Tuesday, 20 June 2017



This is no way for people to die, 
it's not even a way for them to live. 
The offence is one first perpetrated decades ago, 
by the I-Know-Besters.

The planners and architects of these shitholes will all have lived in houses like mine, a Georgian rectory or parsonage, in the country, no near neighbours, a bit of land, some outbuildings, some trees, nature, wildlife,  privacy, peace and quiet, yet they will have forced others from their communities of streets and 'pubs and schools and  washhouses and extended kinship networks and rammed them into these grotesque  open prisons in the sky; instead of renovating the slums they enforced alienation. 
 I saw the PBC hack gabshite, Kirsty Wark,

 one night, in one of her many vanity pieces, enthusing about le Corbusier and his Cities in the fucking Sky, the mad frog bastard, as though he was a visionary and not a vandal, they were just the perfect solution, gushed the dire harpy, tower blocks,  for ordinary people.  Not a journalist, just a blowhard commentator, Kirsty, of course,  lives in an Edinburgh town house and has a home in Majorca, the cheeky cunt, shoving the proles into lifeless open prisons in the sky. Every time I hear Wark talking Kultura I feel my inner Goering, rousing himself, reaching for his pistol.  
There is nothing good to be said about tower block living, love,  and there never was. 
Just look at Donald Trump.

Anyway, the news review.

Good evening, this is the six o'clock news from the PBC, with me, Huw Welshman.
And fuck me six ways to Christmas and dip me in shit, isn't it,  you just dunno where to start, do you? 
The country's gone fucking mad, hasn't it, you can't fucking turn around without some fresh cock-up being perpetrated by the great and the good, isn't it, look you; 
prime minister's a fucking mental case; the country's a laughing stock;
the DogShooters are fucking each other up the arse with broken bottles;  

LibDem peer, Lord Paddick, 

displaying his principles;
if you don't celebrate my arse you are clearly homophobic, even though there is no such word, not amongst sensible people, anyway.

The DogShooters have a dozen or so MPs and two hundred peers, all collecting three hundred quid a day, eating in massively subsidised restaurants and bars and using the House of Lords as the most prestigious business address in the world.  
Brian Arse, above, is a peer because he loves men's arses, and his own, obviously.
 Hanging, as is often said, is too fucking good for them. 
Not queers, just peers.

'fyou ask me viewers, I think Susan Farron is better off away from this bunch of cunts,
 isn't he, 
LibDems celebrate the fall of heterosexual Susan Farron.
although the main thing is that with him gone, the rest of them can go into Coalition, again, should the Ulster Undertakers Party arrangement not work out. 
It'd be in the national interest of course, like last time, the people will have, as one, finely judged  their votes, everyone will have consulted  everyone else in every other constituency  and voted precisely for a coalition of DogShooters, Tory fuckpigs and Old Etonians;  the people, having made their choice so clear, must be obeyed, and that ratty old fleabitten foxtrotting nitwit, Vince Cable, or whichever specimen of crooked, child-molesting shit-eating, toilet-dwelling miscreant leads the LibDems, durst not disobey them.
 Still, at least that vile piece of shit, Clegg, lost his seat.  Didya hear him, cracking-on, look you, like he was some kind of  noble, warrior prince

talkin' heroism, here.

- live by the sword, die by the sword? all that shit - the cowardly, worthless, Tory cocksucker; maybe they'll put both him and his fuckwit Mrs.,  Maria Elena Theresa Marie Louise, or whatever the fuck the dreadful idiot is called in the Lords, where they can enjoy lunch with those other thieving cunts, the Kinnocks, and deploy their wits jointly on how they can overturn the Brexit referendum, for their masters.

There's fucking loony 'slims mounting the pavement every five minutes, mowing people down, en route to Allah and an eternity of virgin raping and now a whole tower block in Kensington has gone up in smoke, torching everyone inside and every bastard responsible is keeping their heads down, like they do.  
I tell you, viewers, isn't it, look you, that if a 'bus driver had run over a few pedestrians, accidentally, like, he'd be arrested, and down West End Central getting a robust  interview from a squad of LGBTQ policepersons. 
As it is, the culprits - here - are politicians and the businessmen who own them. That bloke, ishmael, he often says that we live in the most Northerly banana republic in the world, albeit that yes, we have no bananas.

