call me ishmael

SCOTLAND. BEST PART OF ENGLAND. SHERIDAN GAGGED.

2012-01-28T18:24:00.000Z

SHERIDAN MUST SUCK HIS OWN DICK FOR SIX MONTHS, RULES SCOTTISH PRISON SERVICE.

Scottish firebrand politician, Tearful Tommy Sheridan, is to be released on parole after serving one third of the three-year sentence, imposed upon him for his principled fight against the evils of capitalism in all its forms, apart from in the sex clubs, brothels and drug dens of the North Western England. The only catch in the early release deal is that Sheridan must shut his gob for six months, in public, at least, and not go banging-on about the injustices of his life, his position and the failure of Mr CallHimDave to be held to account over l'affaire Coulson - or, Tommy, one might add, sotto voce, anything else.

Not usually known for its generosity of spirit, the Scottish Prison Service inadvertently does the nation and the aural environment a temporary and all too brief service. To be spared, even for six months, the sexist, incoherent, foam-flecked, fist-waving demagoguery of Mr Tearful Tommy Sheridan is, in these hard times, a welcome blessing, one tempered only by the knowledge that Mr Sheridan's fellow celebrity and his advocate, Mr Aamer Anwar, will, in his uniquely outraged and tongue-tied manner, be self-righteously filibustering his way around the TV studios, ranting about his client's purity and dedicarion to public service. Even facing this self-serving onslaught we might find some relief in the fact that Mr Anwar may not be simultaneously engaged in vigorously applauding the abolition of the double jeapardy legislation - one of the citizen's few protections against the over-reach of the state's criminal law.

For the illumination of those living outside this blessed land, perhaps poncing a living off Mr Salmond's oil reserves, we should mention that Mr Anwar

is one of Scotland's most prominent celebrity lawyers. Pushy, showy and woefully inarticulate, even for a Scottish lawyer. Mr Anwar, a civil rights enthusiast, has recently been trumpeting that the abolition of the double jeapardy protection means that those whom " everybody knows to be guilty" should be convicted forthwith; breathtaking stupidity, even from a shit-eating Sheridanite. I tell you, friends, the fifteen-minutes long BBC Scotland Newsnight features a tiny, regular cast of some of the dumbest, ugliest, stupidest and most repellent assholes in the country, Anwar being the unlikeley and ludicrously unsuitable default setting choice to pontificate about civil liberties, he's like the Imelda Blair of Jock jurisprudence.

Tommyists around Scotland - sadly, poor wee crossdressing wifebeaters, confusing opposition to their hero as endorsement of skymadeupnewsandfilth - insist that the campaign for Salmondism, I mean Independence, must hear the ranting, tobacco-rasped voice of Tommy, and no doubt the saintly Gail, too, if it is to mean anything at all.

Mr Sheridan and his media-legal stooges have already hijacked and torched the Left in Scotland, that they wish now to cavort in, make Scotland host to a bizarre and corrosive Celebrity Big Brother Independenc Referendum House is a self-indulgence too far. If Mr Sheridan himself has voluntarily agreed to the terms of his parole - he could, acting in principle, have served the rest of his sentence - then that should be the end of the matter; principle, for the baying Sheridanites, however, is shouty and bullying in its noisesome evangelism and infinitely elastic in its meaning. We must look forward, therefore, dolefully, to Tommy and Aamy berating the nation about its failure to properly honour the coke-snorting prophet in its midst and demanding that the terms of his parole are an affront to human decency. As if we didn't have enough shot to sidestep.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.
(IN A McGAY LIB SORT OF WAY)

Glamourpuss Tommy, bless, reclining in his macho sunbed,
models his tee-shirt for his avid wee fans.

Next week, in our Gay Heroes of Scotland series: entertainer and traveller, Mr George Gallowbum tells readers: Why I should be the first Socialist Emperor of Scotland.

A man peddling Freedom in order that he might enjoy a cushy living

would better starve.....

from Tasty McFadden's Corruption Blues

THE THINGS THEY SAY.

2012-01-07T00:08:00.000Z

WHIMPERING ED MILIBAND, THE MURDOCH-SLAYER,

" Look, I am the guy who took on Murdoch, " Miliband said on Friday. " That was a decisive thing to do. I am the guy that has said the rules of capitalism as played in the last 30 years have got to change. What is the most important thing for a leader of the opposition to have? It is to establish an argument about what is wrong with the country and what needs to change. I have a very clear plan and I have set out very clear themes. "

Poor, whimpering deadbeat, what he means to say is: What is the most important thing for a leader of the opposition to do? His very clear plan and very clear themes obviously do not include the cultivation of grammatical consistency in his public whimperings.

When you look back at them, now, the Labour leaders, well, since Wilson and Marcia, anyway, you see that they are all delusional nincompoops, just like this one, good for fuck all, and that any good which has emerged during their tenures has come from outside parliament, travelling inwards and not, as this creepy, malformed bastard suggests, outwards - it is not about "what is wrong with the country and what needs to change," it is about what is wrong in MediaMinster and who needs hanging-up from a fucking lamp post and what needs burning to the fucking ground.

EVENSONG. A VELVET OVERGROUND. Sheryl Crow & Emmylou Harris (Live) : Pale Blue Eyes

2012-01-05T23:02:00.000Z

DIVIDED WE STAND.

2012-01-05T21:52:00.000Z

Of course, by sending my son to a private school I am not seeking to set him apart from the riff-raff, workshy, fatherless, drugtaking, black children in my shitpoor constituency and ally him for life to the children of rich people. Only I am. That'll be a thousand pounds please, Andrew. And at least if they do sack me from the Front bench of Oblivion I'll be able to come back on the show every week. Instead of that cheesy old minge, Jacqui Schmidt. Or Alan Johnson, yes, the one whose missus was banging half the Met. And him home seckatry. Well, of course it's not for me to comment on colleagues making themselves look ridiculous but really.....

ON THE FEAST OF STEVEN.

2012-01-05T17:49:00.001Z

The idea of victims' justice is something which civilised societies rightly abhor. Uncle Sam, of course, with his Bible-thumping barbarism, is uncivilised, along with China, the Indian sub-continent, parts of Africa, parts of the former USSR and countless other states, notably in the Middle East, where the state or the theocracy casts itself as the victim of all crimes and extracts a deadly and wretched compensation from offenders - or those said to be offenders by proper offenders, generally men, often holy men, utter bastards, in other words.

Victims' justice belongs far in the past, along with the likes of Benjamin Netanyahu and Barack Obama, proper societies have a system of blind, impersonalised justice, detached from the offence but connected to the society in which it occurred and driven by considerations other than solely vengeance; how else can it work? Unless we are prepared to condone one crime leading to another, probably worse; to condone a fatal escalation of inter-citizen violence as burglary leads to murder and murder leads to torture and murder, unless we want blood and limbs flowing in the streets we must consign the dispensation of justice to professionals, with whom we will often disagree. Because they are all bastards, too.

The selective abolition of the Double Jeopardy rule was one of NewLabour's darker achievements and we see that controlling impetus everywhere, now, in politics; the Irish Referendum on Europe is a fine example of state - or pan-state - lawlessness, you keep on voting until you give us the answer we want or, as in this case, we keep on trying you until we get a conviction, it is one of those slippery slopes beloved of NewLab bullyboy, Jack Torture, simpering learnedly, the rotten fucking bastard, about human rights whilst extending the rights of the state over the citizen; as Foreign Seckatry Straw lied his face off to the United Nations, in order that his masters in Washington might bomb the beJasus out of innocent Iraqi children; today, in the light of the Lawrence verdict, this monster will be toasting himself, even more than usual. It is better that a thousand guilty go free than that one innocent be incarcerated or executed and fuck DNA evidence and fuck scientific advance and fuck clozeya for victims' families. The ability to try and re-try is the work of the Devil which we shall all come to regret, all of us, that is, save the lawmakers and their agents, who, as we know, are far beyond the reach of the laws they visit upon the rest of us.

Another NewLabour solecism - along with the creation of Holocaust Day - was the idea that killing some people was worse than killing other people; that, if you killed a ginger person you should get a sterner bollocking off the likes of Coleman Treacey than you would if you just killed someone who was, say, brown haired. And so now we have gingerly-aggravated killing, unless, of course, at the earliest opportunity you express remorse for hating ginger bastards. Once upon a time, killing anybody was bad shit, but now if you kill some bastard because you don't like him, well, as we see, hanging's too good for you. A black person, you see, or a gay person, is uniquely, when killed, more dead than a non-black or non-gay person. ( I wonder, in passing, if, had Steven been killed by a Yardie and his killing effectively overlooked by the Met, would we be banging-on about it nearly twenty years later, would it be less of a tragedy, less of an outrage? Where does the racism really lie in this?) Now, if I was a white, straight person, I'd take serious exception to this shit because what it means is that if someone is sat at home thinking about killing someone else he is very likely to think, Fuck me, I wanna kill some bastard so bad, I wanna knife him and kick him and set fire to him, maybe not knife him, because that carries a bigger sentence, and certainly not shoot him because they'll throw the fucking book at me and it better not be a black person or a brown person or any kinda coloured gay person, or a Muslim or Scotchperson; the bastard'd certainly better not be studying for A levels or we'll never hear the end of it. Who does that leave me, then, to murder? I'll just have to find someone who's not now and never has been a member of any minority group whatsoever, because that'd be HateCrime. And all I wanna do is murder some bastard.

Now, the individuals convicted for the murder of BrightAlevelStudentStevenLawrence do present as pretty unpleasant and despite the botched evidence of the Met's scientific teams, the jury felt that they were guilty of a terrible deed, spontaneous, although apparently in character; a couple of knife thrusts and a shared jubilation. And now, for some, the state's retribution - those calling, incidentally, for a longer sentence have clearly never spent a week-end in the cells, have no concept of what fifteen years' incarceration means. I am no armchair jurist and I don't know - beyond a gut feeling of "probably" - the truth of the matter. And if I blame anybody, I blame the parents. And, of course, their parents. There's no shortage of people to blame. Just as long as we don't blame our representatives in MediaMinster.

But I do know that criminal trials are not, or should not be held to burnish, belatedly, the reputation of a palpably corrupt police force, to vindicate the drunken, amoral splutterings of the wretched, anti-democrat Paul Dacre of the Daily FilthMail, nor should they be held to bring clozeya to Mrs Lawrence, people who speak in such terminology betray not their compassion but their imbecility. Mrs Lawrence is a true vexation to the spirit, for one can be sure that before her personal loss she discounted all the police wickedness visited upon other, less "bright" black boys; her son, doing A levels, wasn't he actually gonna be an architect, almost a proper white man. Nothing that happens, in or out of the criminal justice system will bring clozeya to Mrs Lawrence. Nothing except Forgiveness. But she is clearly an unforgiving woman and her wretchedness will yet sell many more newspapers as anniversaries roll around and - in the distant future - parole applications are heard. I am doing a life sentence she will howl; yes, she is and only she can free herself; although we know that Grief's celebrity-noire is a tenacious monkey on the back of the unwary - once there saddled by skymadeupnewsandfilth, he is hard to unseat. Here Mrs Old Lady, here's a coupla hundred quid, tell us, tell our readers, how much you hate Ian Brady and Myra Hindley for killing your son; thanks, love, seeya next year.

But the trial wasn't about Mrs Lawrence - but don't tell her that - it was about an act of random, racially inspired murder, like the one of an Indian student, just committed in Manchester - undeterred, you see, by the great efforts made by our masters, hatred stalks us, still; and who knows when others of similar mind to the Lawrence killers may strike again, maybe in solidarity with their jailed comrades.

Mr Justice Coleman Cuckold Treacey is a man made mean by his disappointments and we may be sure that he has dished out as much prison as he could, consistent with the career implications of a high profile case such as this and few will complain that he was over-harsh although, as we see, some are of the view that hanging's too good for 'em, life should mean life and so on. There may be room for another court to give them an extra year or two - even though Treacey's doses of porridge are just a minimum, the Parole Board and Home Seckatries are well-attuned to the public mood in such cases and these two should not hold their breath, awaiting release on the dates specified by the Court, they could well spend their lives in prison.

The institutionalised villains of the piece of course are feasting, too, along with the drunken bum, Dacre, along with every half-witted race relations activist and with every veneer-scratched Guardian-reading fascist in the land.

DAC Clarissa Gob was good, nice mixture of smug satisfaction and regret that it had taken so long for her mob to do the decent thing; Clarissa, it was, who masterminded the emptying of a magazine into the head of poor young JeanCharles de Menendes, before he was swiftly slandered by Sir now Lord Ian Blair, then Commissioner of the Filth; unlike the unfortunates sentenced yesterday, Clarissa was immediately promoted, it's how they do things in the police. And all, the entire revolting Gabshites Chorus, have been singing the praises - although they didn't at the time - of the MacPherson Report, as though the images of women being dragged around the cells by their hair, batoned in the face by psychobastard coppers-without-numbers and of Ian Tomlinson being killed, right before the eyes of the world and his killer being cynically protected by the entire law enforcement system had been apparitions, visible only to the sceptical, the naysayers. visible only to those who say that all lawyers are scum, all politicians are shit-eating hypocrites, all journalists are filth and - l'axiom des toutes axiomes - all coppers are bastards. That some cops have been dragooned into prosecuting their spiritual homies does not alter the fact that those who, at the time, protected the killers, will have been, what's that phrase, in FilthSpeak, allowed to retire early, on health grounds

The feasting, therefore, friends, the Feast of Stephen, is of thin gruel, bread and circuses, a good, self-righteous, tub-thumping, self-writing New Year's story to gladden the hearts and divert the attentions of the braindead.

The final word should go to the Met's chief sociopath, wotsisname, Baden Powell, Hogan Powell, who knows, so rotten is the barrel from which their bosses emerge that even the most blatantly criminal organisation in the country can't seem to keep hold of one of them for more than five minutes.

COMMISSIONER HAGEN-DAZ

Those involved in the killing of young wotsisname, the black lad, they shouldn't sleep easily in their beds. Those involved over the past decade in the killings of three hundred and fifty people in their custody - ie us - we can sleep as soundly as we like.

Always remember, there is only a thin but excessively well-armed blue line protecting you from an outbreak of complete Decency.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE TIMES OF INDIA, RUSSIAN DEMONSTRATORS SAY FUCK OFF PANSY PUTIN.

2011-12-26T21:20:00.001Z

LET ME RIG YOUR VOTES FOR YOU, COMRADE-DEARIES.

MOSCOW: Tens of thousands of protesters gathered here on Saturday for a second large antigovernment demonstration , as a wave of new activists struggle to convert an inchoate burst of energy into a durable political force.

Organizers hope to build on the success of the Dec 10 protests, which mobilized a broad collection of previously apolitical middle-class Russians angry over parliamentary elections earlier this month that many rejected as fraudulent and slanted in favor of the ruling party, United Russia.

If the movement can sustain its intensity, it could alter the course of presidential elections in March, when Vladimir V Putin plans to extend his status as the country's dominant figure to 18 years.

The crowd began forming more than an hour before the beginning of the protest, for which city authorities granted a permit for up to 50,000 people. Organizers estimated the crowd at 120,000; the police offered a lower estimate of about 29,000.

The protests have shaken the Kremlin, which has not encountered widespread public resistance since Putin became president in 1999. It has become clear that the Kremlin is taking the protesters' complaints as a warning signal, and is willing to make concessions to head off a dangerous confrontation. Shortly before the event began, the former finance minister, Aleksei L Kudrin - a member of Putin's inner circle for more than two decades - announced that he would address the demonstrators.

-----------------------------------------------------

Against the dreary, OCD media backdrop of the Dow-Jones Index, these events are startling and must foster optimism, all these Occupy this and that movements in the West, the violent protests in the Middle East and North Africa - aside from those owned by NATO - and now the Russians are expressing their righteous discontent with their own version of political musical chairs; something is happening, worldwide, and I wish I knew what it was; wish I had the strength and courage to go and join something.

Having seen the overthrow of the Soviet Union, modern Russians are less in awe of the repulsive criminal Putin than he might think. Vlad and his chums, trading positions every few years, of course echo the deal in MediaMinster, where, only once in a blue moon is a non-party, independent individual permitted entry to the legislature, the levers of power passing, otherwise, more or less seamlessly from one dinosaur party to another. The BBC and skymadeupnewsandfilth have always ruthlessly suppressed or ridiculed any alternative political catechism, any on-air voice raised in dissent is Dimblebied with extreme prejudice and audiences are compelled to dutifully applaud a panel of their thieving tormentors - slaghacks, dimwit entertainers and shiteating politicians, all pontificating emptily, yet carefully within the envelope. The BBC has been doing this shit forever, forming stooges into a panel which then selectively addresses approved questions, vetted by the producers, the governors, the board of trustees and whichever crime family is ocupying Downing Street.

