble, they were great.




Sunday, 25 December 2016

STATUS QUO, A LIFELONG ODE TO HEADBANGING JOY.



DOWN, DOWN, DEEPER AND DOWN.
HE IS NOW.

Unlike the music of, for instance, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin or the Velvet Undergound, Status Quo's recordings are unlikely to have driven hapless listeners to drug addiction or the loony bin.  Relentlessy good-timing over a loose twelve-bar format Status Quo might have been a bit louche and laddish  and Francis Rossi always looked like a prat but they were never notably sinister or unwholesome and people shaking their heads in time to the beat, well, the Sufis, the dervishes, the Native Americans would call that a holy state, meditative, and so, I suppose, would I.

People associate the twelve-bar and turnaround with the blues but I don't think Status Quo ever made a blues record. I would hesitate to pigeon-hole their style, I don't think there was ever anyone quite like them;  they just did what they did, quickly, efficiently and consistently, over and over and over again; no matter,  there is nothing wrong with prompting people to tap their toes, clap their hands,  shake their heads and have a good time, nothing at all; rocking in auditoria and stadia all over the world , theirs was an Ode to HeadBanging Joy. 

 A more musically cultured nation - and a more artistic ensemble - would have called time on Status Quo's boogie decades ago but showbusiness isn't like that, as long as the cash registers are beeping or hissing or whatever they now do, people like Parfitt and Rossi will continue churning it out, their thing, and even at its worst the Quo repertoire was at least  renewed, refreshed  and reinvented, unlike that of, say, the Rolling Stones, playing the same '70's catalogue decade after decade;  there are worse, more corrosive aspects of showbusiness than Status Quo.

Odds are that business will dictate Francis Rossi continues in some way or another to milk the brand, for the fans, they will say, of Status Quo. Now, however, there is no more Status Quo; with Rick Parfitt finally dead, Rossi should  hang-up his trainers,  everybody has to sometimes break the rules.

Here's how good they were at what they did. It's a slow start and there's some camera shake, but it shows what a pair of silly old men can do, with enough practice.



Saturday, 24 December 2016

adeste fidelis



Storm Barbara is battering us, a bit, presently; I think it's still Barbara, although it might be some other bastard;  I guess it's just the ongoing commodification of everything, this baby-talking of Life itself;  I preferred that Beaufort Scale  stuff - Force 10, Gale Force, Storm Force, Hurricane Force and so on but giving storms names probably makes the fuckwit newsreaders feel more important. We have weathered worse and don't usually complain but where once I might have charged out and tried to minimise ongoing property damage, now I just let it rip.  This is just an old shed, down the side of the house, collapsing outside my window,



storing rakes and flower pots and I'd rather let it just blow into the fields than try to go and lash it down. I'll use the timber for something, even for firewood and I'll build a brick one, next time, breeze blocks, anyway.  I say I but I mean some person masquerading as a builder, the world is full of them, even here, in Arcadia, a rusty Transit and a miniature cement mixer doth a builder make, those rudimentary tools and the shameless cheek of the Devil.

We are past the darkest times, now, and the good Earth tilts lightwards;  the daffodils are already peeping through;  last time I counted there were about 5,000 of them, brightening and measuring my days,  there are a few hundred tulips, I suppose, never counted them, and they don't seem to spread as rampantly as the daffs and even though they come later their more exotic colourings - blues and purples and pinks and blacks - define and emphasise the warming Spring.

I love that piece from A Shropshire Lad, about the cherry blossom, and find myself more and more watchful of the seasons, their punctuation of my time.  


A Shropshire Lad  2: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Christmas, however we denominate it, is a more telling punctuation mark, especially now that its in-house managers and various chief executives so water it down, adapting it to multi-cultiral, multi-genderism;  Oh, such fun we shall have, soon,  when Prince Brian becomes fid-def at large,

 fondling Christianity and Islam simultaneously, nibbling at  Sikhism and Buddhism, spit-roasting himself on a Romano-Greco skewer, reverencing all the angry gods, and none, the useless, selfish, gibbering fathead.