Fuck me, you must be fucking joking. 
The Metropololitan Police Commissioner, 
 Cressida "Butch" Dick, 
said today that her officers had been unable to arrest anyone in connection with the Grenfell Tower atrocity.  
In any event, continued Ms Dick, what should of course happen is that never mind being arrested they should all be promoted to the very top of their professions, this is what happens in the higher echelons of human capital, as we saw when a gang of my officers so bravely emptied their magazines into the head of the determinedly defenceless and harmless  Mr Jean-Charles de Wotsisname, the South American terrorist, who, although he was entirely innocent, 

nevertheless posed a great threat to the people of this great city and so I had to have him killed.

 Big Time.
 And now I am the leader of the greatest, most incompetent and corrupt police service in the world.

In a country not owned and run by and for vermin, Butch would have been quietly retired, maybe it all was just a dreadful mistake, yet another example of what they insist on calling intelligence being flawed; maybe she did think that the poor sod had a bag of explosives but the police are always shooting innocent people, Irish people, black people, foreigners and no-one is ever brought to book.  And now Butch, so clearly out of her depth, even at Commander level, is nevertheless put in charge of the Met.

Wanted for questioning - although not by the police -  is the infamous Bullingdon Gang:

 aka the Smirking PigFucker; 

George "Bukkake Boy" Osborne,
 currrently believed to be working for a member of the Russian Mafia, some cunt who ripped off the Russian people and was allowed to buy a London shitsheet with the proceeds
 and Boris "BoJo the Ho-Ho"  Johnson; 

cogito ergo dumb

Johnson, a greedy cock-waving, speech-impaired simpleton, was Mayor and Chief Executive of London and thus bears responsibility for Grenfell Tower being covered with pretty firelighters, enhancing its appearance. 
 Standing, as it did, in the eye-line of wealthy Russian and Chinese property speculators, the highly combustible cladding improved the appearance of the building  although doing nothing for the safety of its residents, quite the contrary, actually, enabling them to be swiftly and efficiently barbecued, almost before the firefighters could order them to stay indoors. 
 I dunno about you but if some cunt in a helmet ordered me to stay inside a burning building I'd break his fucking legs and kill his children. 
Still, heroes, all of them. 
Magnificent emergency services. 
Which is why we must sell them off to US GangsterCorp. 
I knew a couple of firemen when I was in the rag'n'bone trade.  They all have so much free time that they do a second job, and  buying and selling antiques, as they used to call bric-a-brac, attracted a fair few Firemen Freds;
 angry, screeching, muscle-bound homosexuals they were, most of them, ex-coppers, ex-soldiers, all as manly as fuck; all on their third or fourth marriages, all gung-ho, grabbing each other by the balls, like real men do. Jesus, the thought of this crew telling me to stay inside a burning deathtrap.........
Why hasn't their gobby boss been interviewed or arrested?

 My dog, Harris - well I call him my dog but I'm being speciesist - my little warm brown friend, Harris, he would've done a better job of getting those people out. It's all very well going up on ladders and spraying the place with water but getting the people out, pronto, that was the main thing, that's what's supposed to happen.

 Osborne, anyway, is  an ageing, greedy rentboy, happy to sell-off the capital city - and other cities, to foreign criminals whilst furiously fellating them, off his deranged head on cocaine and sperm.  
Cameron Pig, it was, no doubt supported by all of his gang, including temporary PM, Mrs Tracey Askey, God bless her poor, ashen, tormented features plastered in unflattering make-up.....

Her face looked like something Death brought with him in his suitcase.  

I try hard not to unduly criticise women's clothing choices;
 nobody ever mentions Fat Eric Pickles' clothes, do they,
y'remember Eric, the expenses cheat, laughably defending his fiddles, on the grounds that he was working for a living and therefore entitled.  