I bought a two British pounds, Christmas Eve, hard copy of the Daily Filth-o-Graph, a 'paper I read through most of the 'nineties and it was just a big, papery bundle of rubbish - the news, or what passes for the news, was out of date before it was printed, the op-ed was Home Counties, jingoistic, God is British claptrap, neither informative nor provocative, as the Filth-O-Graph used to be; the property section was for multi-millionaires, as were all the elite consumer products, Oh, and they have a blonde cookess, called Xanthe, they would have, wouldn't they? I have been wondering who on Earth buys these things; having long ago broken my own newspaper addiction, I had assumed, nevertheless, that the broadsheets must still contain material by authors and in a form that one simply cannot acquire on CyberStreet, I was wrong - everything is online - and since I stopped buying them, the physical form of the newspapers has become, to me, at any rate, just fucking irritating, the pages stick together; if you don't have a valet to iron them, they are dirty with ink; if you pick them up or set them down carelessly they fall apart, never to be correctly reassembled; to get to the serious stuff you have to wade through pages littered with out-of-date images of old crows, lady writers, once someone's bright, shiny niece or mistress, now scrawny and embittered, grinding a shedful of axes, Vicki Woods, Rosa Prince; who knows, maybe they started out as buxom, blouse-bursting schoolgirl porn on the Filth-O-Graph's famous A-level results front pages, and now they write columns moaning about the quality of the help - us. Oh, yes and there are vital pages of closely-printed stocks and shares prices - the Daily Lie - which, let's face it, will be flashing away, updated to the second, on the various multiscreens of those interested in committing such offences. In a way, it was, despite my loathing of the Barclay Twins and most Filth-O-Graph writers, a bit of a disappointment to find that it really was the dead, DeadTreePress, good for fuck all, and more expensive, even, than proper firelighters.

But even though our own mass media are rotten and corrupt, I have always been suspicious of the Twitter Revolution, the Facebook Fifth Column and am even moreso having watched Emily Maitless schmoozing the Facebook Founder, wotsisname, Jabberwocky, another autistic, bulletheaded American bleating about Freedom while working for the CIA and Wall Street. The idea that consumerjunky hand-held devices might spark and enflame revolutions has always seemed risible to me - I can't come, I'm just so not up for it, I don't have that civil disobedience app, but can we catch up over a latte; just as likely, it has seemed to me, that James Dyson and his infinitely recurring vacuum cleaner are the key to true human fulfillment.

But something is going on, something, some movement or movements utterly indifferent to leaderwriters, broadcasters, legislators and all the other forms of Filthlife are undermining the JerichoWalls of political certainty; it is axiomatic, I guess, that revolutions are not recognised as such until they are over, one way or another.

Which of the old blondes, below, is Madeleine Albright?

My fellow motherfuckers,
Ah did not have sex with either of these Seckatries of State.

Which one of these, below, actually won an election?

Was it Major major or Major minor?

Spunky Bill, Madeleine Albright, President Hillary Dyke-Trousers, CallHimDave and countless other grinning phonies strutted about, last week, at Vaclev Havel's state funeral, as though they were, themselves, liberationist poets and playwrights and not filthy international criminals. In their suits and make-up and armoured limos they all looked as though they had walked, satirising themselves, off the cartoon screens of Family Guy.

Maybe not all the youth obediently watch Strictly Celebrity Factor, are not habituated to the soma-banality pumped at them relentlessly by GlobaCorp, maybe, despite the very best efforts of their creators, the handheld devices will help people to burn down the mission, rape the nuns, kill the children and poison the well, or whatever it is that revolutionaries do in addition to putting govaments up against the wall.

I heard Fat King Alec Salmond of Scotland, a while back,

smirking in best PutinSpeak, to Scotland's abnormally compliant journalists about what he called political attack blogs; these, opined the fat, greedy, wife-beating, cross-dressing bastard - to, naturally, not one word of protest from the McHacks - were not what the Internet was for - I think he said...and of course, political blogs are not what the Internet was invented for. Worth savouring for a moment or two, that one, from the leader of Free Scotland, your betters will decide what should be on the Internet.

If, even here in the mutha of parliaments, an elected politician can, as did McFatMan, get away with that sort of mediaeval claptrap, then we must send our best wishes to those currently oppressed in Russia by the thinly disguised hand of the KGB.

Is Putin gay? It really doesn't matter, what matters is a new Russian Revolution. All the wealthy bandits and murderers and torturers can all come and find sanctuary in London, where they are, apparently, most welcome. London, the New Havana.

Apples an' pears, apples an' pears, frog an' toad, trouble an' strife; diamond geezer, that Roman Abramovitch, an 'onorary Cockney, that's what 'e is.

WOTSONTELLY. ALL CHANNELS. DUKE LATEST. NATION DISAPPOINTED AS DUKE NOT DEAD YET.

2011-12-26T17:52:00.000Z

Welcome to the BBC Duke News, with me, Huw Welshman, the Dimbleby of the Valleys, as I like to think of myself. And of course the big story is a sick old man, who nobody likes, or is it whom, fucked if I know, but whose death would just be the news windfall which the unelected govament and its friends in the media would love. It's not as though just because the govament controls the BBC's money we do it any special favours, as this picture of our political fellator in chief, Mr Nick Toenails reveals.

Chancellor Osbum, please accept this gift, given on behalf of all the Lobby correspondents; we are, all of us, in this together and we don't know what we'd do if we didn't have your press releases and secret gossip to recycle, probably some proper reporting.

But the Duke dying would certainly give us all a break from the terrible fuck-up that the govament is making of, well, everything, really. And so we go cver now to our Royal correspondent, Mr Nicholas Knobcheese, who is at Papworth Hospital for us, even as we speak. Nick, what's the latest?

Nicholas Knobcheese, the BBC's Royal Correspondent.

Well, Hugh, even as we speak, His Grace was visited by a whole slew of benefits scroungers, yesterday, there was Prince Gormless and his half-brother, Hewitt, the drunk, there was Princess Anne's daughter and her husband, the drunken rugby player, wotsisname, him who was snogging that blonde bint a couple days after his wedding, and then there were the daughters of that fucking slobbastard, Andy - the one who flies around the world on benefits, playing golf with child molesters - and his former or current, who knows, Huw, with this shower, totty, Sarah Pork,

Well, effendi, a threesome with me AND the Duke?

Would half a million be too much?

Oh, alright then, since it's you, a hundred quid it is.

Right, and no condoms.

- the one who flogs access to royalty - their two royal, so-called, brats, Eugenie and Beatrice. Fuck me, Jesus, Huw, cost the taxpayer a pretty penny that lot did, I can tell you, each of them in a taxpayer-provided armour-plated RangeRover with a gang of randy coppers in attendance.

And the heir to the deathbed, I mean throne, Nick, was he there with his old totty, was Tampax Charlie present ...?

Nah, Huw, he was leading the traditional orgy of killing things at Sandringham and strutting around like he was already King.....

And whaddabout the Duke himself, Nick, any signs of him dying, what a story that would be for the New Year?

Wouldn't it just, Huw, wouldn't it just. Christ we'd all be on overtime for months, me especially, what with the lying in state, the state funeral, the state mourning; would Brenda abdicate in favour of Brian? She's always said she wouldn't but you never know. What sort of monarch would Shithead make? Would Camilla be Queen? Although the answer to that, Huw, is of course she would, don't be fucking silly.

So, lots of excitement, then in the various benefits scroungers' palaces, Nick?

You could say that, Huw, Gormless and his waitress will be thinking that Granny might abdicate and make them King and Queen, over the heads of Brian and Horseface, who will themselves be thinking that they'll soon be on the throne...

And the Duke, woddabout the Duke, Nick?

Well, if I were him I'd be hoping that the stent'd collapse and I'd be able to bugger off out of all this poisonous, disfunctional family rivalry, and get up there in Heaven, having arselove with Zeus, or woddever it is that Greeks believe in.

Well there you have it, that was Nick Knobcheese for us, there, reporting from outside Papworth Hospital where he's right at the heart, so to speak, of the action. Jenny Bond used to do that job, Royal Correspondent, or Keeper of the Golden Microphone of Shite, as we call it here, in the Corporation; yes, the one with no knickers, she was always telling people that, silly old tart.

Famed for her deferential reporting style and occasionally queenly manner - not to mention her admission that her failure to wear knickers caused her periodic embarrassment when climbing to vantage points - she held the job for 14 years, covering some of the most turbulent times in the royal family's modern history. The Guardian, March 2003.

She does cookery programmes, now, like everybody else. Hasn't it been shite, though, all these wankers and their take on Christmas Dinner, or Fayre, as some of them call it. Hairy Bikers, bumming each other around the NorthEast, sticking their shitty, spermy fingers in the brandy sauce, revolting, beardy, old queens. And that cunt, Heston Blumenthal, I lie awake at night, in Merthyr Tidfyl, I do, honestly, dreaming up exotic ways to torture that bastard to death.

Over now to Jayne Tits with the weather but don't go away because after this we'll be right back at Papworth to see if the Duke has deteriorated. Unless anyone else famous dies. In which case he can go and fuck himself, look you, isn't it.

But first a Christmas Message from the Prince of Benefits Scroungers, himself, the worthless, idle fucking bastard.

Well, as we all know, or my sons do anyway, it's a dreadful thing to lose one's parent but the sooner we get it over with the sooner I can be King. Yes, the sooner they're both, sort of, thingummy, dead, the sooner we can have a youthful, vibrant and environmentally concerned monarchy back on the great Spongers' Throne. The Queen'll soon be dead, God save me!! And Queen Camilla, ot course, only not as much as me.

DUKE IN HOSPITAL WITH CHARLES PAINS, I MEAN CHEST.

2011-12-24T17:19:00.003Z

Is that a nig-nog in the bushes? I'm sure there's one there,

I can smell 'em y'know, quick, fetch me m'gun.

Very good, your worship.

I tell you what, Titmarsh, you'd make a better bloody King than that son of mine, that fucking oaf, Brian, and you're only a teevee gardener, aren't you? And as for that fucking Nazi he's married,

well, really, I like horses as much as the next royal parasite, but marry one? You must be fucking smoking, I mean joking. But no, she smells like a fucking ashtray, that Camilla,

and always looks as though she's just gangbanged her way through the whole Rugby Union, and the bloody League, I shouldn't wonder. I mean, in my position, Titmarsh, one has to have a sense of humour about these sorts of things but fuck me gently, for years it was her husband, Andrew, jumping off and him, Shitbrains, Brian, the Prince of fucking Wales, jumping on, busier than St Pancras on a bank holiday, she was. No wonder she smells like an Indian sewer. No I don't know how many sprogs she had with her husband, Titmarsh, and I suppose some of them could be his, Brian's, which means they could be my grandchildren, God fucking help me, Titmarsh, I might be related to this smoky old poxed-up slapper. Christ, why didn't I stay in Greece? Edinburgh?? Who the fuck wants to be Duke of fucking Edinburgh, They were having a fucking laugh, weren't they, that stuttering old git of a King, and Winston fucking Churchill? Go on Titmarsh, name me one other Duke of fucking Edinburgh. You can't can you? That's because there haven't been any. I know what happened, The King said, l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-et's m-m-m-m-m-m-ake him Duke of Edinburgh, he w-w-w-w-w-w-won't know where Edinburgh is, he's only a fucking Greek and Winston said, I may be drunk Shire, but in the morning I'll be shober and thish cunt'll shtill be Greek, very good, Shire, a very good if I may shay sho, joke, making an olive-munching, plate-shmashing wog the Duke of Edinburgh, very droll, Shire. And now, if Your Majesty will permit me I will jusht pash out drunk on the floor. That's what fucking happened, Titmarsh, you can bet your fucking wheelbarrow on it.

You know, Titmarsh, it's nearly a hundred fucking years that me and Brenda, or Her Majesty to you, 've been driving round this freezing bloody shithole of a country, planting fucking trees and shaking hands with lines of fawning arseholes from the council and the chamber of fucking commerce and in all that time no bastard's ever thrown rubbish at our car.....No, your worship.........but this bleeding nincompoop and his doxy, the first time they go out to the pictures it's like the French fucking Revolution's kicking off all over fucking Knightsbridge. Is it any wonder I'm having a fucking heart attack, a bastard lunatic who talks to fucking trees and can't wipe his own fucking arse wants to take over and ruin all the good work me and his mother've done, fucking Jesus, Titmarsh, what's the world coming to ? And as for that babyfaced, slaphead fuckwit of a Prince, Gormless, the bald one, just married some waitress, I understand.....you do know, don't you, that when he's up in the helicopter they have a real pilot, out of sight, operating the sticks and the rudders and what have you, and as soon as they've taken off, the other chap takes over properly and the gormless one goes and sits in the fucking luggage bay, picking his nose and eating it; fucking backward, he is, a ree-tard; fucking hell, Titmarsh, his mother wasn't the brightest star in the royal firmament, especially not after she started fucking her way through the entire NHS, but this lad's as thick as fucking pigshit....King??? King??? Don't make me fucking laugh, Titmarsh, I have a bad heart.

No, your worship, by your leave, I'll just go and make some compost. I find it very therapeutic, the smells, the texture of the organic matter .......

Oh do shut up, you pretentious cunt, everybody knows the production team does all the fucking gardening.

Right, your worship, very good, your worship.

EVENSONG. John Cale - Hallelujah

2011-12-24T02:57:00.000Z

CHRISTMAS EVE CAN KILL YOU

2011-12-24T02:13:00.000Z

Many are bereaved or separated; many, mostly men, can't or don't see their children; many are in jail or in some other confinement; many, from a lifetime of wet blankets, wring out an existence sleeping on the streets as we walk past and the times are such that we are made impatient with frailty, we are each other's enemy; if we are old, we are lifelong greedybastards, to blame for the young failing to get a foot on Debt's ladder, no matter how much they lie about their income, their prospects; if we are ill we are actually malingering and could do a good day's bricklaying, if only we followed Mr Ian Duncan Smith's advice; if we are foreign, or even look foreign, we are the cause of unemployment. And crime. And VD.

If we are young, we are potentially criminal, unless, like the Bullingdon Bullies, we are born into the non-arrestable class. And if we have worked a life in the public sector, why then, we are despicable scum who should be put to the workhouse, our pensions forfeit; why should we have pensions, when the Employee of the Month, embarking on his career at McDonalds, does not?

If, desperate, abandoned in lone parenthood, we find the meanest benefits in Europe insufficient on which to survive and we nick a hundred or two pounds then by the Holy fucking Kelvin McKenzie we deserve horse-whipping, single mothers, waddaretheylike, slags, jail's too good for them. But if we are a millionaire LibDemTory, like Mr David Laws, MP, and we claim that being gay is the reason that we cheated forty grand's worth of housing benefit, then the whole of MediaMinster unites, in concert, lamenting our downfall, due to an honest mistake, and urging our swift return to FrontBench zombie economics. The cunt.

We could all go on and on about the bleakness, for many, of Christmas, about the dire hollowness of junky consumerism, about the pointlessness of priests, their midnight prating to Godlessheathenbastard drunks about the Christchild, born in a Victorian manger, in the bleak mid-Winter, with just a drummerboy and a donkey and three itinerant bankers for company. Fuck me, Jesus, it's a terrible business, this annual collision of God and Mammon, wanky vicars running soup kitchens whilst their employers sit on a property portfolio worth billions, Archbishop Beard and Pope Nazi the Thirteenth, each beseeching us to be better, the cheeky fucking bastards, as intolerably stupid, braindead, second-rate, fuckwit junior BBC reporters haunt the nation's shopping malls, desperate to break the news that Yes, one day's spending has reversed the ongoing collapse of retail, construction and manufacturing, as though we were stupider than they. And of course, largely, we are, gaping open-mouthed at the rising and falling Dow and FTSE100, as though we had the vaguest understanding of their labyrinthine criminal purpose.

Best of all, the nation's unelected prime minister, an amoral, worthless, thieving poltroon, publicly renews his - and by extention our - Christian faith, whilst down on his knees before the moneylenders in the Temple.

Their will be heartache all over the land, among, I know, some of us, here. Some some of it just the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to - I am off South to visit my late friend's widow, her second Christmas alone, well not alone, far from it, but without her Life'sman, might be a bit easier than her first Christmas without him but after forty years together it is a distinction as broad as a gnat's bollock, Christmas for her will always be shit, always a bleak mid-Winter. But other grief attends the doings of those who have swung an indecisive general election their way, the spivs and slags and chancers who have continued the debasement and diseasing of the body politic, we know their names, how they lisp and simper that the corrupt and useless banking industry simply must be supported, even at the cost of our living standards - our very lives, if necessary - because, after all, that's who they work for. In this tiny communty, here in the best part of England, I know of loads of perfectly decent, industrious, honest people whose entire lives are thrown up in the air, let the pieces fall where they may, in poverty, homelessness and Ruin, yet I have never heard of a single fraudulent financial terrorist in the entire world who has faced a criminal charge.

So, amongst all this pain, all this grubby charlatanry, do we bite Hypocrisy's bullet bullet and wish each other a Happy Christmas? Well, I fear we must; we must sincerely wish each other well, for many are ranged against us who wish us nothing but ill, nothing but harm.

Up here, in lands made dark by latitude as well as by Presbyterianism, I await, like a Pict or a Druid, the mid-Winter's Day Solstice and when it comes the blood quickens, the spirits lift a little, daily, and we sense Life, in all its chronic pattern, stirring, renewing itself by the light of the Sun. The Christians hijacked the mid-Winter event for themselves, substituting guilt for joy and carnality but their crimes brought forth, eventually, sublime music and art and architecture and literature, and it is for these that they will be remembered, even celebrated, long after Pope Nazi and his noncing monsignors have faced Heaven's Nuremberg, So fuck 'em all, priests and politicians and usurers; and a Happy Christmas or Solstice to each of us and may we, refreshed, gird our loins for Ruin's brutal New Year.