Those of us, though, Godlessheathenbastards, who cannot but love the idea of a Christian Christmas, tinged albeit by an ancient,  highjacked, pagan, cosmological  iconography;  those of us who love the hymns and the liturgy and the prayers, whilst despising both the  slutty celebrants and the showy congregants, those of us who are actually, as recent events have indicated, a quiet, resentful majority, must, in this bleak mid-Winter, wish each other well, for Change, like  Sumer is a cumin in.

Happy Christmas, friends.


Here's a Christmas carol you won't hear on Songs of Praise.
 Tom Waits, his songs of Love battered and abused though resilient, is what Leonard Cohen might have been, if only he hadn't been so fucking prissy. And if he'd been a musician.


Saturday, 10 December 2016

AND IF YOU GET IT WRONG, YOU'LL GET IT RIGHT NEXT TIME

In the United States, a presidential candidate who polled less than one per cent  of the vote in the recent election has called for a recount in at least three states;  the results were decisive,  there is no evidence of fraud and Jill Stein's efforts reflect only pique, an urge for self-publicity and an effort to disrupt and delay the clearly expressed will of a US electorate voting under a long-established electoral college system.  
Christ, sometimes I think the walls of my life are papered with Jill Steins.

To add to this Alice in Wonderland politics the vile  Clintons have lent their own support and no doubt their slush-fund resources to Stein, despite the fact that up until election night they were castigating Donald Trump for his own promise to challenge a result which he considered illegitimate.  In the states whose results Stein is challenging there is no evidence of vote-rigging and the differences between candidates' total votes are not so narrow in themselves as to merit a recount.

The Clintons, of course, will stop at absolurely nothing, would encourage mayhem, even a  civil war if it led to the fulfilment of their ambition;  
that Hillary is untreatably insane 

 

and that Spunky Bill is dying before our eyes.........

even heavily made-up, 
he bears long-unhealed lesions on face, 
 lips and neck, the bags under his eyes are green and purple and extend into his nose,
 symptoms consistent with Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.
It is not a moralistic view of a fatal illness which should debar Spunky Bill from a second presidency, just common sense.
Spunky Bill made in excess of 20 logged flights on the Lolita Express, the airliner owned by Prince Andrew's child molester friend, Jeffrey Epstein.  

 You have to wonder why, don't you? 
Devoted family man, dutiful husband, charity worker;  
why is he making regular trips to a privately-owned, offshore  child brothel?
But then you might as well ask why he officated at the wedding of Huma Abedein to serial - and now child - sex offender Anthony Wiener,

I now pronounce you man and victim.
You may now spunk on the bride's dress and offer her a cee-gar.

 might as well ask why Abedein's first-ever job in government was as close body-woman and consigliere-islamista to the First Lady of the United States. Huma's only previous experience had been working on the newspaper of the Muslim Brotherhood.


........the Clintons' tide of filth would make a more responsible and self-aware nation pull itself together, get behind their lawfully elected president and help him to moderate his worse characteristics, reminding itself that he at least has not tortured and massacred any Muslims, has not cruelly imprisoned a generation of three-strikes-and-you're-out  blacks;  has not pardoned and re-armed the organised criminal financial terrorists of Wall Street;  has not massively increased Uncle Sam's nuclear arsenal and has not presided over a lawnforcement open season on  blacks, a shooting spree by redneck cops.

Despite the catastrophic failure and malfeasance of the Clinton-Obama Democrats, despite the hypocritical farce running from the cock-waving Kennedy to the dreadful Obama,  Showbiz America is still in love with them and is trying its best to get them defaulted into the White House.  Showbiz, of course, is globalised and  here, of course, petulant, uneducated airhead  Luvvies cheer-on these anti-democratic behaviours and call them noble, idealistic, humanitarian and liberal, ignoring the fact that from Agent Orange up to today's random drone murder, the Democrats have, abroad,  enthusiastically showered on the weaker the  lethal benefits of pax americana.  
 No good saying that the occupation and rape  of Iraq and Afghanistan, and the support of Suadi domestic and foreign terrorism  are Bushisms, most Democrats voted for them enthusiastically. No Democrat politician has called-out the Bush-Saud connection, none have even queried the mysterious melting of WTC7 and the fact that during the air-travel shutdown of 9/11 only rich Saudis were able to take to the US skies and fly, homeward bound. The Americans have not even had the scanty benefit of a Chilcott-style investigation of 
 political insiders grown hugely  rich on mass murder.