Anyway, Tracey Askey has always, nevertheless, attracted my comment on her dress and appearance but only because she so very asks for it;  all those ostentatious Fuck-Me shoes she wears, and the perfectly hideous and unsuitable suits, collars, waisted jackets and belts; short, split skirts and that's not to mention  the shovelsful of undertakers' make-up. It's as though her advisers want her to look like  a crazy person, just mistakenly released from a psychiatric unit, after forty years, with a load of vouchers for Boots cosmetics and for free haute couture and she's gone in to Boots and they've given her all the shit nobody wants and said Apply Liberally, yes, dearie, with a palette knife, and the fashion shops have given her all the apprentice pieces that they were gonna put on the fire, saying, you'll look red-hot in this, darling, red hot.  
There is nothing wrong with people paying attention to their appearance - I don't, much, but that in itself is a conscious and effete statement about style, equally a vanity - and if people want to wear expensive clothes and sport welded-on haircuts, well, there are worse sins. 
 Tracey, though, despite obviously spending a King's ransom on her appearance, always looks like shit; even going to church, with Arthur, she looked like a mad old slapper. 
'Allo, playmates.
It's Tits4Jesus, here in Maidenhead.
I fang yew, I fang yew, I fang yew.

I must say that I have tried and tried to make excuses for her, as I would for anyone finding themselves so wretched, excuses for her appearance and for her inability to speak and the failure of thought which that reveals - every word is forced through a grimace, as though she were on the rack; I have found excuses for her cowardice and for her conceit but eventually they failed, her conduct is inexcusable, if she had a grain of self-awareness or decency she would resign, would have resigned on election night, would have resigned, just now, over her party's lethally crooked London housing policy.  
Tracey is a mad, delusional old woman, more afflicted than was Gordon Snot, at his worst.

.........who curtailed the right to legal aid for poor people, such as the nig-nog riff-raff in Grenfell Tower; denied access to and help from  the courts in making their miserable, shitty homes  safe to live in and not just pleasing to wealthy eyes. Not quite Four Weddings and  a Funeral, is it, Grenfell Tower? More like Four Weddings and a Funeral and a Furnace. Perhaps that gifted, luvvy film maker, wotsisname, Richard Curtiss, is it, so very talented, darling, will make a sequel, this time about real people, starring Hughie Grant and some expensive cokehag from TinselTown.

 I mean, said CallHimDave, lessbeclear, these people should be grateful that we house them at all,  the idea of them having access to free justice is anaesthesia to all right-thinking, offshore tax-havening people,  such as I and my family of thieves and freeloaders.
Not anaesthesia? 
Wossat mean? 
 Fucked if I know.  

You know, the reason I had the most expensive education that stolen money could buy was not to make me well  educated, I'm simply too thick to be educated, it was to make me well-connected, yes, with the spoiled children of other thieving bastards. And quite proply, in my judgement. Yes, George and Boris.  Education?  That's for people who have to work, instead of steal. So lessbeclear you can take your anathema and stuff it up your rudimentary canal.
Alimentary Canal?

When a Muslim lets rip for Allah, Butch Dick and her boys'n'girls'n gender-spectruming indeterminates immediately arrest his family and friends and try to frame them and when they are unable to are then forced to release them, without so much as a KissMyArse, Ahmed. No apology, no compensation. It is actually illegal to arrest someone without proper grounds, without legitimate, reasonable suspicion, Butch, though, like most coppers, doesn't do legal, a bad career move, doing legal.  I dunno, actually,  if anyone does legal any longer, certainly elections and referenda are no longer legally binding, being described as wrongly-decided  or ill-informed; in  Scotland referenda and elections are only valid if they produce the result wanted by the Tribesmen, 

Wee, Mad Maggie.

while across the country, the Brexit referendum result is bleatingly, whingly invalid because it was won by the wrong side.
This is all just a Nigel Farage-inspired step away from anarchy.  And who could blame Brexit-voting people, in a year or two, for lynching Bob Geldof and sacking his village. Or tarring and feathering the local LibDems? 
Not me.

There have been no arrests, however, of those directly implicated in the towering inferno of shame; instead, those responsible front it out and we are fed a tired old script which we could have written in our sleep -  a full and far-reaching cover-up, tough questions will be asked and lessons will be learned; everybody is to blame, the nation itself is to blame, therefore no-one is to blame, not the Mayor, not the council, not the govament, not the cheapskate contractors, bunging money at Tories and Labour alike. No, we mustn't get into the Blame Game. Or, as CallHimDave reminded us, the Compensation Culture. We have given these people ten pounds already, haven't we? Job Done. What do they want, an MP's pension or something?