A Christmas Day in Ishmaelia

SCIENCE NEWS. Large Hadron Collider finds new particle

2011-12-23T01:55:00.003Z

from Tom Clarke, Channel Four News's science correspondent.

It is the tiniest, most infinitessimally small particle, a truly amazingly small scrap of matter that not even the most amazingly powerful nuclear-powered laser microscope would ever of been able of seeing with the naked eye, said Professor Brian Smile of the BBC and D'Ream, below, and of the Large Handheld Kettle. Or whatever.

Professor Cox sings his hit, Things Can Only Get Smaller, or Bigger.

Depending on your point of universal view.

But isn't it all just really, like, amazing.

It was so small that we had to build this big tunnel thing and smash things into one another at the speed of light, just to be able to get a glimpse of it, but we finally found Prince William's brain. I'll just do this visual aid thing to show you how big Prince William's brain is: Or small. See this dot . ? This dot is a hundred gazillion times bigger than William's brain. In fact, it is a hundred trillion gazillion times bigger than William's brain.

His brother? Find his brother's brain? No, that's beyond us, if, indeed, it exists at all, which no-one sort of believes it does.

Their Royal Brainlessnesses enjoy a Bullingdon moment with some doxy.

WOTSONTELLY. A RUSSIAN DOLL OF AWKWARDNESS. SIMON AMSTELL, DO NOTHING LIVE. BBC3

2011-12-23T00:42:00.001Z

Amstell, FagZen for thirty-somethings.

I always feel like an embarrassing uncle, enjoying Simon Amstell; he's only a child after all but this show, filmed in Dublin, is a gem, his consistently gentle and restorative approach to Life's interlocking feeding frenzies - religion, family, sex and success - is funny, thoughtful and - unusually, among Britain's damned legions of ghastly stand-ups - life-affirming and conciliatory. A delightful, funny, revelatory Judaeo-Zen rap, see it if you can.

TORY MP AT NAZI GATHERING SHOCK.

2011-12-22T19:48:00.001Z

MEMBERS OF THE UNELECTED GOVAMENT DISCUSS A CULL OF THE DISABLED

AND OTHER LAZY UNTERMENSCHEN.

The Frogs want to prosecute a hard-working, decent Tory MP, simply because he did a Prince Harry at some piss-up. So what if he sang the Horst Wessell song and roasted a few Jews in front of the chateau fire?

Prominent Nazi, Kelvin McKenzie, writes:

Pissez vous off, M'sieu Frog, that's what we say here at the Sun.

Say wotchalike about Hitler but he was a decent sort who paid his taxes and called a spade a spade.And then gassed him.

Wogs start at Dover, women are slags, fuck 'em as soon as they're sixteen; where's my fucking knighthood?

There's a Jew and a cripple and a nigger and a trade unionist, right, and they go in this crematorium.....

Mr Flashman shares a joke with young Nazi, Master Aiden Burley, MP for CannockChasehoffen.

Unelected PM, Major Flashman, has said that he believes in giving people a second chance to be good Nazis, but only if, like himself, they work for Fuhrer Murdoch.

As far as we can tell, said a Downing Street aide, Mr Burley has never performed a single service for Herr Mudoch, so he's out on his arse. Andy Coulson?? Never heard of him. Sieg Heil.

CHRISTMAS WITH FAGASH LIL.

2011-12-18T00:33:00.002Z

HI, BIGBOY, WANNA LICK MY ASHTRAY?
DAME ANN LESLIE, OBE.
ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL JOURNALISTS IN THE WORLD.

She's been rabble-rousing for the Daily Mail since God was a boy and has reported on wars and stuff in seventy countries; Leslie, however, disproves the maxim that travel broadens the mind, her jaunts to what we impertinently call the Third World have persuaded her that we, what with dwindling human rights and an increasingly privatised wefare state, are pampered, mollycoddled by our masters; if only our children had to walk three miles each morning to fetch water then our societtal malaises, our brokennessews would disappear in an instant.

It is a Daily Mail mindset - not all have pensions, therefore none should have pensions, Malawians don't have plumbing, therefore none should have plumbing, makes Ann's croaky old chest fill with pride, it does, when she sees little picanninnies walking six miles to school, in the baking heat, our children could learn so much from those mistreated by headchopping, gangster tribal politician-witchdoctors. And of course they could, but there is no need for us to embrace the nineteen thirties, as Leslie and her deadbeat crew insist we must.

The refrain goes, the private sector has been making huge profits for decades, now, as wages have been suppressed, subsidised by nomoreboomanbust Snottism, phantom equity taken from artificially inflated properties to fuel the High Street Trash Bonanza, beloved of the likes of Currys and Marks and Spencers and of Wotsisname, that gabshite who keeps on re-inventing his onetrick pony, cylinder of shite vacuum cleaner, Dyson, the great patriot who shipped his rubbishy business overseas where he could use cheap wog labour. These profits, anyway, had been so vast that by the time the directors and shareholders had been troughed-up to the nostrils, there was certainly no money left for employees' pensions, fuck me Jesus, no way, Jose, ergo, and obviously, there should be no pensions at all in the public sector, either, level playing field's what we need, an old age of poverty and neglect for all, well, nearly all. Trickle up economics they call it, zombie economists like Will Hutton and Murdoch's Barrowboy, Jeff Randall, of skymadeupnewsandfilth.

One of the creepiecrawlies on last week's Any Questions, I believe it was Doctor Mr Evan Harris, formerly an MP for the ShitEaters but now sadfly unseated, mused that the Chinks won't "invest" in Europe because the populations there are made slothful and inefficient by the welfare state, Spot-On, cackled Dame Ann.

The Chinks, who execute burglars and charge their families for the bullet before flogging-off the deceased's organs; the Chinks, who set tanks against unarmed demonstrators; the Chinks who force peasants to work unpaid and unprotected in Hellhole, shithouse factories and deadly dangerous construction sites, the Chinks who run a one-party fascist totalitarianism, the Chinks,wheezed Ann, beatifically, they can show us the way.

With any luck the wicked old boot'll be dead before the Coalition brings about her ideal society of obedient, hard-working serfs; on the other hand, though, it may be much nearer than we think.

MATINS, ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE. Handel's Messiah And the Glory of the Lord

2011-12-17T23:56:00.000Z

SMUG, FAT, NEO-CON BASTARD DEAD. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, HITCH IS OVER

2011-12-17T22:54:00.000Z

The Goberati is in eulogy-overdrive; small-time entertainer, bully, drunken fatso and Oxxbridge wanker, Christopher Hitchens, has croaked, a victim of over-indulgence in the stupidest of vices; a shame that he wasn't waterboarded to death by some of his Bushite Nazi heroes but cancer'll do.

Like so many entertainers, Hitchens took US citizenship, probably because a certain accent passes, among the drongoes, for wisdom; here, of course, the BBC, the Street of Shame and the public toilets of Knightsbridge are awash with pained, whining voices like his - the educated GoodForFuckAll.

Hitchens spent a waster's lifetime trawling through the angry labyrinth of his egomania for les mots risque, for naughty, controversial things to say to the repulsive coterie of tossers who write for worthless periodicals, review each other's books and fuck each other's wives, or chiildren, or both; the Goberati is aghast, only the screeching Simon Schama being invited onto Newsnight, dozens left out in the cold, desperate for a camera into which they can pour their measured, erudite obsequies, for the usual fee, useless,simpering layabouts.

Hitchens' estranged brother, Pete, another right-winger, operating on the same wavelenght of languid, know-it-all supersciliousness underscored with bottled-up hysteria, tubthumps for the disgusting Associated Newspapers, is a creature of the loathsome, redfaced dipso, Paul DayGlo; be interesting to see if his almost lifelong rift with Chris will survive the death of one party or if, in true Daily Mail style, there will be a rapprochement post-mortem. No business like showbusiness.

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A MARTIAL LAW NEW YEAR

2011-12-16T10:59:00.000Z

Speaking from the top of his Civil Contingencies/for the use of tank,

Lt Col Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, of the Queen's Own NancyBoys Regiment, the Military Commander of London said, There is a very real terrorist threat, here, in London, twelve million of them in fact and it is my proud duty to keep the streets safe for govament limousines to sweep past, carrying people who are very important to the economic recovery of the armed forces and my children's school fees. Is this martial law? Well, only in the sense that we will shoot people who complain about the govament. As I said, there are at least twelve million people in London who think they have the right to, well, say anything, really.

Mr Phil "Greedybastard" Hammond, MP, Minister for Internal Torture

Philip Hammond was criticised in 2009 when it emerged during the MP expenses row that he claimed just £8 short of the maximum allowance for a second home in London from 2007 to 2008 even though he lived in the commuter belt town of Woking. As a result of the criticism Mr Hammond told his local paper that he would pay back any profit he makes on the future sale of his second home to the public purse.^[7]

Mr Philip Hammond, the Junta's Obedience Minister, said, Now look, Kirsty, there are sixty million people in this country who might want to upset things for the not-law-abiding, not-tax-paying but nevertheless extremely important families who selflessly run things and the Junta was elected by itself just to stop this very thing happening. Did I say selflessly, a slip of the tongue, of course I meant selfishly.

KILL THEM, KILL THEM ALL, HOW DARE THEY QUESTION MY EXPENSES?

Francis Maude, the shadow minister for the cabinet office, attempted to claim the mortgage interest on his family home in Sussex. This arrangement was rejected by the Fees Office. Two years later, Mr Maude bought a flat in London a few minutes walk from a house he already owned. He then rented out the other property and began claiming on the new flat: the taxpayer has since covered nearly £35,000 in mortgage interest payments

Mr Frankie Bouffant, minister for cabinet office fraud, above, said I have been waiting all my life for this, and my father before me, him, too; shooting people on the streets, it's what a true Tory lives for; Winston, Margaret, it's what a truly great leader does, confront the people and kill them. Olympics, who gives a fuck about a load of nignogs runninmg around in circles? No, this is proper law'n'order, at long last.

OH, I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS EVERYDAY.

2011-12-15T11:59:00.001Z

Top people's store, Harrods, is marking this, the first of many Austerity Christmases, by limiting its production of top people's Christmas puddings to 750.

The puds contain "succulent vine fruits", chopped walnuts and juicy apricots, poached or marinaded or simmered or drenched in port and brandy; each pud also contains six lucky sixpences, so, be careful, you top people, that you don't choke on your Limited Edition Pud.

The puds are a steal at just £59 so, if Harrods made three million of them, then bottom people could each buy one with just one week's Job Seekers' Allowance, apart, of course, from those spendthrifts who claim that they cannot survive on sixty quid a week, and those who, quite rightly, don't get any money at all.

MPs, who are keen to abolish the body which scrutinises their "expenses", have indicated that taxpayers might buy each of them a Harrods Top People's Pudding as, in their own words, We are all in this trough together.

Here's wishing them a happy Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

NEWS REVIEW, AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS.

2011-12-14T22:18:00.005Z

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, WAR IS OVER

(APART FROM ON IRAN, AND SYRIA AND PAKISTAN)
(AND UNEMPLOYED, HOMELESS AMERICANS)

PRESIDENT AUTOCUE SALUTES HIMSELF

My fellow gang-rapin', prisoner-torturin', driveby-shootin'. crewcut, Mommasboy, psychobastard, cocksucking' motherfuckers, Like myself, you have distinguished yourselves by your patriotism and I salute y'all. Eye-rack is so much better now than it was before we started our orgy of patriotic violence. A million dead, is it? So what, my fellow motherfuckers, most of them dead sonsafuckinbitches was niggers, or as near as makes no difference. And in the glorious history of our great nation patriotic ethnic cleansing has been our watchword - injuns, niggers, gooks, ayrabs - we done killed millions of them and that's what makes this nation the last great hope of mankind. God bless all you motherfuckers. I will now come and walk among you and shake your bloody hands, closely protected by a regiment of coked-up secret servicemen, just in case any of you gun-crazy fucked-up, crazy fucks decides to take a pop at my ass. Semper fi, rally round the flag, y'all. vote for me and I'll shut down Gitmo. And sort out all thsi banker shit.

NICK CLEGG
DEAD MAN NODDING.

THE DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER AND LAUGHING STOCK OF THE UK .

Mr Noddy had other commitments in toytown as Mr Cameron humiliated him, once more, in the house of commons. Speaking on Radio Sheffield, Mr Clegg insisted that Eurrope was still at the top of the agenda he had, here, in his rough book. Lots of British jobs depend on Europe, said the worthless piece of shit, especially mine.

GIMP IN WAITING?

Gazing iinto the distance through steely, hooded eyes, the former leader of the Shiteaters Party, Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown said, I used to be a soldier, y'know, and in my opinion, quite frankly, David, in my judgement, not to put too fine a point upon it, if my country calls upon me to be deputy prime minister, post facto, in absentia, ad hoc, dipso mania and in flagrante delicto then I stand ready and willing, with my pants down and my cock out; there's plenty of seckatry pussy in Downing Street, after all.

MONSTER OF WAPPING AT THE LEVO SHOW.

Former Commandant of skymadeupnewsandfilth SS unit, Obersturmbahnrmfuhrer Colin Myler, said today that he never knew nuffink, how could he know, he relied on underlings to tell him the troof, especially about Gerry and Cilla McCann, with whom he had a mutually profitable relationship,

DR CILLA MCCANN, DETAINED BY PORTUGEEZER CRIMINALS.
MERELY BECAUSE SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL.

he would never do anything wrong, he said, lying in his fucking teeth, his hands clamped firmly in front of his poxed-up, shitty, arse-munching lips. And anyway, he couldn't be expected to remember stuff, could he?

Asked by Mr Anthony Chevenix-Beard, counsel for the Levo Show, if he really expected anyone to believe a word he said, Mr Filth said that Herr Max Mosley was a dirty orgying bastard and deserved everything he got and that smoking dope was worthy of the death sentence on account of the impact it had on young people, whom his newspaper sought to protect by bombarding them with salacious, tittilatory, prurient pornographic and entirely untrue strories about whomseover it pleased, apart from other so-called journalists and politicians

I REALISE THAT YOU ARE A DISGUSTING WORTHLESS FUCKWIT, MR MYLER, UTTERLY ESTRANGED FROM TRUTH AND DECENCY, NOT WORTH A FUCKING BULLET AND BEST JUST THROWN INTO THE THAMES WITH A PAVING SLAB AROUND YOUR NECK, BUT REALLY, YOU ARE TALKING SHITE, AREN'T YOU, TO THIS ENQUIRY, (ie ME). TIME FOR A BREAK, I THINK, AND A TOM TIT FOR ME AND SOME OF THOSE ENERGISING BOLIVIAN WHITE POWDERS WHICH MY LEARNED CLERK PROVIDES. ALL RISE.

In tomorrow's news. How to Superpimp your Christmas.
With Jamie Oliver.
Honest, Superpimp Chrismas, not invent.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO WAS WON ON THE PLAYING FIELDS OF ETON. SHAME ABOUT BRUSSELS.

2011-12-10T17:58:00.001Z

The unelected prime minister of England

at the Euro jamboree.

If he wasn't such a contemptible bastard one might feel some sympathy for the wretched Cameron. No amount of his public school posturing, his shiny-face conceit, his hands-in-pockets insousiance, his tongue-tied, unimaginative cliche stuttering could disguise the group body language of all the other out-of-step so-called leaders - at best indifference and at worst contempt.

Up all night, he was, talking his arrogant, idler's jivetalk. And they gave him what the Barbarians call the bums rush. Not even Gordon Snot, in his unelected premiership, made such a dog's breakfast of things European as did Cameron, marching from one dick-hanging-out embarrassment to another, bravefacing his incompetence; it can't have been pleasant, even for an unprincipled dignity-bankrupt like him, squatting in Downing Street, thanks to the repulsive Nick Clegg and his band of shit-eating degenerates.

Maybe if he'd won an election - instead of nicking one, like a proper Flashman - maybe then he might have made some progress. Frau Lardarse comes from a land of coaltions and reunifications and a filthy, make-your-blood-run-cold history which we don't talk about but she has the confidence of her own party, unlike our own, unloved Mr Fishface.

What you see is what you get.

Not very much.

Who knows how or if the never-ending Euroshit crisis will end, how the speculating thieves and gangsters, sorry, wealth creators, can be placated; if they're not driving up the prices of foodstuffs, energy and raw materials, they're shorting entire nations, cheered on by a self-selecting political-media elite, the word elite being used advisedly, they're all just filthy bastards, Brussels and MediaMinster, shitting, multilingually, in our faces.

L'entente discordiale.

Shakez-vous by ze 'and?

Vous etes joking, n'est ce pas, M'sieu ShinyFace/

Even so, Cameron is a uniquely contemptible bastard and his cold-shouldering by the dwarf pimp, Sarkozy, is a defining moment for him and his govament of spivs and carpetbaggers, defining as in regime change. Not that it matters much.