Well, yes, I simply say to the peepul ov Brittun that I will do whatever GlobaCorp tells me to do.


No, I simply say that the peepul ov Brittun are intensely relaxed about wimmen being stoned and hacked to death if they dare to get themselves raped. It's why |I'm a Christian.

There are people, in MediaMinster, who long for a return to Clinton-Blairism, who passionately believe that merely for the colour of his skin, the rotten crook, Obama, is great.  That's what a sensible, literate fellow would call racism;  that Obama, himself, does not refute this arrant and offensive nonsense indicates how very far short of greatness he falls, currently and future-historically  Legacy, my arse.


Here, in Scotland, the best part of  England, a legitimately conducted  referendum overwhelmingly rejected the  idea of Scottish national independence;  that this decision was correct in every aspect is actually irrelevant, it was democratically arrived at, 

yet an administration calling itself government has failed to recognise it and spends its every waking, angry moment trying to overturn the choice.  As in the States, democracy is only OK when it produces a result which satisfies the minority, otherwise it is mistaken, foolish, stupid and wicked.
Contemptuously ignoring the majority, almost the entire Scottish press pack makes no mention of the Tribesmen's anti-democratic, misanthropic and racist heart.

Any British national government worth its salt would - metaphorically, at least - send the tanks in to Holyrood and insist that instead of preaching hatred, Ms Gnasher's  administration should attend, instead,  to its administrative failures.  NHS Scotland, overseen by one of Gnasher's girlfriends,

 
Shona and husband Hosie, in better days, before he jumped on some MediaMinster bicycle. 

 
Hide it in a hiding place, where no-one ever goes, hen.
Gnasher, using the Holyrood chamber to comfort  the betrayed Mrs Robinson

is in crisis, mainly due to bad management but compounded, too,  by endless reorganisation of Health into Health and Social care and its attendant turf and career wars;  staff are ridiculously overworked and under-resourced  whilst the SNP's NHS management is predictably rotten and Sicilian;  education standards have plumetted and transport is chaotic; a protracted freezing of council tax has seen infrastructure collapse, once shining towns and cities now resemble Detroit. 

 Gnasher's answer to her disastrous shortcomings - never had a job in her angry wee life, only ever been a deranged separatist, why on Earth would she be able to administer a country of five million -  is to practically abolish local government and accountability, as she has with what is laughingly called Police Scotland, and appoint  a dozen or so regional administrators, beholden to her for their jobs. Y'know, Mussolini-ism. Horrible little fucking bastard.
Mrs Askey, the unelected national prime minister, says nothing.


And we go now to the studios of PBC News 
where Huw Welshman has this for us.

Yes, and Good Evening from the Six O' Clock News, with me, Huw Welshman. 
And tonight's top story is the remarkable triumph 
-  some would call it a veritable national salvation, although I'm certainly not one of them, look you, I should fucking co-co -  of Princess Teeth, in the Richmond by-election, where she unseated richboy Zac Goldsmith.


First of all Princess Teeth, congratulations, and you've only just become a ShitEater, haven't you?  Sorry, I mean a DogShooter, course I do.  What was it attracted you to this shower of degenrates in the first place?

Well, thanks Huw, and first of all I know nothing of politics, I only became a member of my party - is it the LibDems, OK, woddevah -  afew weeks ago; no, I wasn't  a member of politics until a few months back and then I thought, fuck me, make the right noises and I could be on a hundred grand a year.  And apart from that I am truly a liberal, myself, I believe in foreigners, yes and buggery too, it's the mark of the country I love, the country I want back.



And my leader, Susan Farron, he is the very great man of British politics, and now, after my victory, the clear leader of the opposition.







But, Princess Teeth, that's all very well, but what about Cyril Smith, and the little kiddies?



And what about Clement Freud and the little kiddies?

Ye-e-sss, Her Majesty has seen fit to award me the Order of the Beast, for my services to child molestation, ye-e-essss and the PBC, who were kind enough to give me so much employment.



And what about Straight Simon Hughes and his infamous  Queerbashing? 
And what about Jeremy Thorpe and the rentboy?
And what about Charlie Kennedy and the dipsomania ?
And what about Chris Huhne and his going to prison for lying his smarmy arse off, not just to his loony Mrs -  a regular commentator, I must say, for us here on the PBC, on economics matters - 


but to parliament, to the police, to every bastard, in fact?