Mind you, viewers, the trouble with all this FlashMourning  is the impact it is having on the economy. We are joined by Lord Digby Sweat, one of Gordon Snot's appointment, who has this for us.


Well, speaking as a  businessman, I am bound to point out that all these two-minutes' silences are not good for the nation's productivity,  I mean, where is it going to end? Every time a few people get topped, the whole fucking country grinds to a halt for two minutes;  there are more people killed on the roads every day than die in these pissant  terror attacks. And what would we do if there was a fucking war on? Christ, these maudlin, whinin' yellow-bellies'd be wanting two minutes silence every five minutes.  No, I speak to businessmen all the time and quite frankly they tell me that they didn't start a business and create jobs so's their employees could stand around sniffling and snotting for two minutes, once a fucking week.  They do add-up, you know, all these two minuteses, among those who can still do adding-up, that is, and before you know it they make an hour, that's quite a dent in the productivity of firms already hampered by having a workforce which can neither read nor fucking write. No,what I say, and I'm speaking as a businessman, here,  is that it's fine by me if halfwits and shitbrains wanna stand around in silence mourning people they never met amd would have hated if they had, absolutely fine by me, fine by the CBI, the Federation of Small Businesses and all the Rotary clubs up and down the land, but if they do wanna do it, they should do it in their own fucking time, and not their employers'. See that apostrophe, there, that last one, the possessive, that's what you can do if you aren't educated by shitheads like Dr Vernon Bogbrush, at Oxford, the man who taught David Cameron that America won the Battle of Britain.

I mean,  bad enough for businessmen like myself,  with all this scare-mongering about Brexit, mainly,
 I must say, orchestrated by smug middle-class gits,  people with cheap Polack nannies, looking after their vile children and second  homes in Brittany or greedybastard farmers who demand the right to pay slave wages;  hysterics is what they are, farmers; fuck me Jesus, they've always been tight-fisted, farmers, moaning from dawn til fucking dusk, begging for subsidy;  farming isn't business, it's just a complex way of drawing benefits from the rest of us.  Set Aside? Whoever the fuck dreamed-up that one? Pay some worthless, scheming bastard for not doing anything.  And then he walks around all righteous and po-faced, talking about the sacrifices he's making, for the fucking Environment. 

And I tell you something else, Huw, these fucking Frogs, threatening us, they're all faggots, aren't they, lounging about in expensive suits and haircuts, sneering,

 - apart from the businessmen Frogs, who, like all businessmen, and I speak as a businessman, myself, know what side their snails are garlic buttered - 

Oh, you Brits,

 you are always so obstinate, n'est ce pas, 'ad eet not been for you obstructing M'sieu 'Eetler, een 1940, all ze Jews would 'ave been, 'ow you say, tidied up, swep' under ze gas chamber, non? An' ze Gippoes, too, and ze schwarzers, and zen ve would 'ave mopped-up ze communistes in Russia and vood all be speaking German.  But no, you RosBifs, you 'ad to be fucking awkward, just like now. Sacre Bleu, nobody 'ere wanted ze fucking D-Day and 'ave zat prat de Gaulle coming back here like he was fucking Charlemagne, marching down le Champs Elysee an' fucking everysing up.  Mais non, mes amis, ze true French 'ero, 'e know 'ow to bend over for ze mighty German Frankfurter and take it like le patriot propre. An' now ze Greater Germany, eet ees here, at last, an' fuck Churchill and ze Battle of Britain  an' ze Blitz an' ze rationing an' ze fucking Maquis and ze fucking  Normandy landings and ve, ze true Franco-Germans, at last ve are going to make you pay for fucking us about, non? Vive l'Allemagne! 
That's the way they go on, Huw, straight up, as we say in Bromsgrove. I mean, they would all be speaking fucking German without the Brits - nothing wrong with German businessmen, mind, I'm a businessman, myself,  I am, and Volkswagen, a great company, apart from poisoning the world, but that's nit-picking and red tape, Volkswagen could teach us all a few lessons.  But even so, Huw, we can't put up with the Frogs criticising and attacking and threatening us, when it was us saved their fucking jambon, can we, Huw. As a businessman, I have just two words for the rotten, ungrateful, worm-eating frog bastards: Agin Court.  We done it before and we can do it again
And speaking as a businessman I simply say that that smarmy cunt, wotsisname, Juncker, is it, and those simpering, Nazi-loving Paddies, over there, telling us what they will and will not tolerate borderwise, what they need is a night-time visit from the English Defence League or some such.
That was Lord Digby Sweat of Bromsgrove there for us, with his take on recent events. I'll just apologise to viewers for Digby always prefixing his remarks with: speaking as a businessman, he can't help it, but at least he did work, after a fashion, to become a businessman, of sorts.  Yasmin Alibhai Muslim, on the other hand, is constantly saying, 