PRIME MINISTER'S EVENSONG (UNELECTED) Warren Zevon - My Shit's Fucked Up

2011-12-10T17:06:00.001Z

EVENSONG, STRONG WINDS,STRONG WINDS Homeless Ladysmith Black Mambaso & You can call him Al.

2011-12-08T22:21:00.000Z

UNDER THE WEATHER, SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND

2011-12-08T20:32:00.000Z

Outside, the Ford Explorer, loaded witn food and drink and medicines and blankets is rocking about wildly; you can't open the door or the tailgate without a real fear of them blowing off and away to Norway. There are evacuation warnings from the council, winds currently at around a hundred miles an hours and a blizzard due at 3.00. am; the truck is packed in case the roof comes off and we have to leg it, there have also been sea surges, flooding coastal buildings; we are about a hundred metres from the shore and the sea has never come this far; reliable reports, though, have had the windspeed at 160-180 mph, a few miles down the road, which might make history should they reach us. It is all very exciting, absolutely the best part of England, can't think why mr jgm2 would leave it for cissy Suffolk.

Mr Edward Bonkers, MP, of the Tory WeRNutters Group, ia agreeing with your correspondent that Mr CallHimFucked will return from the Brussels criminal loonybin wavimg a piece of toiletpaper , saying Dave In Our Time (and Nick.)

Unlike Captain Oates, I am not stepping outside, although I may have to ....

EVENSONG , the late Eva Cassidy - Autumn Leaves

2011-12-06T00:24:00.000Z

FRANCE TO JOIN WEHRMACHT.

2011-12-05T23:53:00.002Z

Ees zees way to ze bunker, Frau Lardarse, allez vite, ze peasants,

ils sont revolting, encore, just like ze last time.

Eet ees, mes amis, 'ow you say ze dawn of ze sousand day Reich. La belle France avec le Deutschland uber alles, combining in ze grande androgynous mother et fatherland in order zat moi, Nicholas, ze dwarf pimp and Angular, ze - in ze words of ze former spic president - unfuckable lardarse hausfrau - can stay in power for anuzzer couple of years or three.

SHIT IN OUR TIME.

unelected prime minister returns triumphant from meeting with Herr Hitler, sorry Frau Merkel.

In London, the unelected prime minister of England, Mr CallHimDaveChamberlain alighted from an aircraft with a piece of soiled toiletpaper in his pocket.

Now look, I have here, in my hand, a piece of soiled toilet paper which bears the skidmarks of M'sieu Sarkozy, Frau Lardarse and myself. And if you study it closely, as I have, you can see, if you squint a bit - rather like looking at the Coalition of the Unelected - if you look closely and squint you can see that all the brown and yellow bits - that's me and M'sieu Sarkozy's poos - and the green bits - that's Frau Merkel's sauerkrauty shit - all spell out the phrase Shit In Our Time. And that's just what you're gonna get.

As President Churchill said, we will fight you in the schools and in the hospitals, we will fight you in the town halls and on the 'buses and in the trains; we will fight you in the care homes and kindergartens, we will never surrender and if the Coalition of the Unspeakable should last two whole years, men will say, This was Their Finest Hour. And another thing, an iron curtain is coming down around England, everywhere outside Chipping Norton and the City of London is being cordoned-off; the lights are going off all over England, or they will be if Mr Huhne has his way. Something he's done rather too much of with the ladies, in my opinion, if you can call them ladies; dogs, we'd call them, in the Cotswolds.

THE RETURN OF BANANAMAN

2011-12-04T04:34:00.000Z

NEW BANANAS FOR OLD,

PROMISES MEDIAMINSTER TOSSPOT.

Torture, that's the thing. Yes, and co-operation. Okay, subservience, if you will, to President Hillary Trousers, in her, and I must say it is perfectly understandable, in her desire to run the British courts. And that's why I'm proposing that we train ten thouand new community leaders - so that we can better do America's bidding. People think that I just sit around brooding about getting stuffed by a member of my own family and bumping along on my parliamentary hundred grand a year and another fifty grand from some football club, up in the NorthEast, wherever that is. Nothing could be further from the truth because here I am, again, writing tripe for the Guardian,just like my father before me, about how things should be done, never, like him, having done fuck all myself. It is the charmed circle of celebrity, I'm in it, and you're not. So just read what I have to say about Labour building on it's last twenty years of success and re-engaging with the British people and their, what's the word, aspiratiions, that's it. Mr Arsebridger of the Guardian,

Mr Alan Arsebridger, million pounds a year Supreme Editor-in-Chief&Perpetuity

of the infamous, tax avoiding Guardian newspaper, the one with the charitable trust status.

even though he supports the shiteating dogshooters and thus Mr Cameron, has been kind enough to give me a few hundred quid to write this new, radical, groundbreaking, new and radical, and modern new crap and the least you can do is read it and believe in it, like you did before. Did I mention I used to be Seckatry of State for Invasions, Occupations, Asset-Stripping and Waterboarding?

The full Milliband major article is at the Observer. As one would expect, this conceited, worthless jackanapes - in, incidentally, unforgiveably inelegant Blairesque non-sentences - reminisces, fleetingly, of some vague but clearly worthy NewLab achievements and sets out, as they say, a new list of new strategies and new targets for the economy and for empowering the people. Only not empowering them as much as him. Ten thousand new community leaders is one of them, one of the empowering things. Cunt.

MATINS, THE SPANISH RENAISSANCE TOMAS LUIS DE VICTORIA, O Magnum Mysterium (The Sixteen - Christophers) ♪

2011-12-04T03:29:00.001Z

Tomás Luis de Victoria

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Tomás Luis de Victoria

Tomás Luis de Victoria, sometimes Italianised as da Vittoria (1548 – 20 August 1611), was the most famous composer of the 16th century in Spain, and one of the most important composers of the Counter-Reformation, along with Giovanni da Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso. Victoria was not only a composer, but also an accomplished organist and singer. However, he preferred the life of a composer to that of a performer.^[1] He is sometimes known as the "Spanish Palestrina" because he may have been taught by Palestrina.^[2]

&lt;p&gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;lt&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;" class="goog-spellcheck-word"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;matins&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&lt;/p&gt;

They can seem a bit precious, after a while, Harry Christophers' choir, The Sixteen, and Simon Rusell Beale, who crops up at the end for a moment, is one of the BBC's current, simpering over-exposed arts presenters.

But The Sixteens' insistent presentation of early music has proved, nevertheless, to be one of the most important musical discoveries of this poor pilgrim's uncultured life. This is from a BBC4 programme about Victoria's life, recorded against a sumptious Spanish background. Well worth a wondering hour, should you be up all night, leaning on the windowsill.

SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

2011-12-04T03:03:00.000Z

YATES OF ARABIA

2011-12-03T02:01:00.001Z

'ELLO, 'ELLO, 'ELLO, EFFENDI. FUCK WITH ME

AND I'LL GET YOU FIVE HUNDRED LASHES.

I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG. AND I'M GOING TO KEEP ON DOING IT IN SAUDI ARABIA, OR WHEREVER THE FUCK IT IS,

ANOTHER WORD AND YOU'RE NICKED, SUNSHINE.

Former Assistant Chief Slag, Mr John Filth of the Yard.

Yates, the man who found no wrong in the Cash for Honours parliament and who sat on several bin loads of phone-hacking evidence whilst schmoozing with Murdoch's filthiest, resigned in September, even though he had done nothing wrong - the modern equivalent of bent police workers, sorry, blatantly, outrageously bent police workers, resigning from a life of crime on "health grounds." And a full pension.

I am going to work for a progressive absolute monarchy, out there in the desert, where Tony Blair is doing such good work for ex-offenders, like himself and Imelda.

The King of Bahrain, a modern, liberal bloodstained bandit fuckpig, has asked me to assist in the whitewashing of his security forces, which have provided and will continue to provide such exemplary human rights practice in law enforcement - they kill anyone who looks at them the wrong way, rather as did my former force with the so-called homeless alcoholic newspaper seller, Mr Tomlinson.

I look forward to a long and profitable relationship with His Serene Majesty King Ali Baba, if not with the people who, with Uncle Sam's benevolent assistance, he so brutally represses.

What, pay tax on it? Do fuck off.

IN THE NAME OF VIRTUE & EVENSONG

2011-12-03T00:11:00.001Z

The mongoose dropping, earlier, about Annunciata ReesMogg has had me cudgelling my brains for the proper word describing American Virtue names. Here in Ishmaelia we were delighted, some years ago, to discover it but it has now fled the local collective consciousness, anyone know what it is - the so-and-so names? Below are some examples.

The Cox Family, from the DVD Down From The Mountain are probably more Presbyterian than Puritan but they all, as we say in Belfast, dig with the same foot.

The History of Virtue Names

Page 1

Page 2

Alphabet Soup

Teutonic, or Germanic, refers to the ancient people and languages of northern Europe. Among these languages are Old High German, the ancestor of modern German; Old Franconian which evolved into Dutch; and Anglo-Saxon, the ancestor of modern English.

Virtue names have come to be most closely associated with the Puritans, but they hardly started with this religious group. The Greeks and Romans were also big believers in the power that a name could hold. Gladiators and scholars alike often sought names that would protect their children from negative influences and imbue them with desirable traits, such as strength or wisdom. They hoped these traits would develop in their heirs as they grew up.

Many of the early names that would eventually shape the Indo-European name pool also reflected such prized virtues as wisdom, protection, and strength. The Teutonic element -mund, which formed such names as Edmund, Raymond, and Osmond, meant "peace" or "protector," and these names were all variations on this theme, meaning "wealthy protector" (Edmund), "divine protector" (Osmond), and "counselor-protector" (Raymond).

By 1590, when the Puritan movement first developed as a sect of the Church of England, these names had largely been replaced by the names of saints and martyrs, as dictated by the Catholic Church, and then by the biblical names that were embraced by the Church of England. However, even these names were too evocative of the Catholic Church for the Puritans, and they began to baptize their children with phrases from Scripture or pious admonitions. In time, they also adopted words that reflected abstract virtues as names.

The Things They Carried

What's in a Name

Many of the biblical names favored by the first settlers in America had virtuous meanings, including Solomon ("peaceable") and Enoch ("vowed" or "dedicated to the Lord").

When the Puritans fled to America to escape religious persecution in England, they brought their virtue and phrase names with them. Most of the phrase or admonishment names—like Fly-fornication, Search-the-scriptures, Fight-the-good-fight-of-faith, and Makepeace—were so extreme that they never came into general use. Some of the less vitriolic names were accepted, especially the ones with meanings that emphasized positive virtues, including:

Amity: Based on the Latin for "friendship" or "love," it's pretty old-fashioned today but could be an interesting alternative to Amy.
Charity: One of the three cardinal virtues taught by Jesus Christ, it's never near the top of the name lists but it never fades entirely from sight either.
Faith: Another cardinal virtue but a bit more popular than the others. Current bearers of this name include newscaster and talk show host Faith Daniels, actress Faith Ford, and singer Faith Hill. In 1997, this name was popular enough to rank just below the top 100 on the most popular name list.
Grace: The Puritans used this word to describe the state of being in God's favor rather than a reflection of pleasant physical attributes. This name is in broad enough use to rank 70th on the top 100 names for 1998, and could come on even stronger as more parents search for homespun, old-fashioned-sounding names.
Honor: Maybe more popular as Honora however, rarely used in either form today.
Hope: The third cardinal virtue and one that has seen a revival in the past 10 years or so, possibly due to the use of the name on the popular late 80s television showThirty something.
Joy: Somewhat outdated today, but occasionally seen as a middle name.
Patience: Along with Prudence, the oldest-sounding Puritan virtue name to survive to the modern era. Not very popular, and unlikely to increase in use.

None of the names used for boys ever made it into broad circulation, which isn't very surprising when you consider how strange these names really were. It's one thing to give your child a somewhat odd or unusual biblical name, like Job or Magog, but it's quite another to brand him with a moniker like Helpless, No-merit, or Repentance.

Next: Page 2 >>

Read more on FamilyEducation: http://life.familyeducation.com/baby/baby-names/47201.html#ixzz1fQODxHUW

MATINS, MORE LUTHERAN STUFF,BBC Proms 2010 - Bach Day 10 - Sleepers Wake

2011-12-02T03:25:00.000Z

WOTSONTELLY. I'M CLARKSON, BUY ME.

2011-12-02T02:33:00.002Z

Aydriyun Choyles, he was the face of the One Show, the man with a voice like kidney pain, Brummying-away on the sofa with some simpering, shitbrain Ulster bint; why on Earth would anyone watch that awful programme? Surely it's for those, farting and dribbling, gathered around the telly in a carehome, having their thighs pinched black and blue by Polish care assisants. But uncaptive people do watch it and thousands of them apparently felt that it was demeaned by the presence of the noisesome, bloated dingleberry Clarkson, floundering around in a beerbellyfull of faux provocation, and all for a bit of publicity - you know, as if the One Show and Top Gear were made by different networks. Fuck him and fuck them. I don't care that thousands of nurses' and teachers' children went to bed and dreamt of Mummy and partner being stood up in front of a firing squad consisting of Michael Spit-Gove, Jacob ReesMogg and Francis Maude, the one with the receding bouffant. Even though they didn't.

Poor old Clarkson, though, got no friends apart from Rebekka Brookes and David Cameron. And himself. Jeans and trainers, eh, waytogo Jerry.

Wonder if the boldly outspoken one will take the piss out of the Chinks, the worthless, fat cunt.

SATELLITE OF LOVE.

2011-11-29T15:30:00.000Z

Thanks to my forty pounds a month superior broadband connection courtesy of Avanti communications I cannot engage with those chiding my antique liberalism. Avanti are Europe's premier providers of broadband to remote areas but unfortunately their expertise does not extend to keeping it going in the wind, of which we currently have a good deal, although not the hurricane force which we sometimes enjoy, here, in the best part of England. They are sending an engineer, who, if he is anything like the last one, will be confounded by the idea of lace-up shoes. Avanti are the approved - and only - choice of the Scottish govament, as they call themselves, members of which will of course have their broadband provided freely, or, more accurately, by me.

ANOTHER SIGN ALONG RUIN'S HIGHWAY.

2011-11-28T02:59:00.000Z

A footballer died, in the arcane phraseology of CoronerSpeak, by his own hand, he took his own life, as officialdom routinely says. In simple language, he hanged himself. Always seems an unequivocal rejection of les joies de vivre, not what you would call a cry for help, stepping off a ladder or a chair with a rope around your neck. It's not a George Michael kind of event, hanging yourself. It's not a staged, Lady Sir Elton John tantrum. What shocked me was hearing one of the skymadeupnewsandfilth gabshite soccer pundits hyperbolising that when he heard of Mr Speed's death he thought the report was some sick and twisted joke. Now, I know the premiership is filled with nancyboys and gangrapists and drug fiends and creatures, like Sir Alec Ferguson, of an entirely different species but surely they don't make jokes like this, especially about one of their own., This prick, of course, didn't actually think that, it was just another variation on sick as a parrot, to'ally and u''erly gutted; scratching about in his cliche box, this was the best he could come up with - I thought it was some sick and twisted joke.

In the feverish coverage of celebrity reaction all expressed disbelief that a man so successful and happy could top himself, especially after having, shortly before, broadcast, himself, some of that dire telly punditry, the clunking, half-growled Hansenisms, the chirpy cheese'n'onion flavoured Linekerisms, how could anyone so blessed top themselves, it is almost as though there was panic in the troughing ranks of ex-footballing bletherers, 'Appen tomorrow, bonnylad, might have mused the repulsive Shearer, 'appen tomorrow, oo knows, mebbe Ah'll be toppin mesen.

No-one in football was able to articulate the simplest of truths - in the midst of life we are in death, who can know a man's mind, no-one was sophisticated enough to acknowledge - and fuck me it's not asking a lot - that we each of us, every day of our lives, wear a mask that few if any, including ourselves, can see behind.

God rest his soul, I am sorry for his family, that was the proper response, not some showbiz, Victor Meldrewesque IDon'tBuh-lieveIt! What's not to believe? He's fucking dead isn't he? Instead, what they showed, clearly, beyond question, one after another, was that they didn't know Mr Speed at all. All they knew was the moronic, self-congratulatory charmed circle of professional football and that its septic bubble had briefly burst. If Mr Speed had really enjoyed an extensive network of really close and supportive friends one would think that he' have confided in them, rather than stepping into thin air, with only the rope to break his fall. Empty-headed, vain, posturing egomaniacs, wankers all. Never mind, lads, it'll all be back to normal next week; talk on, talk on with hope in your hearts and you'll never talk alone.

Britain's ever-popular salty snacks ambassador, Mr Gary Potato.

EVENSONG, MR JACKSON BROWNE , LONG AGO, I HEARD SOMEONE SAY SOMETHIN ' 'BOUT EVERYMAN.

2011-11-26T04:54:00.000Z

RECESSION, IT'S OFFICIAL. AT LAST.

2011-11-26T04:24:00.000Z

The OECD, a respected economic forecaster, whatever one of those is, and where have they been this past fifteen years, has reported that after Christmas the UK will be in double-dip recession, due to, well, due to everything being shit and being run by an international kleptocracy.