And what was it about Mark Oaten, 
that attracted you to the LibDems, 


was it the shit-eating from a rentboy's arsehole
 or was it his simultaneous firm, uncompromisingly
 ethical stance on what we might call pussy-prostitution?

 
Well, he did have hair-loss issues to contend with, didn't he? 
And if his wife can stand-by him I just jolly well think that we  as parliamentarians should, also. 
That's the kind of Britain I love and want back. 
A Britain that is tolerant of others' choices, apart from Brexiteers and other stupid racists, obviously.


And your fat minder, there, 
Big Al Carmichael, the one who's been grooming you, he's a crook, too, isn't he...


dragged through the Scottish courts
 
 and humiliated by the Tribesmen.

Humiliated, did you say,  humiliated, a  Liberal Democrat?
I might know fuck all about politics or anything else, Huw,  but I do know that LibDems don't do humiliation. 

And a politician being described as a crook and a liar, Huw, 
that's not how we  do politics in my kingdom of Orkney.

 
Princess Teeth, you have said you now have a mandate to overturn the result of the Euro referendum.  
How's that?



Well, clearly, Huw, I won the by-election.



But the Brexiteers won the referendum.



Yes but only just  and anyway they are all racist and stupid.
  And my victory was overwhelming.

 
Well, actually, Princess, you won forty-eight per cent of your vote, didn't you? You only just won.
And the so-called Brexiteers won fifty-one per cent of theirs. So they are actually more convincingly democratically mandated than you, aren't they?  And viewers will want to know whats so special about 20,000 disgruntled Tories in Richmond that outweighs the votes of seventeen million all over the country. 
I mean, how is that democracy?


Well, Huw, I'm not here to trade statistics. 
The fact of the matter is that the people of Richmond have spoken and my mandate is to overturn the referendum. 

 
But what about the fact that you got forty-nine per cent of  the vote and you are now determined to trash the forty-five per cent who voted for other candidates, what about them?


I think, Huw, if may interrupt,  as leader of the now nine-strong LibDem party, and just say  that under my leadership we are now, quite historically,  actually Her Majesty's loyal opposition, and I assure your viewers that we will overturn the Euro referendum;
it's why we are called democrats, and it is our duty to correct voters when they, as they have in this case, get things very, very wrong. 

 
And what about the rumour that your party bribed the Greens, all one of them, not to field a candidate against you, and split the anti-Brexit vote ?

 
 Well, Huw, anyone who knows the Liberal Democrats, and understands our policy of giving solemn and binding undertakings to the public will be able to judge for themselves as to whether or not we are capable of things like that.

That was the arse-worm, Susan  Farron,  there for us, talking, as usual, like a cunt, or thinking that you are all cunts, or probably both,  out there, beyond MediaMinster. 'Salright for me, I get paid for putting up with the scrawny little knobhead but you actually pay money to watch me interview him. It's the weather, now, with Jayne Tits.  Yeah, I know, it's on about every fifteen fucking minutes. Drives me fucking mental.

After that we have a special programme for you, a special called  Strictly Supreme Courting. 



Charting the Showbizzing of Everything,  we will see a gang of wretched old lawyers, now given the legal equivalent of BAFTAs and Oscars and Emmys, Lord Justices Slag, all showboating their arses off.  



We join them now as they consider the matter of 
HM Government  v. Mr Jamie Oliver et al 
 and Lord Justice Mervyn Slag seeks clarity from counsel on a crucial legal issue.

 
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah I am in some difficulty here, Mr Eadie, and seek your clarification.



 My lord, I stand ready to be paid lots of money,
 I mean to assist the Court.


 Yes, I'm grateful, and perhaps you would be kind enough to explain the situation, ipso facto, of the celebrated and learned television cook,  Mr Jamie Oliver, vis a vis this wholly unlawful referendum which inter alia  you persist in defending.


 Mr Jamie Oliver, my lord?



Yes, you must know him, surely, Mrs Lord Justice Slag never misses one of his shows on the Food Channel.



The Food Channel, my lord? 



Yes, and probably the Yesterday Channel, too. 
And one I verily believe to be called David, Channel David.


 I am afraid your lordship has the advantage over me. 
 I have never heard of any of those things.