Well, of course, I speak as a Muslim woman, as though she chose to be one, worked hard to become one; I mean, look you, she was born a fucking Muslim wasn't she? I was born a Welshman, but you don't hear me saying that at the top of every news report, do you?  Anyway, Digby's fun and Yasmin's a pain in the arse and that's all there is to it.  And  now we join  Nicholas Knobcheese, our Royal correspondent.  Nick, I understand Her Gracious Majesty's been out and about, talking to folk, rather like her own mother did, at the time of the Blitz, you know, like Lord Digby was just talking about.  

Yes, indeed Huw, that's right, and Long To-oo Reign Over Us, I very much hope. 
Christ, Huw, just between ourselves, can you imagine what'll happen when she dies, that buffoon, Brian, 


he fucking hates me, he does.  
But no, for now, Good Queen Brenda has been amongst the people, exercising that common touch for which she is so famous. And now, like her sainted mother, the Queen Mum, she, too, can  look the East End in the eye.
West, Nick, Kensington's in the West.....

Yeah, but, I was speaking figuratively, as one does, of the monarchy.  And not only was Queen Brenda, there, but Prince Gormless, too. And I must say, that despite his vast responsibilities, he too has developed the common touch, can relate to and connect, if you will, with ordinary riff-raff, like those now so sadly toasted.  Here he is earlier:

Okay, Yah? Football, eh?
 David Beckham! Okay, Yah?
 Pippa's arse. Okay, Yah?
Three cheers for Charlotte and George!
He was just every bit the ordinary, young father, Huw, Prince Gormless, and I was privileged  to see him, working his royal magic on people who, let's face it, don't have English as a first language.
Well, Nick, you speak for yourself, 
Welsh is my first language, look you, isn't it and as for parenting, well, we 'aven't got time now, but if my father had treated my mother the way his father and his granny treated his mother then I wouldn't be quite so keen to join the family business. Strikes me as a bit of a prat, actually,does Gormless.
Yes, Huw, did  I tell you I met Saint Diana several times. 
Okay, she hated me too but, Hey, that's show business.

What about Queen Brenda, though?

Oh, she was magical, really got down with the people, here she is.

Oh, I say, dearie, fucking awful, isn't it, having one's palace burn down?
 Happened to me, y'know, at Windsor, I just thank fuck I had people to carry out all my art works. 
I mean, Philip's no fucking good.
 Probably in the garden with that ghastly creepy-crawly, Titmarsh. 

Grovelling little shit. 

I expect you all had help carrying out your art works, didn't you, that's the main thing, irreplaceable, they are. 
I hope your servants were able to rescue your valuables, 
and didn't just piss orf out of it.
It is very hard to get good staff.
Do you find that?

Well that was Queen Brenda, there,with the common touch, and now to other well, royalty, if you like, NewLabour royalty, and they don't come more uppity than NewLabour, I can tell you, proper cunts, all of them. And just let me say, wasn't it great seeing them all wrong-footed by Jerry Corbyn; 
that hideous little baggage, Angie Eagle, that stuck-up Tory fuckpig, Chukka Umuna, and the Ice Pixie, Mrs Balls, that's her and her shifty old man fucked, now, for good, he'll have to look to showbusiness, not that he's much good at that, either. I mean, they were all so ridiculously wrong about Corbyn, why do they think anyone would believe them about anything else? And talking of people fiddling their expenses, at which Ed and Yvette were masterful, the royalty I referred to are the NewLabour mayors.  Here's Sadiq Sticky Fingers, London's popular Muslim mayor - no, no, it's him who's always mentioning it, not me -  with an army of police protection, yet still being heckled by angry Londoners who don't buy his tacky facade.