The OECD has also said that in order to make matters no worse than they inevitably will be due to the Euro and all that nonsense, the UK must develop a Plan B, including a drastic slowing of public sector cutbacks. The chancellor, below and his economic team consisting of the foxtrotting, elderly nitwit Vince Cable and the former skis monitor in the Cairngorms National Park, Master Danny Alexander, have all said that there is no alternative to what they are doing. That's what they were elected for. Even though they weren't.

Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr George Osbo,

prepares his Autumn budget statement.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE DAILY MAIL, ISHMAELIANS RIGHT ALL ALONG.

2011-11-26T04:21:00.000Z

Father of 7/7 victim snubs the

press inquiry 'hijacked by celebrities'

Unhappy: Graham Foulkes has rejected the chance to speak at the Leveson inquiry

The father of a man killed in the July 7 terror attacks has refused to take part in the Leveson inquiry because it has been ‘hijacked’ by celebrities.
Graham Foulkes was told by police that – following the death of his son David – his phone had been targeted by a private investigator working for the News of the World.
Appalled by the discovery, he said he initially wanted ‘retribution’ and had hoped the Leveson inquiry would focus on the media’s treatment of victims of tragedies.
But Mr Foulkes, a magistrate, said he had now decided against offering evidence – despite having testified to the July 7 inquest.
‘My objection to the inquiry is that I believe it’s been hijacked by so-called celebrities and they’re using it for their own purposes,’ he said.

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

2011-11-26T03:39:00.000Z

Mr Chris Who, family man, they're all family men, the LibDems.

Even Mr Oaten, the shit eater; Mr Kennedy, the dispso; Mr Straight Simon Hughes, the famous gay homophobe, Mr Jeremy Thorpe, the gay dog-shooter and Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown

"Yes, these are tough times for all of us. But we are all in it together. We all took a cut of five per cent when we came into govament as ministers." Question Time, BBC1, 24th November 2011

Trans: Voters are a just a mass of stupid cunts for whom I have nothing but contempt.

We pay Chris Huhne's public sector salary of £145, 492, per annum and his untaxed benefits will include first class travel and a car and driver at his constant call, should he be sacked for misconduct we will pay him £17, 000 in compensation. Claiming that a five per cent cut in over a hundred and fifty grand plus expenses represents a sharing of the hardship felt by the sick, the old, the cold and the lowpaid is contemptible, somebody should give him a punch in the gob. On a daily basis, Or eighteen months in jail.

Huhne, a millionaire, in 2006 claimed £15,000 in expenses. This was for items which most of us have to pay for ourselves, including groceries, yes, groceries, travel to work, a £120 trouser press, so that he might look smart for work - shame they don't do a mouth press - fourteen pence for stationery and five and a half grand for painting work in his garden.

As well as being in an illegitimate mandateless govament of buffoons, chancers and redneck fuckwits, Huhne is also under pressure on two fronts; his haggard wife,

Ms. Vicky Two-Places-At-Once Price,

a faster driver than Lewis Hamilton if Huhne is to be believed,

claims she accepted penalty points for speeding when he was, in fact, at the wheel, and she was at the LSE in front of hundreds of people, and his haggard bisexual totty,

I give great access.

lobbyist, Mr or Ms Carmina Burana Trimingham,

is deemed to have overstepped the bounds of what is acceptable in parliamentary lobbying. The cops and CPS are taking forever to investigate the former - probably trying to wrest some advantage in exchange for a No Further Action and some toothless cover-up committee will be examining the latter. Nick the Gimp detests him. Normal people detest him, too.

David Dimbleby, though, lets him shit in our faces.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH - THE BIBLE ACCORDING TO SPIT.

2011-11-25T22:03:00.003Z

Bless you, my children; in the beginning was the Gove.

MR MICHAEL SPIT-GOVE,

CABINET TEABOY AND EDUCATION SECKATRY.

One of the Coalition of Shit's non-millionaire arseholes, the saliva-exporting Micky Gove, is sending to schools copies of the King James Bible, with a new foreword by - honest, not invent - himself; spit-flecked, holy book flyleaves will, we must assume he imagines, carry his grimy little name forward into history, long after the govament which he champions is swept away on a wave of popular realism. ( a reader writes: Will that be next week, mr ishmael?)

This gesture will cost half a million pounds of disability benefit but future scholars, he imagines, will learn to revere the name of Spit, conflating his squeaky, Uriah Heep existence with those of the great scholars who originally translated and wrote the influential work - if not, actually with God, Himself.

Vanity publishing at public expense, now, that's wot I corl educayshun, Coalition-style.

(another reader writes: dear mr ishmael, given the super-abundance of Bibles in the world - Gawd strike me down if you ain't a-fallin' all over the blessed things dahn the frift shops and in the 'ospickals and the 'otels, not to mention the bleedin' Jovas bangin' on your door and the Sally Ann rattling their bleedin' tins and blowin' their fucking trumpets and then there's that silly old beardy git, wotsisname, Williams and his gang of shirtlifters and lesbos and Pope Nazi and the noncing monsigniors; I mean, 'Strewth, Christ on a fucking rope, 'snot as though there's any bleedin' shortage of the 'oly Word of God, now, is there? - given, as I say the super abundance of bibles of all types in the Western world, might it not be incumbent upon one rejoicing in the title of Education Seckatry to send the pupils, just for instance, a copy of The Origin of the Species? yours, Professor Lady Doctor Sir David Starkey, of the BBC and professor emeritus of self-publicity studies at the LSE)

AN OLD HIPPY SPEAKS.

2011-11-24T23:32:00.001Z

.SIR RICHARD BUMHOLE,

RECENT RECIPIENT OF HALF A BILLION POUNDS

CHARITABLE DONATION,

COURTESY OF DISABLED PEOPLE.

Strikes, man? Theyre bad shit.

Well, Hey, look, man, let's be cool about things. My good friend and fellow public schoolboy, the prime minister, mr. shiny face, has just, like, laid it on you, all about all these, like, nurses, and teachers and other riffraff who're all gonna just down tools next week and how that's really bad shit because in private companies we don't allow people to have, like, any pensions, apart from the senior people, who work so hard. But what really blew me away, man, was when my good friend and fellow public schoolboy, mr squeaky, the chancellor and I were, like hanging out together, he said that this was gonna cost a half a billion pounds. And all I wanna say on the subject is that I'm really pissed-off, you know, when all's said and done, this is money, another half a billion that the govament coulda given to me.

DOWN THE LEVO SHOW

2011-11-24T21:58:00.000Z

RICH BUSINESSWOMAN MOANS.

I FELT LIKE A FABULOUSLY WEALTHY ENTERTAINER IN WHOM PEOPLE WERE INTERESTED.

MS JK CROW AT THE LEVO SHOW.

Counsel to the show, Mr Anthony Chevenix-Beard:

You need no introduction from me, Ms Crow, you are one of the most famous businesswoman in the world….

JKC: Actually, I am a businesswoman…..

ACB: Yes, that’s what I said…..

JKC You need to be careful or else I’ll put my lawyers on you. Or my publishers. Or my PR team. You know, I just simply fail to see why you would ask that question…..

ACB: I haven’t asked any questions, yet. But do you think you might confirm your name…?

JKC: Yes my name is JayKay Crow. And I’m very rich. Not that it matters. I live a fairly normal life, running my megabusiness and suing newspapers.

ACB: Yes, quite, and if we could turn to paragraphs one to five hundred and three in your witness statement……

JKC: If I could just say that we businesspeople are not like other people, not that there’s anything wrong with other people. It’s just that me and my husband, who is private, and my publishers and my marketing team and Warner Brothers and the BBC all just want to bombard every child in the world with my brand and make their parents buy my product and all the franchised materials, whether they want to or not. Nothing wrong with that. But when people start bombarding me with questions well, that’s a different thing. I don’t make any money out of it, for one thing. And, well, that’s enough. I should be able to walk down Prince’s Street in Edinburgh where I sometimes live, although you may not broadcast the fact, I should be able to walk down Prince’s Street dressed in thousand-pound notes if I want to and not have people asking me just how the fuck I get away with all this shit?

Lord Levo: I am conscious, your ladyship, that you have given up your time to come here, so if you would like a ten-minute break to confer with your lawyers about whether anyone has printed anything about you today, that will be fine by me. And actually I could, myself, do with a Tom Tit and a snort of the old marching powder.

All rise.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

2011-11-23T14:16:00.000Z

Isn't it funny how, after less than eighteen months, mr shinyface has turned into himself ?

Before he elected himself prime minister, if you squinted you might perceive him as just some ordinary PR wanker on the make, empty-headed, amoral and full of grammarless shit.

Now, he looks every inch the bloated, arrogant, conceited, inbred and congenitally stupid bully that he always was; he and his sires the very model for Flashman.

I cannot help but think that the times demand a sharper mind than that contained in Cameron's one-track, doctrinaire numbskull. As well as being rotten to the core he is as thick as pigshit.

He should watch his step, in times like these it's not just the Saddam Husseins of the world who are the principal guest at a necktie party.

THE RETURN OF DR. ARSEHOLE.

2011-11-23T14:03:00.000Z

I am proud to announce that from, well, very soon, now, workers will have no rights as there is simply no place for them in the modern world. We have done our best to put everyone in fear of their jobs, their health and their retirements but some folk still believe that they have rights at work and it is in the interests of growth that they be disabused of this. Apart from corrupt ministers, like Mr Doctor Gay Fox, and Mr David Gay Laws and Mr Straight Simon Gay Hughes, who have the right to go and sit on the backbenches, instead of to prison. Just because a member is a thief, a benefit fraudster an embezzler and a downright rotten, stinking, oily, gay-bashing hypocrite and liar is absolutely no reason to prevent him sitting on these benches for the rest of his life; people seeking more than the minimum wage, however, well, there is no place for them in modern LibDemShitEaters philosophy.( I must say, I rarely partake of the fecal banquets myself; just everyday of my miserable life.)

The coalition, of which I am proud to be a member, has been very successful in raising inflation, unemployment and reducing growth to a factor so infinitesimally small that it isn't worth my right honourable friend, the Chancellor, even squeaking about it. I mean speaking. And by demonstrating this finely-tuned grasp of a modern, brutal economy we have proven that as the full benefits become apparent to people we will be fully able to impose a state of martial law, with a shoot-to-kill policy should rogue elements - say, millions of people - take to the streets in boisterous celebration of their govament's triumphs. well, not their govament, really, more like ours.

But, as has already been remarked upon by anyone who can breath, what we have been able to do is seize half a billion pounds worth of undeserved benefits from disabled people - many of whom have, unlike myself, worked long and hard before becoming useless to the economy - and transfer it to Sir Richard Bumhole of Virgin Rubbish, who will very probably spend it on a nice Caribbean island, where those of us lucky enough to have been of service to him can be entertained in the style to which the taxpayer has accustomed us. By being very careful, we have been able to retain in public ownership those parts of Northern Rock which are basically, well just full of shit, in order that the taxpayer may continue to pay billions of pounds for the greedy and criminal excesses of my employers, Messrs Goldman Sachs. Did I mention that I am an economist by training?

This doesn't mean that ruthless employers will be able to take people on for two years and then sack them before they can have any rights whatsoever. Although it does.

IT WAS FORTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO TODAY, JFK GOT BLOWN AWAY. jfk assassination: Secret Service Standdown

2011-11-23T01:42:00.000Z

EVENSONG. MAESTRO THOMPSON, GALWAY TO GRACELANDS.

2011-11-22T23:49:00.000Z

As Elvis cropped-up in the last thread and as it was past time for some Richard Thompson, herewith a song of consumer insanity.

DIGNITY AND THE NEW MEDIA WHORES.

2011-11-22T20:39:00.000Z

There may be gradations of grief and anger and sorrow relating to the loss of a child, maybe a loss to illness is marginally easier to take than a loss to murder, maybe even a loss to quick, angry murder is easier to bear than a loss to sadistic or sexual torture and murder. It's all shit. And whatever the individual horror of child death, it must be, for most people, as bad as it gets, a place from which there is no return; that's certainly what it looks like in those 'photos of Blair's Iraq and Afghanistan.

Here, of course, we do things differently; here people do not clutch at and present child corpses for the cold eye of the camera. Here, child murder has learned a new, shrill, unBritish vocabulary. Accusatory and demanding, victims' relatives demand a change in this or that law, demand an extended hearing, demand their own celebrity, one poor cow even imagining a close friendship with the repulsive Murdoch witch, Rebekka Shitemouth.

It's hard to remain stonefaced about these people, shouting about the dead. I do wish, though, for their own sake and for the general good, that they would shut the fuck up and deal with it, it's theirs to deal with, nobody else's, but I understand the lure to them of fragmentary celebrity, of anything, really, which diverts them from the necessary process of grieving including as it inevitably does many moments of self-finger-pointing, sleepless nights of If only I'd done this, if only I'd said that.

Mr Winehouse was a hoot, flying back from his recording session in New York to launch a charity in the name of his dead dipso daughter, to speak Estuary wisdom to the press about issues of dependancy. Just a shame he didn't speak to poor Amy a wee bit more forcefully, eh. Maybe put her over his fucking knee. But, hey, we mustn't say that, mustn't be, what is it, judgemental ? And she did leave a huge legacy of fabulous music. Which will live on. Even if she won't.

There was a time when people would have rebuked Mitch for his irresponsibility, his fame-crazy arseholeing. Now we listen reverently to his shallow cliches of parental worthlessness. This is the New World Order, too. It's not just vain, greedy charlatans like MPs, it is a population desperate for celebrity. Doesn't matter what it's about, just get me on the telly.

I must say I don't care for the Dowlers, I can't warm to anything about them, like Gerry and Cilla McCann, they give me the creeps, she, particularly, looks belligerent, calculating and whiny, and I thought that their daughter was, in a sadly typical, neglectful way, narcissistic and over-sexualised - or to put it more pithily, jailbait.

I simply cannot understand how so many screech that it is their right to allow their children to behave in a way apparently carefully calculated to arouse lust in the loins of the unGodly and then appear mystified when that lust runs its wretched course. Our premature sexualisation of children may not be historically unique but it is a most regrettable development during my lifetime and every image I have seen of the late Milly Dowler is faintly disturbing. I have known, you see, middle-ranking nonces who would have seen Milly Dowler as a provocative young tart, would have convinced themselves that she was actually crying out for them to rape her and that, because she was such a little slut, deserved post-rape punishment. We don't know if Milly Dowler was sexually assaulted but the man convicted of her killing, Levi Bellfield, is known to have an obsession relating to sex with schoolgirls. Now, it's no use saying that this Mr Bellfield's behaviour is wrong, of course it's wrong but if you would protect your children from Mr Opportunist Nonce, like him, your best bet is to keep them behaving and dressing modestly. It's not a huge price to pay for child safety.

They have capitulated on their privacy and are, within reason, as is anyone, fair game but I don't mean to harangue Mr and Mrs Dowler, even if I could, but rather to draw attention to the failings of the LoveMyKidsToBits,Me mentality, failings which are overlooked in the current phony Leveson enquiry, failings which were bulldozed aside by the McCann PR team - Gerry and Cilla, you will recall, left a three year old alone in charge of two two year olds, in a strange room, in a strange town in a strange country whilst they went on the piss, not only did they manage to convince many that this was responsible parenting but they also insisted that their neglect was actually the fault of the local police. LoveMyKidsToBits,Me, therefore I can do no wrong; how dare you, you lookin' fer a punch in the gob?

I have a nephew who is an insurance assessor - it is a dreadful irony, for his late father, a starker version of Mr Frank Gallagher in the soap opera noire, Shameless, was opposed to all forms of work, especially those of a financial, regulatory or usurious nature - there are no accidents, insists his son, just varying degrees of contributory negligence. I don't agree entirely with him but I understand the mindset, I am in it a lot of the time, myself; people might call it mild paranoia but it's just an awareness that although shit happens it can be avoided, minimised, the world is full of beasts, you gotta be careful. I remember, in a Redditch hospital, saying to a father of a couple of hours, Congratulations, you do know, Dylan, that there are people out there, right now, who would love to bugger your infant son. Talk about ashen-faced new parent. I took him home and gave him some whisky, didn't labour the point, but I thought it worth making, for there are those people, there are people who want to sexually assault infants, let alone young women like Milly Dowler. And you see, even if you accept that the McCanns are otherwise blameless, if they had not left their daughter alone she would not have been abducted, if she was abducted, there is simply no gainsaying that. Varying degrees of contributory negligence.

Milly Dowler's abduction is less clearcut, but the cops say there was no evidence of violent abduction and that, therefore, the possibility exists that she unknowingly made her killer's task easier than it would have been had she had it successfully drummed into her: don't talk to strange men, don't get into cars with strangers, there is no gainsaying that, either. Varying degrees of contributory negligence.

But there is no such acceptance in modern Britain, no sense of what could I, might I, have done better. And there is absolutely no longer a tradition of fortitude and privacy in adversity; the refrain, No Comment, is from a song long forgotten.

And despite their stated revulsion to the idea, the Dowlers are now, like the McCanns, public figures. Where once the nation would have briefly felt for them before they re-engaged with their lives, making such accommodations as they were able, now it is as though they have won some Alternative X Factor or BigBrother, after which they are intermittently celebrated for something truly awful, something which would be better they - insofar as is possible - forgot.