Well, if I may interject here..... ? 
I am grateful to my brother judge. 
Mr Oliver is a most accomplished and, one must say, jolly entertaining cook; and he has said that if  Britain votes to leave the European Union he will leave the country. 
Taking all of his rather clever recipes with him.


And my lordship's point is....? 



Well, my point is merely that the court must proceed on the basis of   a fortiori, meaning that because one fact is true, that a second related and included fact must also be true. Ergo, ipso facto, it follows that if Maestro Oliver departs the country then not only will the stupid people have won a victory a propos the referendum but they will have also driven from our shores a cook of rare and valuable insight. 
 I so love how he puts a chili or two in absolutely everything, fera good bitta heat, as he says, and how he drizzles some really scrumpshus olive oil over everything 



and then bish-bash-bosh, everyfin's lubbly-jubbly, delish, an' I'm really lovin' all them flavours. 
And so on ad infinitum.


I think your lordhip means ad nauseum.


I am sure I speak for the entire Strictly Supreme Court when I remind learned counsel for this proposed act of high treason  that it is not a matter for levity, the fact that so many rich and famous people grow lamenatious at the prospect of  poor people having their  voices heard, much less obeyed.  
Chef Oliver 

Not Brexit, I'm so gutted.

and his friends....

A marketing expert, some fat, stupid cunt,  an ageing bimbo.


and a dirty, filthy bastard who must have, by his contempt for food hygiene,  spread a national plague of irritable bowel syndrome, the NHS should sequestrate his fortune; if he'd ever worked in a proper kitchen he'd have been down the road, muttering. That this horrible dirty, greedy bastard  threatens to leave the country should elections not proceed as he wishes, well, as snesible people are now saying about those who make such threats - well, go on, then, fuck off, nobody cares.
Prominent anti-democrats, the celebrity fascists.



.......I mean, now that we are all in showbusiness,  these and other worthless celebrities  like them must be heard. 
 Otherwise, in legal terminology,  nos omnes futatum, we're all fucked
The Court will rise to not consider its verdict.
I can be contacted through my agent, who will consider any TeeVee opportunity in line with my very high standards of greed.

 
That was Stricly Supreme Courting there, and it'll be back in the New Year.  
You have to ask though, don't you, if every time a government was elected all the people who didn't vote for it, took everybody who did vote for it to the Supreme Court, then what the fuck would happen?  
I mean, isn't it, nobody in the country voted for a Coalition government, it wasn't even an option, look you,  where was this gobby bitch, then?

Over 'ere, dahlin' over 'ere!
Getya tits out luv?  Fer the cameras?
G'wan, y'know ya wanna. 

Lean forward a bit, luv;  smile now.

 I simply don't understand this.  
Who is this person and why are the Courts even entertaining her?  Her action is entirely political, aimed at overturning - or delaying and disrupting to the point of failure - a legally arrived-at national decision.  If there are pinstriped Tory lawyer, mealymouthed lickspittle fuckpig spiv laws preventing the swift enactment of the so-called Article 50 then the Court should strike them down.  Instead, like a gang of Lilliputians, their lordships pompously dance on pinheads, anxious to persuade  a watching nation of their cleverness. Ensuring the passage of the democratically expressed will of the people should be their very first duty and priority; if they cannot do that they cannot do anything.  They should mind  that  they are not dancing on the head of a pin but on the end of a rope, pompous gits.


And just when you thought the comedy was finished it's over now to Question Time, with David Bullingdon 

I was proud to wear uniform of Bullingdon Club, admits David Dimbleby

Being a former member of the Bullingdon Club is nothing to be ashamed of, David Dimbleby, the BBC broadcaster, has insisted. However, he claims that the exploits of his day did not resemble the “disgusting, disgraceful” behaviour of Boris Johnson.

from the Filthograph.


and probably a shitload of other  tossers.