Look, as a good British 'slim, and your mayor, 
 I'm only here for a photo-opportunity.
I don't give a fuck about niggers being roasted.
I'm NewLabour,
we torched Iraqi kids by the tens of thousands.
Don't fuck with me, mate.
I'll have you in Guantanamo before you know it. 
You can trust me, chief, to fuck you up, big time, I'm a British Muslim, me.

Mayor Sadiq, it must be said, always paid back his wrongly-claimed expenses.  
Just as soon as he was found-out. 
Honest mistakes. 
Just always in favour of his own pocket. 
One wonders what he's up to as Mayor

Great that people, some people, now see him, as what he really is, a vain, greedy, sewer rat, stooging for the rich. I guess he'll have Cressida Butch's boys'n'girls out searching for someone to frame for arson, in order to protect his masters from scrutiny, much less arrest and imprisonment.

Mayor Andy Bubbles, of the great city of Manchester,
 has had a great photo opportunity, too.

I would just like to say a big thank you to the victims of whatever it was for giving me, so early in my new career, what I call a Rudi Moment, the opportunity to stand-up in front of my fellow-Mancunians and talk sincere, meaningful shit at them, just like Mayor Rudi Wotsisname did, in New York, after the terrible events of 9/11, when those towers mysteriously fell-down in their own footprint (editor's note: funny how Grenfell Tower, far more seriously burned than the WTC buildings didn't just collpase, freefall, in its own footprint) It has been a truly humbling moment for me, sincerely gabshiting my way through whatever terrible event it was. And as a career boost it ranks along with my intervention over Hillsborough, a  shrewd strategy which helped me become Mayor of this great city, home to that great band, Oasis, and, and much else, besides, sewing and stuff, yes, and Manchester United, owned by US crooks. Great city, Manchester, and I am proud of the part I played in securing myself such a great gig, once I saw that Jerry Corbyn was going to lead the party I loved, whatever it was, into oblivion.

Just think, if Bubbles had been loyal to his leader, the one voted for overwhelmingly by the members,  he might've, after the upcoming election, been foreign seckaterry, could've gone and told lies to the UN, like Jack Straw.  I suppose the nation is better off with him up there in Manchester, with the teenyboppers.

It's the weather now, with Jayne Tits, and over on Newsnight Giggler Davies and his guests will all be discussing  how Mrs Askey will be thanking God for this white nutter who rammed the Finsbury Park 'Slims in his white van,  thus taking the Towering Tory Inferno off the front pages, at least for an hour or two, whilst she hands the keys of the Bank of England to her new mates, the Ulster Undertakers. 
Couldn't make it up, I know, viewers; I betcha that old bastard Ian Paisley'll be down there in Hell with Marty Kneecaps, laughing his ugly face off. 

Wednesday, 22 March 2017




Speaking from his coffin, Tony Blair's great friend, Marty PsychoKiller, 

Hey, youse, youse out there, can youse hear me?

said that it was unacceptable, so it was, utterly unacceptable for people to bomb parliamentarians like himself, going about their lawful business, so it was.  


We, in the Provisional IRA utterly condemn acts of terrorism against unarmed people 
and those responsible should be hunted down and punished to the full extent of the law, so they should, and they should definitely not be classed as political prisoners, because they're just common criminals, so they are, and they most definitely should not be allowed out of jail and put in government. 
That's just madness, so it is and a total affront to those people who've lost their limbs and lives and families in such a cowardly attack as this, I mean, putting mass murderers in parliament, well, it's just taking the piss, so it is, and we condemn it utterly. 