And so we come to Leveson's cover up and the Dowlers' and the McCann's part in its grisly, self-defeating circus. The people who penetrated Mr&Mrs Dowler's daughter's phone, so cruelly, incredibly raising their hopes that she was yet alive are known, the same people who penetrated their own phones, violating their most grievous and special privacy are known and their employers, Rebekka Shitemouth and James Murdoch, are known. These people should all by now be in prison, serving substantial sentences. It is as simple as that. Bang 'em up. If they were, no-one in the filthy sewer of skymadeupnewsandfilth would ever again behave so badly. That would be all the enquiry that was required - a pre-sentence report on James Murdoch. And seven years jail.

But some of these people are friends, neighbours, confidantes, allies and funders of the self-elected prime minister of the United Kingdom. And if they go, they will take him with them; they will know enough murky stuff to finally sink the brief and unlovely career of this gabshite, dunderhead jackanapes, mr shinyface.

And Mr and Mrs Dowler have accepted two million pounds from the criminals involved. A drop in the ocean to the filthy old bastard, Rupert Murdoch, but a fortune to them. Blood money, accepted from the organisation about which they now complain, money accepted from the same source as paid for the phone penetration. Who, lawyer or normal, decent person, could seriously care a fuck about anything they now say; these people, the Dowlers, like the McCanns, turning tricks for the teevee cameras, are whores of an entirely new species.

(The effect of all this, of course, among the disadvantaged is that when people like Karen, was it Karen or Sharon Matthews, up in Dewsbury, see Gerry and Cilla hosannahed and enriched for their contemptible neglect of young Madeleine well, they try it on, too, I'll have some of that. The result is that the effete, worthless commentariat, sub-humans like Kelvin McKenzie, feel gleefully enabled to slander an entire community, the same community which actually searched for and found the missing Matthews child.)

What should we call them, these people, sprung from nowhere, feted for having lost someone, paid for each morbid appearance, gibbering away in the jargon of loss, bleating about cloze-ya, as if any of them actually wanted cloze-ya ? No, Trusts, that's what they want setting up. And anniversary specials. And book deals. And new laws, especially new laws. What they want is instant victims' justice, like in the good old days of the cavemen. But what they really want, more than anything, is to be in front of the camera. Like anybody really gives a fuck about them.

Child murder, abduction, military fatality. There'll be another one along in a minute.

FOR THE LITTLE PEOPLE.

2011-11-22T17:53:00.002Z

This prick should fall down on his knees everyday and thank Satan that a nation of braindead, culturally illiterate Iolantheans found his threadbare creations funny, even for a minute. Coogan, the man who made a ten-minute, cringeworthy sketch last for years and fucking years was at Lord Levo's rubbish cover-up today, the whole fucking gang of them, celebrities and lawyers, simpering and sincere, like an audience from Oprah Winfrey. It's not just me, he luvvied, stuttering, it's for the poor people, too.

I never heard this overpaid, overrated, overindulged teevee wanker complaining when Joe Public was shat on for fiddling a few quid from the Social, tiny, tiny and irrelevant compared with mortgage and expenses fiddles perpetrated by so-called parliamentarians. I never once heard him use his celebrity to attack the tabloids for destroying the lives of countless people who've slipped-up, here and there, I never heard him rip into rabid, mongreldog Kelvin McKenzie, the foul, drunken, racist, sexist cocksucker but fuck me, I was wrong, here he is, here's Steve Coogan, standing up for the little guy. BAFTAs all around, I should think. Yeah, and one for that other dingleberry, Jervaise, the fat, greasy fucker, with the high pitched voice, the one who'd urge-on the school bully and then squeak it wasn't me, sir.

(a reader writes, dear mr smith, Mr Ricky Jervaise's The Office is just about the funniest thing ever shown on British TeeVee and at this time of trouble that's what we all need, a good laugh, so there. Or at the very least a good healthy cringe. signed, mrs iolanthe trubshaw. ps Mr Coogan's series I'm Alan Partridge is also just about the funniest thing ever seen on British TeeVee, everybody says so.)

Tomorrow down the Strand.

Gerry and Cilla McCann.

Why we need more publicity. Two angelic young doctors explain why they are the real victims. All channels. All media outlets.

Before commencing proceedings Lord Levo will lead the cast in a rendition of There's No Business Like ShowBusiness.

WHAT DAVE DID NEXT.

2011-11-21T21:58:00.001Z

THE UNELECTED PRIME MINISTER AT THE LEVESON ENQUIRY.

Now look. Let's be clear about this. Mr Coulson may well be a lying, poisonous, unprincipled piece of shit (aka a journalist) he may also have presided over the very worst behaviour ever seen even in the admittedly filthy pages of the News of the World, he may have set his jackals to violate people's privacy and to make up stories about them and their families, what mr ishmael and his young friend, stanislav, the plumber, describe as skymadeupnewsandfilth, but that's not to say I shouldn't give him a second chance, and a job at the very heart of my unelected govament which the people of this country elected so clearly. And anyway, Mr Murdoch told me to. Mr Murdoch senior, that is, although I would have done it if Mr Murdoch junior had told me. Or Ms Rebekka Kemp Wood Brookes, wodever, my very good friend and neighbour, the mad, ginger bint. And let us not forget that Ms Brookes helped enact Sara's Law, which is the single biggest step forward in whatever it is that there has ever been. Only not Mr Clarkson, he just drives the car, I wouldn't give any of his friends a job. Not that he has any.

You know, let's be frank about this, clearly, I very much believe in giving people a second chance, it's at the heart of my being. And that is why I will always give people like Mr Hague the Miscarriager a second chance not to spill the beans about me. When people are found, however, stealing a bottle of water, well then the courts have my full permission to - indeed I insist that they must - put them in jail for as long as possible. Like I said, I believe in giving people a second chamce. But only people I know, preferably rich people, like Mr Osborne's friends at Vodafone.

And while I'm here your worship, I will just take this opportunity to tell the people of this nation about my principled stand on foreign affairs. Let's be clear, we are entirely opposed to the police in Syria cracking down on freedom fighters. But we believe that it is proper, perfectly proper, for Mr Obama's junta in Cairo to use British and American weapons and munitions against their own people, millions of whom are, well, let's not mince words, nothing short of Egyptians. And when it comes to the maintainance of law and order in other parts of the world, let me be clear about the prospect of the police in a democratic nation baton-whipping and teargassing old ladies, children and pregnant women; the prospect of police officers calmly walking up and down a line of peaceful protesters and teargassing them directly in the face; these are entirely acceptable to me and let's be clear, indicate why we must with all possible haste disabuse the peoples of our countrries of the notion, entirely dangerous in my view, that they have rights, having rights only means that they get hurt or, ideally, killed. When I say we, I mean President HillaryTrouser, President Obama, myself and our employers at Goldman Sachs.

Let me be perfectly clear, everybody will agree with me when I say that just because people in Egypt, in Syria, in Spain and Greece, in Italy and in the United States are being attacked by police forces armed with British and American weapons, it doesn't mean that we aren't all in this together. My govament was elected to stand by Mr Obama's govament of Egypt, and to hasten the invasion of Syria and Iran. And if old ladies in the States are being gassed and baton-whipped, well, all I can say is that it serves them jolly well right. I am sure I speak for all parties in this house when I say that people exercising their so-called rights are a barrier to the very economic growth which we all want to see.

Labour cheers. Tory cheers. LibDem cheers, SNP cheers, Plaid Cymru cheers. Ulster Undertakers' Party cheers.

Rights, and what should happen in this country, this is my business, that's what I was elected for, to do the things which no-one wants to happen, apart from the one per cent of us who own things. Will I condemn the Egyptian puppet junta? Certainly not. Will I condemn the beating and gassing of teenagers? Well, these are difficult times, left to us by the member for Kircaldy

Mr Gordon Snot

No more booming baton rounds and water cannon.

and everyone has to make sacrifices. I for instance, forego five per cent of my salary and manage to bump along on just shy of three grand a week, so I won't take any lectures from dinner ladies or anyone else on that score, oh and there's Mrs Dave's income, of course but that's more like an honorarium and so you can't count her miserable three hundred grand a year, But on the good news front I would point to the recent acquisition of Northern Rock by Mr Sir Richard Bumhole

and what a great bargain this represents for him. I mean the taxpayer. Sir Bumhole's purchase of Northern Rock is great news for the people in the NorthEast of England, wherever that is. It is a measure of his probity as an employer that so many people have taken the grinning bastard to court and he has settled on the steps. And I commend the actions of my right honourable friend, the Chancellor, as all his figures, all his predictions and assumptions are proven wrong. Again.

You know as I go around the country having my photo taken, threatening and bullying people I am struck by how frightened people are of me, only not Frau Merkel or M'sieu Sarkozy unfortunately, but even so, terrifying sick and vulnerable people has always been great sport and we are enjoying every minute of it, it is, and let's be clear, most gratifying, rather like being at Eton, but not as much buggery.

LEVESON: Thank you prime minister for your testimony. And for giving me the job.

PRIME MINISTER DATA AT A STAR TREK CONVENTION

Don't live long and don't prosper.

MORE ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS. MR JUSTICE BEANS SAYS FUCK

2011-11-21T21:34:00.000Z

BEANSMEANSFUCK.

Over at the Filth-o-Graph's Redneck Central poor old Janet Daly is wetting herself over Mr Justice Bean's comments that since police officers are grown-ups they can hardly be insulted by the use of the word fuck by those they are arresting.

When you cant sleep, which, given the times, is probably most nights, have a look at one of the gaycop shows, where Mark and Chris of Avon Police or Dean and Mitch of the West Mids Constabulary, all shiny clean and gelled-up, are chasing twoccing teenagers at high speed or, more dissappointingly for them, confronting gangs of betrayed, disaffected, aimless youths who may - result - have one poxy joint between them. What did you say, did you say fuck, I never heard such things, don't you know I'm a police officer? You say fuck again and I'll nick you.

Fuck.

Right, I am arresting you for a breach of the peace and for disrespecting a gay police officer. Anything you say will be taken down in writing, altered and used against you. And if you later say anything which you later rely on for your defence that will be altered too, by me and my mate, making it all up together, in the canteen.

They might not be gay and it doesn't matter if they are; it's just that they are all this strange mixture of macho, body armoured warrior and exfoliated, moisturised, close-cropped pansymen, and that they do all feign outrage and indignation when people swear., almost falling down in a swoon.

A spokesman for the police federation, Acting Sergeant Derek Gob said This is the thin edge of the wedge, this is, Kirsty. First my members are expected to put up with foul and degrading language which they would never dream of using themselves, even when kicking the shit out of people, and the next thing is they'll be ruling that getting your helmet knocked off whilst attacking people in wheelchairs is not enough reason for three months on sick leave or that complicity by my members in sustained serious criminality should no longer be dealt with by early retirement on health grounds with a golden handshake and a full pension. Cunts, these fucking judges, that's what they are.

EVENSONG: Van Morrison - These Are The Days

2011-11-20T19:09:00.000Z

An exaggerated 'sixties talent, hugely over-rated, especially by himself and his cronies but just now and again, over forty years, he has forgotten that he thinks he's Ray Charles and has waxed elegiacal to fine and great purpose as he cries Freedom in the night - Take It Where You Find It, The Healing Has Begun and this, among his memorable efforts. For Evensongers.

WOTSONTELLY, RICH HALL, CONTINENTAL DRIFTERS, BBC 4

2011-11-20T15:15:00.001Z

Now listen, I'm a comedian, working for the BBC,

so you better fucking listen to me.

“(Clarkson) He’ll tell you that a muscle car can’t compare to a Ferrari, But comparing a muscle car to a Ferrari is like comparing Jeremy Clarkson to a real television host. If this car was a woman it’d be Elizabeth Taylor. If Jeremy Clarkson were a woman, I wouldn’t be a goddamn bit surprised.” It was a clumsy, straining metaphor, I think it's the wrong way around, but it was typical, sustained ranting from the a-bit-too-old-for-it "comedian" and "film buff" - what is a buff? - Rich Hall. Scripted ranting seems so antiseptic, so rehearsed and reshot and edited and soundtracked, how do they sustain whatever it was that first fired the rant, when they're doing it repeatedly for a fairly meticulous teevee crew? but his was certainly a more engaging commentary on a largely - in fact entirely - white, Hollywoodian, ie Jewish industry than we usually get from Showbiz felchers-in-chief like Mark Kermode or Kirsty Wark or Jonafun Ross or, and why not, the late and very much unlamented Barry Knobman.

Continental Drifters was a rantathon with Hall perched in the back of a pick-up truck, all dressed up in a Stetson hat, laconic and motormouthing by turns about the critical fortunes of what he called, obediently, the Road Movie. As the truck and the attendant crew fleet wound its meditative way across the back roads of Montana, Hall most enjoyably excoriated the ghastly George Lucas for his paint by numbers StarWars franchise, rightly dismissed Easy Rider's Dennis Hopper as a doped-up megalomaniac lunatic, hymned the virtues of The Grapes of Wrath, Thelma and Louise, Badlands and I think, Bonnie and Clyde; Vanishing Point, too, was adored by our petulant, ruminant comic.

What undermined the whole process - a pseudo learned and entirely bogus exposition of the link between some ethereal Hollywood guiding hand and the changing moral culture of Amerika - was the assumption of it all, that a feuding tribe of nasty old men and their grisly output was worthy of serious artistic consideration. Hall posited that the Reagan Era spawned shoot-em-up Rambo and shoot 'em up Arnie movies and in Hallworld it was as though Hollywood - and not millions of ghastly Amerikans - had elected the dumbfuck, Reagan and his shrewish, stargazing bint.

The trouble with Hall is that he's just an old showbiz whore, popping up wherever he can earn a few quid. However learnedly he presents himself - and I don't know if an encyclopaedic knowledge of Tinseltown bilge is actually learning - Hall, by his every mainstream teevee appearance, vouchsafes his complicity in the myth of showbiz. He didn't expand his BBC- Clarkson rant to include, for instance, the irritating and unavoidable polymath and heterophobic arsehole, Steven Fag, but then he appears regularly, alongside all sorts of pretentious riff-raff, in one of Fag's many tedious shows, being funny. Even the Coalation rag, the Guardian, recently complained about Fag's noisy ubiquity but if they keep Rich Hall in cowboy hats, and Jo Brand in jam roly-poly then can they really be all that worthless, my dears ? Our Rich also - and, to my mind embarrassingly, appears on a kids comedy show on the BBC 3 Yoof Channel, Talk Shit For The Week, it's called, a gaggle of gobby, unfunny, young stand-ups, performing direly for a bunch of their uncritical, glad to be on telly peers, somewhere in the middle of this Polytechnic undergrad nightmare on walks ole Rich, flapping around like a fish out of water, you know, the way that that remorseless old gabshite, Barry Cryer, turns up at the Edinburgh Festival every year. Hall must be nearly my age, what the fuck is he playing at, doing Yoof TeeVee ? It's like seeing Bill Hicks or Lenny Bruce or Richard Prior on Strictly Come Dancing; not that Hall has anything like the vim and vigour and occasional saintliness of the great American stand-ups.

So when Hall tries to translate or adapt his rather monotonous schtick to a vehicle of apparently serious criticism he misses the mark by a mile and you would have to say he does so deliberately, for he, too, is a paid up member of the Showbiz Vermin Society. Hollywood doesn't make great films, doesn't make politically challenging films; look at who it rewards with Oscars, look at the obscene amounts of money it pays its servants, listen, if you can bear it, to the banal vacuity of Jude Law or Michael Douglas or George Clooney. Hollywood, peddling shit fantasy, demeans all involved in it and Rich, himself, in his small corner, is an integral component of GlobaCorp, rather like, in a larger more influential fashion, is Jeremy Clarkson. I wouldn't be a Godamned bit surprised if Rich Hall lusted after a BAFTA, or some Ricky Gervaise shit like that.

Hollywood aside, there's the odd bit of interesting ephemera. President Eisenhower, having in the war chased the Wehrmacht all over Germany's autobahn network, was determined that Merkins would have the same sort of highways, rather than the dirt tracks common everywhere and when he was elected Ike simply bypassed all the state legislatures and initiated the Interstate Highway programme, building forty thousand miles of fast road. Hall wearliy reminds us that as the roads were rolled out the founder of Holiday Express followed the earthmovers in a Cessna light aircraft plotting the locations, all across Amerika, where he would strangle to death any hope of originality or individuality in the hotel business.

Ninety minutes of unleavened Hall is about forty five minutes too much, he becomes an ugly, calculating, over-rehearsed earache after a while, a performer trying to be funny and serious simultaneously for that length of time demands more than is just of the audience. But it's worth a look, for all that, if you, too, have been sold the myth of the Road Movie,(nobody shoots-out the tyres ) the myth of the New Frontier (AnafuckingBaptist ethnic cleansing) and the white pioneer (generally a greedy, murdering racist bastard.) I sort of lost faith in them, simply on grounds of credibility, when my late brother pointed out to me, decades ago, that if those stupid indians had only shot dead the lead horse, or any of the team, then the first road movie, Stagecoach, would've lasted five minutes.