Just as long as they don't have that pissawful Sue woman. 
 Do you know viewers, the PBC have been finding shit shows for her since she left Oxford fucking decades ago, none of them any fucking good, all the appeal of rectal surgery, she has, Pissawful Sue, 



anybody else and they'd a been dropped decades ago, say it was someone from Merthyr Tydfil fucking Poly, look you, they'd a been dropped like a hot potato, but not Pissawful Sue. Probly threatened them with an LGBTQ discrimination  case unless they kept her on indefinitely. They do that, you know, the homos. And now, God fucking help us, she's struck dyke paydirt with that pastry show, the one with the dug-up old lady, and  that scouse git, the one with the highlights and the snuffler's beard, Paul Puddings'n'Pies, that's him, a narcissistic fuckwit,  a painted old hag and a sneery carpet muncher.  No, no, it's not me, dwelling on her lesbianism, it's her. She, well, none of them, can pass five minutes without mentioning it, as though anybody could give two fucks.  
Sue Mack-Gregor, though, and Kate Adie,  they were proper wimmen, succeeding in a man's world, not pissing themselves over chocolate fucking eclairs. 
Anyway, Question Time, it's on now.


And Will Self, you're a worthless,  Oxbridge junky layabout,  
you are famously skilled at, well, at being lugubrious and arsebleedingly pretentious, what's your considered view on the Brexit error and how it might be remedied?


Well its obvious, David, isn't it?  
All these people, Nigels's lot,


they all just wanna live in the past, don't they?
They want to reinvent spinsters. And bicycles. And that's why they voted for Brexit.  To live vicariously  although contemporaneously in the past. That's all they talk about, the past.....


But let's be fair, as a light entertainer yourself, didn't you famously live in the past when you were doing that awful show, 


Grumpy Old Men?  
You were just endlessly complaining that Fings Ain't Wot They Used T'be. Weren't you? Everything modern was wrong, wasn't it, everything?

 
Yes, David, but as you know, I was only doing it for money, I didn't mean it. I don't actually, existentially speaking, mean anything. I just say things in order to put a decent claret  on the table, perhaps the odd bag of heroin;  for the money.....


Rather as you are doing this edition of Question Time?  And, indeed, all your other media appearances?  
Where you pontificate on the inadequacies of ordinary people? 


Well, you may say that, David, you may say that. 


Well, yes, I do say that.


But the difference between me, as a performing artist, and all those  thick people from Northern, who merely produce goods and services, is that I say what I am paid to say,  or will make people laugh, whereas, David, they say what they mean. And let's face it, what sort of a world would it be if we listened to people like them?

-------------------------------
 I believe in the idea of the Law; it's just that I don't believe in lawyers; they are, largely, vermin;  there's the odd good one, like there's the odd good policeman, but mostly they are vermin.  By lawyers, I mean to include judges, or jurists as they like to call themselves. I have met a few close-up and  I cannot think of a good judge in my lifetime and working on m. alphons's favourite maxim about the scum rising to the top I am inclined to believe that the more senior the judge the more of a bent arsehole he or she is likely to be and that every member of the Supreme Court should declare any European interests they may have, be they holiday homes or family members working or residing in Europe. Most senior judges will be public school/Oxbridge and thus almost congenitally opposed to upholding the rights of those outside the charmed circle of celebrityhood.  The Brexit  matter should not even be in the courts;  that it is being decided by people like this 
is an outrage.

As for  obstructive, anti-democratic MPs on all sides, their position is laughable.  Considering the feelings of the other  forty-eight per cent my arse. When did we ever see a government do that?  The minute a government is elected, even with a minority of the popular vote,  it just does whatever the fuck it wants and bollocks to everybody else. And as we saw with Junky George and Call Him Dave and the wretched Clegg, they just went ahead and even did shit that they'd never mentioned doing or said that they would never do -  Lansley's immediate moves towards privatisation of the health service, Osborne's rise in VAT, Cameron's gay marriage and the full frontal assault on disabled people, on behalf of fit and wealthy, crooked  bankers.

Jill Stein should be jailed for causing a public nuisance.  The Clintons should be jailed for any number of offences.  The International Court should arrest Tony'n'Imelda and confiscate their Proceeds of Crime fortune, pending their trial.  Gnasher should be warned that she faces direct rule unless she stops acting like a  banana republic dictator;  Mr Tiny Speaker should call Susan Farron in for a quiet but meaningful word and Mrs Askey should proceed without any further delay to implement the wishes of the majority of British people.

Instead, we shall see more of the same, until a dread alliance of  airhead celebrity, bent lawyers, bent hacks  and even more bent  legislators gets its own way. 
Either that or we'll have a war. 
I know which I'd prefer.