In Scotland, First Minister, Wee Gnasher, 

screwed-up her wee rodent's arse of a face and said that this was exactly why Scotland needed millions more immigrants to come and settle in her country, just not English ones. It also proved, she continued, that Donald Trump's policy of excluding immigrants from certain countries until they had been thoroughly screened was just pure mental. If millions a terrorists come tae Scoatland, which, I would remind people, is the sovereign will of the Scoattish people, well, any a they ones who have ambitions tae blow people tae fuck will just be able tae walk doon tae England and do it there.  No, I wouldnae tolerate a border between England and Scoatland.  No way, Jose.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017


When I was a small child we were still hanging people; you'd hear about it in those Recieved Pronunciation voices on the BBC wireless, on the Home Service, even on the Light Programme, then the equivalents, respectively, of Radio Four and  Radio Two, sop, then as now, for both the so-called thinking middle class, alive to the issues of the day, and the whistling working class. The John Humphries of the day, or the Jeremy Vine, would solemnly broadcast the news that at eight o' clock that morning some hapless neck had been snapped like a twig and then go on to say that there had been protests outside the nick. 
Quite right, too. 

Used to make my infant blood run cold, it did, them topping people, just down the road, and I have been a Death Penalty Abolitionist all my life. I can't even watch a fictionalised execution without flinching and the real thing almost makes me pass-out. I have managed to avoid seeing the hanging of Saddam Hussein, one of New Labour's great achievements and the Caecescus being gunned down, which I have seen, was at least swift and  brutish, unpretentious, no simpering vicars, and lacking the nauseating pseudo-formality of the Death Row and its grisly sergeants.

One of the reasons I so hated Marty Kneecaps was that he shook my belief, threatened my resolute opposition to state murder;  I had only to see him - or his comrade, Gerry the Nonce - to reflect that, well, maybe some people do deserve a necktie party; maybe it is the only way to protect Decency from cruel Vice, or if not protect, at least avenge, and future-protect. 

 There has only ever been the one execution which I can watch.  I don't make a habit of it or anything, I think I've seen it twice, on the Nazi shows; it is the hanging, on his own gallows, of the former commandant of Auschwitz, a man so dreadful that his despatch seemed almost merciful, but even if it wasn't it seemed entirely, unequivocally appropriate.  
 And so would it have been with Marty, a man who, from his earliest,

 youthful photograph 
until his last, bitter, dying image 

 oozed a sinister, sadistic and utilitarian cruelty from every pore;  his were the mindset and the practice of the SS. 
 Peace Proh-cess be damned, if ever the world needed a man to be hanged, Marty Kneecaps was the prime candidate.

I had hoped, in these latter years of his miserable, obnoxious life,  that someone might shoot him on the street, like the mad dog he was, and maybe just cripple him, as he had crippled so many, leaving him in a painful half-life; death by heart disease seems so very kind an end for one so vile, we must hope that he was as frightened at his end as were the very many children whose limbs he treated to a Black and Decker mutilation;  teenagers pulled from the streets by Marty's nancyboy sadists, the Hard Men, as they call themselves, and savaged by Provisional IRA lawnforcement. I mean,  when we look at some of the members of the Northern Ireland Assembly I can't help but think that we gotta lotta nerve to take-on so, about Islamic State; there is no difference between the headchoppers and the authors of the Birmingham 'pub bombings, the Enniskillen Remembrance Day massacre, the Warrington bombing or countless other murderous attacks on defenceless civilian groups, no difference whatsoever.
War on terror? 
It's not too late for bringing it all back home.

Hard to see, by the same token, why we are so hard on Jimmy Savile, whilst eulogising Martin McGuinness;  Sir James, after all, never actually killed anyone, let alone thousands of people, and he  raised large sums of money for other people's use, whereas McGuinness cost us incalculable sums, mind-boggling - the cost of an army, the costs of endlessly rebuilding city and town centres; the costs of drastically expanded emergency services, of prolonged medical and psychiatric treatments, of bereavements, of army and police and civilian widows' pensions, of massively increased police, intelligence and security services; of lost businesses, of courts and trials and incarcerations; of investigations and interdictions at home and abroad.  The harm and expense caused by Savile's behaviours and by subsequent enquiries into them is as a drop in the ocean compared with the ongoing burden caused by Marty's dark fantasies.
And yet Savile - relative to McGuinness a petty offender - is a byword for infamy, while McGuinness himself lies rotting and surely putrid on a fraudulent hero's bier.
Blessed are the peacemakers, eh?
Fuck me, Jesus, it's enough to make the Saviour spit.