Not for the last time, John Wayne and Hollywood save the white world

from injuns and niggers and japs and gooks.

NEWS REPORT: PLAYBOY ARRESTED; THE PACIFIC RIMMERS; ACAB

2011-11-20T04:32:00.014Z

PLAYBOY DICTATOR ARRESTED.

Reports are coming in that a notorious, unelected playboy dictator has been captured.

I never did anything wrong.

A former member of the infamous Gang of Four,

Mandelstein is said to have brokered bribes to the British Govament from shortarse motor racing magnates; done illegal deals with international crooks, to have sold British Govament documents, to have lied and bullied and blackmailed his way across Whitehall and then, having been sort-of sacked, done the same thing all around Europe where, as a price for his silence, he was given a fabulously well-paid sinecure in the European Ponzi Scheme Directorate.

Mandelstein, a lifelong socialist, was friends with anyone who had money, however thay had obtained it, Russian so-called oligarchs, British banking magnates like the Rothschilds and notably with Saif al Islam, scion of the Gadaffi family. The disgraced, horrid old poof was said to have been cleaning-up by flogging-off the contents of an address book compiled whilst in various positions of power and influence in what is laughably called public service. In this activity Mandelstein is no different to any other Western politician, the rotten, filthy, lying, thieving bastards, a pox be on them, their children and their childrens children.

The prisoner is said to have blackmailed his way back into a position of Joint UK Prime Minister in the govament of Mr Gordon Snot,

with whom he was earlier rumoured to have been sexually involved.

If I go down, you all go down, Lord Mandelson is claimed to have shouted on his arrest.

Another former UK prime minister,

Mr Tony Shameless, now owner of WeSellPeaceDisguisedAsWar plc, or is it the other way round, said, Listen, all I ever wanted was for the Labour party to love Peter as much as I do. I mean did.

His former colleague, Big Al Campbell, himself a drunk, a pornographer, a liar and a conveniently manic depressive coward said I always hated the fucking bastard but I never had the courage to say so. I'll probably write a book about him. And go on teevee and talk about it, they love having me

BRUCE 'N' SHEILA, MY FELLOW MOTHERFUCKERS.

She was quite the Marilyn Monroe, was the Aussie prime minister - wotsername, Gillard, a stupid Welsh cunt, is how my Aussie neighbour describes her. I say neighbour, but not like next door, about three miles down the road; but she can't, in my view, be as bad as that arsehole, Kevin, her predecessor, the one who travelled the continent feeling people's pain, everytime there was a fire or a flood, the fucking bastard. Wiggling and simpering at Mr President Obama last week, she must've curdled the milk of human kindness all around the Pacific rim, so to speak.

(a reader writes, Dear Mr Smith, this rimming business, isn't this something from the depraved imagination of dirty people, people like mr verge, people don't really lick one another's bottoms, do they? yours, Mrs Agnes Truelove.

another reader writes, Yo Ishmael, you, or is it yo' is my motherfucking man, and I refer to Mrs Truelove's letter in this issue, above, and Gosh she must have led ay sheltered life. Me and Mrs Hague, for instance, indulge regularly in ay spot of trombone er playing and very pleasureable it is, too, for me, at any rate, although ay woman is not quite the same transport of delights as is ay pretty young man ......(that's enough letters from the foreign seckatry, ed. I don't care how many miscarriages he's had. Or his official wife's had, he's not coming in here talking about perversion, that's mr verge's job)

I dread to think what the owner of America - Mr Hoo Flung Dung of the Bank of China - made of all this knickerdrenched simpering, let alone what the Australian electorate made of it all, mind you, it's mostly pissed or backward, isn't it, the Aussie electorate? Or both.

(there are hundreds of this type of photograph, don't know what mr gillard'll make of them)

But the best bit of the trip was when Obie announced that even though Merka is piss poor, skint and ain't rightly got a pot to piss in he was gonna station two and a half thousand child-raping crewcut psychobastard MommasBoy GIs, Marines, Seals, mercenaries, assassins, torturers, CIA Black Operatives and Christ alone knows what other kind of sinister, fucked-up barbarians down there in Australasia. As if it wasn't bad enough there already, with the white Aussies.

Yo, my fellow Australian motherfuckers, Yeah, dooty, service to one's country, dooty, peace and stability, yeah, dooty, and okay, just a little bit a torture, mebbe at the weekends, but I never said that.

Mrs Gillard later announced herself very satisfied with President Obamadong's visit.

I guess he probably still believes, has to believe, Obie, that his poxed-up rustbucket of a country, with its teeming millions of broke, obese, racist, unemployed, yearning for double cheesburgers and giant fries Creationist morons, its bent Congress and its Ponzi economy is still the powerhouse of the world, and its policeman. And that yet another global base, to add to the seven hundred-plus it already has will, somehow, cure all those pesky domestic ills. Homelessnes, unemployment, inflation and so on.

Obie probably thinks, or is told by his Goldman-Sachs Cabinet, that China will continue to buy US TrashBonds, continue to let its workforce toil twelve-hour days, manufacturing cheap white goods for export to the States and that it'll still let America throw its weight around. But Obie has had his head up his arse for, well, for ever, that's why so many people liked him, it's an American thing, having your head up your arse; wossat your saying up there, mr president, from sea to shining sea? Right, mr president, I copy that.

China, though, has a population approaching one and a half billion, although how anyone counts them I'm fucked if I know, especially when they all look the same, all got too many teeth, all talk like angry budgerigars. But only a million of them have credit cards. A million isn't even a per cent of a billion, imagine the UK economy if only point ten of one percent had a credit card. And everybody knows that credit is the only way you can keep the factories operating and the people usefully employed, sort of. So all it takes is for the CommieBastard Emperor - whichever cruel, rat-faced, toothy mongrelbastard is in charge - to extend to his own people the credit facilities that he is currently extending to Uncle Sam and then he has an internal market for his fucking rubbish, can invest, instead of in the States, all over Africa, India, South America and, as we see, in the European Union of Ponzi Republics.

And if it came to a military stand-off with Obie, well, the chinks have so many spare people that they could bomb his Australian base with them. Fire them in by hundreds of thousands, catapult them, drop them out of aeroplanes.

At the time of the Falklands conflict I wrote to Mrs Thatcher, saying that Justice - and Poetry - would be served by stripping-out the passenger seats and loading up the national fleet of Concordes with one-kilo tins of Fray Bentos corned beef, flying over Buenos Ares at the speed of sound and letting-go a load of bullybeef - imagine some Gaucho, swaggering down the street, in his chaps, twirling his moustaches and Pow! a corned beef tin, travelling at eleven hundred feet per second, smacks him in the kisser. Take his head clean off, it would; and a coupla hundred tins, smashing through the Argie parliament, they'd all be calling for a vote of confidence in the MalvinasWar after that, those with their heads still on, anyway.

The Concorde could carry a hundred and ten people and their Gucci luggage, and a few crates of champagne for David Frost, what's that, say twelve- fifteen thousand kilos, fifteen thousand tins of Fray Bentos slamming into Buenos Ares, all at once, they would've thought they'd died and gone to Hell. Fucka me, Amigo, zees ees sheet, zees ees, les Ingleses eesa bombing our ass weeth zee corn-ed beef what we 'ave-a sent to zem een zee first-a place.

The Chinks, however, they could just lob in a few million of themselves. I knew someone who manned a machinegunpost in the Korean War and he told me that some nights only one in ten of the slopes he was shooting carried a proper weapon. We know that Chairman Mao the Paedo slaughtered about twenty million of his own folks and the people still worshipped his poxy arse. And we know, too, that next-door, the Nips were as happy as pigs in shit to crash their planes into the enemy, rip their own guts out with rusty swords or throw themselves off cliffs rather than surrender. I don't want to be considered racist or anything but I do think that your Oriental, your Nip and your Chink and your Slope, all the yellow bastards, in fact, do take a different view.

Strewth, Cobber, what was that, just went crashing through that roof....???

Looked like a fucking Chinaman to me, Sport.....

What, stone me, a real Chinaman......?

Yeah, a bleedin' Chink, pigtails an' everythin', going at terminal velocity he was, Christ, there goes another one, crashed through that roof like he was a round from a fucking Howitzer.....

Mebbe he was bailing out, and he was too fucking stupid to pull his ripcord ....

Nah, he never had no chute, fuck me, there goes another, and another one, there's bleedin' 'undredsa the yellow bastards....thousands of them....it's raining yellowbastards...

Well, fuck me rigid, mate, wilya just look at the Sidney Opera House, de-fuckin-molished it, they 'ave, musta been a thousanda the little yellow bastards, went crashin' through the roof........Fancy a tinny or two....?

The Amber nectar, too fucking true, maybe a bit if a barbie, too, before we all have to start learning Manda-fuckin-rin. Shit mate, ya better duck....whoops....too late... looks like you copped yourself a ChineseTakeaway good and fuckin' proper.

ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS.

These fag cops happen to be in Seattle but it's happening all over the world. Just google youtube police brutality in.......somewhere, anywhere. A lot of the clips contain footage of some hero in uniform who just can't resist the opportunity to smack or cosh a woman, even one running away; none of his mates restrains him, none of his seniors reprimand him, one of the perks of the job, fucking filth.

The BBC is obediently muted about all this but even skymadeupnewsandfilth in the States are asking why it is that elderly people, the disabled and the pregnant are being peppersprayed just for quite legally standing on the sidewalk. Why it is that not only must we give the bankers all our money but we may not even peacefully protest about it, without being blinded and battered by some fucked-up fairy. If you are a cop, married to a cop, know a cop, or, God forgive you, are the parent of a cop, well fuck you and fuck them, too.

I guess that those protecting and serving see the pepperspray as a double-edged sword, they don't get their proper fun, smacking people in the face with guns and so on, especially not with all these cameras around, but a few fifth columnists, letting off firecrackers should give then the all clear for opening-up BigTime. Coming soon, to a place near you.

NICK CLEGG TO BE HOME SECKATRY.

2011-11-15T18:13:00.000Z

THERESA SHOE-FETISH.

DANCING ALONE

Ten little nigger boys sitting on a wall.

Whoops, I mean illegal immigrant nigger boys

Now look. Let's be clear about this. Frankly, I don't care if the home secketary wanders up and down Downing Street showing her thighs to all and sundry. As she does. Silly old crow. What matters. And what matters to the British people who elected me prime minister is that she's getting on with the job. That's what people care about. Not whether she's any good or not. And quite frankly Mr Tiny Speaker, just because she called this bloke a cunt and didn't give him a chance to reply, well, it simply doesn't matter. He's only a fucking civil servant. We'll be doing a lot more of that - doctors, teachers, anyone who disagrees with us - so people had better jolly well get used to it. What I'm concerned with is privatising everything, kicking shit out of everybody and talking my arse off on subjects I haven't a fucking clue about. Like history. And economics. Fuck me, Mr Tiny Speaker, the Chancellor's a fucking doctrinaire windbag - is doctrinaire a word? fucked if I know - the Governor of the Bank of England can't do his two times fucking table and I have a cabinetfull of arseholes, many of whom are fucking younger men. Only not Mrs May, of course. Who gives a fuck about what this silly old bint is up to. Niggers? Keep them the fuck out, that's my policy and it's what got me elected prime minister.

I mean, don't these fucking people, these fucking complaining bastards, don't they know that , don't they realise that the Defence Seckatary, no, not the angry old faggy one, the new one, who looks like he should be perched on top of a panzer with an Iron Cross around his neck, yes, him, Richard Hammond, the bloke off TopGear

Defence seckatry, Mr Philip Christ, what an ugly bastard Hammond.

No, is that not the one, the little fucker sucking Clarkson's knob ? Right, well, how should I know? Anyway, the Defence seckatry is busy frightening people into believing Hell is at hand unless we line the streets with missiles and throw all the protesters in jail. Or execute them. You know the people of this country elected me to discharge the basic responsibility of a govament which is to keep itself safe from the people by any means necessary.

So what with all that going on and having to every five minutes try and find something sensible to say about Europe although, frankly, just like everybody, I haven't got a fucking clue, why is it that people expect me to have an opinion on this silly old boot. She's had a big job in govament and can retire on a big pension, which is more than most people can say, so who gives a fuck if she resigns, she's good for fuck all, if you ask me, Mr Tiny Speaker.

And I can always shove the gimp in there,

into the home office.

Mr Nick Gimp MP, Deputy Prime Minister.

he'd fucking love that, prisons and shit like that, surveillance, torture, right up his street.

MUMMY'SBOY GANGSTER DEMANDS MONEY.

2011-11-15T10:55:00.001Z

SIR MARK THATCHER OUTSIDE COURT IN SOUTH AFRICA.
GIMME MONEY, THAT'S WHAT I WANT.

The distinguished entrepreneur - or infamous racketeer, shithead and failed coupster - Sir Mark Mumsy has expressed his disappointment that a film has been made about his criminal family without him having been paid any money. I have friends who can be very persuasive, said Sir Mumsy, referring to former Field Marshal Sir Simon Mann Golightly-Jockstrap, thicko mercenary, author and ex-con, who was Mumsy's co-accused in their abortive attempt to take over an African banana republic and who did the time in a jungle jailhouse whilst Boy Wonder Mark, pimping, as ever, on his mother's name, got off with a bollocking.

The disgraced hereditary viscount, also famous for milking his mother's contacts with the headchopping elite of Oman, has his arse in his hands over the current portrayal of his mother by ageing Hollywood strumpet, Mrs Meryl Teeth, below.

Meryl Teeth stars in Thatcher vs Thatcher,

a study in greed and dementia.

My mother not only served the country with distinction but was also on the board of many other distinguished criminal families, such as that of Lord Conrad Black-Embezzler, the famous newspaper-owning-and-robbing convict and that of General Sir Jorge Pinochet, the acclaimed human rights activist and exterminator sans pareil. My mother unfailingly signed-off Lord Black's accounts, whether they were accurate or not, which they never once were, that's how great a lady she was. And she did all of this for a mere few hundred thousand pounds of shareholders' money.

If Ms Teeth doesn't do the decent thing and pay me my cut I can arrange for Mr Mann to go around to her gaff and bore the arse off her with tales of his jungular derring-do. Or maybe my sister, wotsername.

A spokesperson for Meryl Teeth said, Meryl has wrung herself out, gone right to the very edge, in this performance which she feels captures the true essence of Baroness Williams. It takes a great deal of courage to go where great actresses go ( up producers' arses? ed.) and she is now recharging her batteries and considering other scripts suitable for a young actress of her age ( 67.)

Lord Bell-End.

Sir Tim Bell-End, Thatcherite PR guru said that to trade on the Thatcher legend was despicable.
These people are just making money for the sake of it. ( honest, not invent.)

Lord Norman Tebbit, of the Filth-O-Graph and late of Al-Fayed Enterprises,
although he didn't know about the freebies until he was found out and then he stopped taking them, like a good Tory.

Well, far be it from me to mention to the prime minister that I won three general elections whilst he hasn't won any. Far be it from me, a former pilot and working journalist ( rabble-rousing fuckpig? ed) to tell this effete public schoolboy what to do. I mean whaddooIknow, I only won three elections. Margaret Thatcher. Yes, a great lady, she helped me win three elections. And now here I am, writing tosh for expatriot redneck wankers. Well said, Lord Norman, they say, couldn't have put it better myself. And they're right, they couldn't.

WOULD YOU BUY A FULL AND FAR-REACHING COVER-UP FROM THIS GUY?

2011-11-15T01:38:00.001Z

HIS Rt HONOURABLE HONOUR, THE LEARNED MR LORD JUSTICE SLAG QC, PC.

Brian Leveson

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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SirBrian Henry LevesonQC, (pronounced /ˈlɛvɨsən/;[1] born 22 June 1949 at Liverpool), before known as Mr Justice Leveson, now properly styled The Rt Hon Lord Justice Leveson,[2] is an English Judge in the Court of Appeal and, since 2010, head of the Sentencing Council for England and Wales.[3]
It was announced on 13 July 2011 that Lord Justice Leveson would lead the Leveson Inquiry, a public inquiry into the regulation of the media prompted by the News of the Worldphone hacking affair.[4][5]
 
Born in Liverpool, Leveson was educated at Liverpool College, before going up to Merton College, Oxford.[6]
[edit] CareerLeveson was called to the Bar at Middle Temple in 1970. He initially practised in Liverpool and took silk in 1986.[3] In 1989, he led the prosecution of Ken Dodd for tax evasion.[7] Dodd, who was represented by George Carman QC, was acquitted after a three-week trial.[8] Leading judge Sir Ronald Waterhouse QC  later commented in an interview on Leveson's performance in the  courtroom that "he lost the mood of the case, and he certainly lost the  jury".[9] He went on to prosecute Fred and Rosemary West in 1995 for the murders at 25 Cromwell Street, Gloucester.[10]
Leveson became a Bencher in 1995,[3] acted as a Recorder between 1988 and 2000, and as a Deputy High Court Judge between 1998 and 2000.[3]  In 2000, Leveson was appointed as a Judge of the High Court, Queen's  Bench Division, and served as a Presiding Judge of the Northern Circuit  between 2002–2005.[3] While sitting with Lord Justice Mantell[11] in the Court of Appeal in 2002 under the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Woolf, he upheld the murder conviction of James Hanratty.[12] He also presided over the trial of ex-US Marine Toby Studebaker for charges relating to child grooming over the internet.[13] He refused to imprison 100-year-old Bernard Heginbotham, who was found guilty of euthanasia on his wife of 67 years, 87-year-old Ida, because she faced spending the remainder of her life in the dementia ward of a nursing home.[14] He also presided over the trial of Michael Barton, who was found guilty in 2005 of murdering Anthony Walker with an axe.[5]
In 2005, Leveson was appointed to the new position of Deputy Senior Presiding Judge and, in October 2006, he was made a Lord Justice of Appeal.[3] In November 2007, while sitting under the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, Lord Phillips and alongside Mr Justice Simon in the Court of Appeal, the three quashed the conviction of Barry George and ordered a retrial in relation to the murder in 2001 of BBC presenter Jill Dando.[15] He was also appointed a Privy Counsellor in 2006.
[edit] Public inquiry into media behaviourMain article: Leveson Inquiry
It was announced on 13 July 2011 that Leveson would lead the public inquiry into issues of media regulation raised by the News International phone hacking scandal.[4]  On 20 July, Prime Minister David Cameron announced that the scope of  the inquiry had widened to include the BBC and social media.[16][17]
It was subsequently reported in the media that Leveson had attended two parties in the prior 12 months at the London home of Matthew Freud, a PR executive married to Elisabeth Murdoch, the daughter of Rupert Murdoch.[18][19] These revelations led to a number of Labour MPs calling for Leveson to be removed from the Inquiry.[20][21]
[edit] Personal lifeLeveson and his wife Lynne, who is also from Liverpool, are devout Jews.[22][23] The couple have three children and live in London.[24]

----------------------------------

THE LEVENSEN REPORT INTO SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH.

Dear Prime Minister (unelected)

1. My learned and lay colleagues and I have toiled long and hard looking into all his shit and shovelling it into the long grass.

2. Naughty things have been done. But there have been so many naughty things done, by so many people that it would be invidious to kick any single individual's arse up and down Fleet Street and into the jailhouse, fuck me, no, ladeezangenullmenofdajury, because we believe in a free and unmuzzled press holding the govament to account. Or at least pretending to. A-ho a-ho, a-ho-ho-ho.

3. And I make the following recommendations:

Recommendations.

I One bad apple doesnt't spoil the whole barrel. Even when the whole barrel is rotten.

2. As a nation we should be grateful that we have a free parliament, a free press and an independent judiciary. Like me.

I am extremely grateful to His Excellency, Lord Hymie, for his report. He and his colleagues have toiled long and hard and I am sure that I speak for my friends, Ms Rebekka Fist, Mr Andy Coulson, Mr James Murdoch and our chauffeur, Mr Jerry Clarkson, when I thank him for the very effective manner in which he has conducted his cover-up. Thanks to His Excellency, never again will an unelected prime minister have to stand in this house and defend his close friendships with filthy scum, such as my above named friends. Even if there were to be an Opposition, which, in my case, there isn't.

THE OBITUARY PAGE

2011-11-13T06:48:00.001Z

Up all night, leaning on the windowsill, I once watched His Grace The Lord Hatterjee on an Open University programme about boxing, the pros and cons; Spitgob, three sheets to the wind, was banging on, perhaps - who knows the mind of a Lord - in erotic reverie, about how too very bad it was, seeing “young men beating themselves insensitive (sic)." Most of the time I agree with Roy, about that, at least. A shame, though, that he never sorted out that filthy business of spraying spit everywhere, I mean, how hard can it be - a bit of surgery or dentistry or just self-discipline, you’d think that someone who wanted to run the country would be able to deal with a little problem like that; like Gordon Snot and his filthy habits,

Now just you watch out young man or I shall set my mother on you.

Hattersley’s refusal to deal with his spit betrayed an arrogance widespread in politicians; in common wth their uniform ugliness, they share a belief that what they are saying is of such importance that it doesn’t matter if contemporaneously they are eating snot, scratching their balls or spitting all over people. Fuck ‘em, all of ‘em, filthy, thieving, pimping, lying, murderous, shiteating cocksuckers.

But the boxing. I agree with Hatters, until, that is, I see some whining little turd like wotsisname, Murray, and the facial agonies he displays if his tennis ball goes out – like his Lordship, Murray is a notoriously petulant Momma’s Boy –

and he wants to burst into tearful tantrums, ties himself up in knots, and then I think, This ain’t sport, this is fucking showbiz, for pansies and nitwits, it's like Riverdance. Boxing, that’s the only proper sport for a man. Go on, punch his fucking lights out. Kill him.

I know that jockeys can get thrown off their mounts, and that they – mainly tax-evading Irish tinkers and pushy Italian midgets with big, big mouths -

An angry, mimiature wop jockey, Detorri; who gives a fuck, shortarse.

suffer a long, dark night of the soul if they are not allowed to whip the poor beasts down to the bone: I know, too, that Motocross riders and Formula One glamourboys can crash and burn and that the Poppy-flaunting Premiership GangRapists can, when the occasion demands, dive to the ground in the penalty area with spectacular shrieks and grimaces of imagined injury and foul play. It's the modern game, say the pundits, a professional foul; a what? Do fuck off.

Mr Wayne Potato attempts primitive communication with his team-mates.
Why don't we all fuck the same tart, together like, all at the same time?
Teambuilding, that's what that is.
And if she complains we can set the lawyers on her.

But despite all the pain that professional sportspersons suffer, searching the North Sea for fish fingers on a trawlerboat, working on a building site or going down a fucking mine remain the most dangerous occupations, alongside, that is, working for Uncle Sam in Afghanistan. And then relying on charity for your maimed, invalid lifelong support, stress on the second syllable, inVALid; well, come on, really now, if they were valid citizens, or valued, like, say, Neil Kinnock, there wouldn't need to be an annual - these days all-year-round - begging festival, just to get them back on their feet, those as still has feet, that is, see Ishmael passim.

Now Look. Members of the armed forces are all in this together, too.
Just like the rest of you.

I read that CallHimDave's chums in the hallowed, wealth creating circles of Bizness hope to cop three hundred billion in reconstruction fees, three hundred billion, after the rest of us paid a half a billion to destroy Libya, objectively, to protect the citizens, well, the puppet citizens anyway. I suppose a billion or two of that profit for NewLegs4Tommy'd be out of the question, fat fucking chance, Georgie boy's chums at Vodafone won't even pay the tax they owe in the first place. Six billion they got away with.

MORE HOW TO SPEAK COALITION
by Mr George Osborne.

Let's be clear, this govament was elected to deal with the defecit.

Mr Nick Robinson, the govament's political editor

If you say so, Chancellor.
And could I just present you with this present as a token of my esteem?

That's more like it. I hope it's solid gold;
currency's fucking worthless.

And anyway, the directors' boards'll all be packed full of retired British politicians, probably even Gay Dr Fox, all needing to fill their boots. No, charity's the thing, obviously, not taxation. A job for that insufferable cunt, Wogan, below.

Or His Serene Highness, Prince Gormless,

he's a bit of a poppy-waver, and a part-time pilot, when he's not too busy on holiday, which, like his father, is most of the time.

Or any of the shameless fucking parasites, they all love talking about Tommy, just as long as it doesn't cost them anything. What I struggle with is how Tommy allows himself to get roped into all this shit, why doesn't he just mutiny until he gets a guarantee of proper lifetime care if injured on duty? What the fuck is the matter with him? Doesn't he know how much we pay Peter Mandelstein and Tony Blair, for the rest of their pampered lives? The lure of Celebrity, in many cases, I suspect, obscures what should be a simple decision to go on strike. Or maybe shoot a few of their senior officers.

By the right, quick Karaoke.
The Soldiers, number five in the topten,
singing to raise money for wounded soldiers.
How very Napoleonic Warsish.

Not as though Ahmed in Kabul is actually, as Field Marshal Gordon Snot warned us, a hair's breadth from hosing-down Wolverhampton High Street with a load of Kalshnikovs. And why should he bother, when we send him out plenty of fresh teenage children to eviscerate? The natural consequence of all this forces showbiz shit is for people to say, Well Company Sergenat Major, if you can raise a half a million quid just by making a record, then you don't need my fifty pee for a Poppy.....And while you're at it, do you think you could just raise your own wages, you know, as I said, while you're at it.
But I came to talk about boxing and the myth of celebrity.

Two large, extremely fit athletes, fit to the nth. degree, knocking fuck out of and hoping to stop each other's senses and vital organs is a sporting encounter of a whole other order, both incomprehensibly stupid and eye-wateringly courageous.

Who you callin' nigger, nigger?

I've never seen one, except on the box, which isn't really seeing it at all, knowwarramean'Arry. I don't know if I could watch one, a heavyweight one, at any rate, but it might be somewhere in my hundred things to consume before dying.

Like many of my astonishingly stupid peace and love generation I had my early, well, teen and twenty, opinions formed, not, as I believed, by some angelic, anarchic fraternity writing an underground press - all those people are millionaires now, or billionaires, or living out in LA, - not by sitar-plucking androgynes, nor by radical priests and psychiatrists but by all the usual shitmongers, the same rabid opportunists as have been cutpursing and catchpennying since Mediaeval times, buy my Plague pies, pilgrim, God's Blood, they're most satisfying, and only a farthing, three for an a’penny, every little ‘elps.

The vague beat-protest-hippy pseudo movement of the fabled 'sixties fragmented, of course, into all sorts of disputatious and counter-productive splinter movements - I can come back to why they were counter productive, if, that is, a glance at the current, massive, EU coups d’etats, Western wars of economic occupation and energy crises and Earthcrimes are insufficiently demonstrative of the comprehensive failure of My my my m-my my generation, baby. Three times my generation voted for Bloody Thieving Tony and Imelda Blair. It was probably the sight of him carrying a Fender Strat into Downing Street wot done it.

Pete Nose, incidentally, librettist, composer, editor, drug addict, child pornography researcher and leader of the Oo, is up on his ancient hind legs again, berating this or that aspect of new technology for it’s failure to continue adequately rewarding he and countless other jumped-up layabouts for their artistic achievements, as though what the world needs is an infinite sucession of posturing egomaniacs like himself, artistically worthless and obscenely overpaid; this wanker' Townshend'd be a little more bearable if he'd actually said to Old Bill, No, fuck off with your caution for kiddie porn, charge me -

Right, Pete, human morality and social justice.

there was Black Power and Gay Power, WomenPower and GreenPower, all swiftly and seamlessly absorbed into mainstream commerce, enriching all concerned, New Publishing, NewMusic, NewCinema; worse, coarser than the old, but just as profitable. Steven Fry, the new Oscar Wilde, Alan Sugar the new PT Barnum, only vile and cruel, nasty and vicious, a barrowboy gob without restraint, finally found his metier, not that he'd know what a metier is, getting paid for bullying people; Steve Odd Jobs the new Henry Ford; I, like most people in the world, have never had an iThing in my life, fuck me, Jesus, however do I manage, here, in consumer purgatory?

If you watch daytime teevee, and it is, trust me, an education - for one thing, the war channels will lead you to the conclusion that the German nation should have been permanently dismantled after the Nazi Terror, even the good Germans, which ninety nine per cent of them of course were, just a few of them doing all that industrial scale atrocity shit, Liebschen. And given their extensive criminal record, why don't we just take all their money off them now, and spread it around among ourselves? Eh, what would Frau Trousers think of that scheissen?

I mean, we could just steal all their shit off them, build another wall around all of them,
and sell them food at extortionate rates, maybe experiment on their children a bit.

But anyway, if you do watch daytime teevee, about every eight minutes you’ll see an old greyhaired gentleman

And you get a free biro, just for signing away a portion of you pisspoor pension.

trying to frighten his fellow elderly citizens into buying a worthless, funeral expenses insurance policy. He’s a multi-multi-millionaire, having spent a whole lifetime sucking, in one medium or another, on Celebrity’s cock. His fellow Northerner, the late Sir Jimmy Nightmare, at least raised some money for charity, and the still extant Sir Bruce Fawsyth, although having spent his early career grovelling at the feet of Sammy Davies junior and others can at least sing a dance. A bit. But our man's schtick, on which he built a four-decade career consisted of variations on a theme of: Mr Bob Hope, I think I have covered, for our delighted viewers, most of the ways in which you are wonderful but I wonder, would you kindly tell us, in your own words, about some of the other ways in which you are outstandingly magnificent; Ms Angie Dickinson, you must have had some famous suitors, tell us about them, Mr Billy Connolly, tell us one of your extremely funny jokes, one about, what is it you call them, Bobbies, Jobbies? And Mr Cassius Clay or Mr Mohamed Ali,

as I believe you now call yourself and nothing wrong with that, perhaps you’d recite one of your very clever, if I may say so, poems.

The Michael Parkinson Show, along with the A Life In The Day feature, in the back of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement, these were the dawn of celebrity culture, of the charting of fame, per se; these were the somewhat shocking days when showbiz Gods stepped down from screen and stage and shared their wonderful lives with us, American stars, coyly baring their arses for Parky's energetic tongue; Cleo Laine, writing, or having ghost-written, in the ST, a page of snooty, self-serving drivel about life in the Laine-Dankworth household - I remember that the vastly over-rated chanteuse had trouble with staff, couldn't get them, it seems. And was struggling with jazz renderings of Shakespeare's sonnets. It was heady stuff, how celebrity lived, a long way from OK and Hello magazines, but it was their precursor; I think the ST editor was future Murdoch lickspittle, Andy Jock Neil, who certainly hasn't lost his fascination with shallow celebrity.

Parky's journalistic raison d'etre fecal was that he was from Up North, and in some imaginary childhood of deprivation his woeful, jambutty and rickets British way of life had been transformed by Hollywood stars, larger than life, in some flickering Odeon or Gaumont and By 'Eck, now that he had a chance to lick them arses nowt'd stop him.

How we watched from the other side of the screen as Yul Brynner, for instance, boasted of his innumerable achievements, his mastery of languages, of dance, of athletics, of the guitar, of remorseless self-promotion; we thought this was true grit, unaware that like dinner plates on sticks in an ailing Variety act, we were being fervently spun by the infotainment industry. Others soon followed, chat-showing, Des O'Connor, Swinging London's Simon Dee, Terry Wogan, eventually the format reinvented itself in the form of poor, mad, loony witch, Caroline Ahearn,

Mrs Merton her nightmare baggage, Coronation Street on bad brown acid, and then that awful motormouthing lawyer, Clive Davis, what a cunt.

The essence remained the same, though, promotion of the latest book or record or film, in exchange, generally, for a wee bit of banal chitchat. There is also, of course, a gaggle of presenters, skilled in the cheap black art of goading the inept, of further damaging the damaged, Jerry Springer was the leader of the pack, followed by the sanctimonious, simpering Trisha, dangerous if employed as Community Psychiatric Nurse, apocalyptic on National TeeVee and then there's the monstrous Jeremy Kyle - regular readers will know that we are opposed to capital and corporal punishment, but I could suspend my judgement to watch this man beaten to death, over, say seventy-two hours; hard not to think that he's an agent of skymadeupnewsandfilth, engaged in the ruination and capitulation to ShitCorp of the entire nation. The States has studiosfull of chatarses, notably our own Mr Piers Moron, who manages, nevertheless, to get in deep with the stars every week or so, here, in Blighty, a true moron for our times.

Back then, though, we thought all that stinky, watery shit, the celebrity chat, was truly revelatory, well, I did, anyway, as it splattered around the toiletbowl of my consciousness. And I remember watching Mohamed Ali on Parky. A great man, I thought, bold, witty and intelligent. When he described the white man as his enemy, I almost cheered, that's how dumb I was. Wasn't he a draft dodger, too? And the way he danced around in the ring, that was magic, that was, for a negro to do all that. That was showing them.

And that, I am ashamed to say, has, remained, more or less, my opinion of the young Cassius Clay. At least it was, until Joe Frazier died and I became, belatedly, refreshed by the truth of the matter.

Aside from training, gabshiteing and the occasional fight, Cassius Clay Mohamed Ali never did a day's proper work in his life, he was groomed for the Olympics and after winning there he just moved from one huge paycheck to another, there was a hiatus, of course, when he was stripped of his license to fight after declining Uncle Sam's invitation to IndoChina, where he could have joined in the killing of three million, roasted some gook children, thrown some suspects out of Huey helicopters and fucked up the forests for decades to come, defending Freedom at home and abroad;
Frazier, on the other hand, was nigger trash from Carolina, who started working in the fields at the age of seven, never had an education and took up fighting in Philadelphia in order to feed himself. He didn't go to 'Nam because he was then a father, but always said that if called on by his country he would've. As he evaded the Draft, Ali was cute enough, and by this time being micromanaged and scripted by the Nation of Islam's capo, Elijah Mohamed, to get himself declared a conscientious objector, without having to flee, as did so many, to a cold Canada. Elijah Mohamed wrote the winning phraseology, No VietCong never called me a Nigger; Why should I go halfway around the world and kill other brown folks, which resonated globally and as war popularity waned, endeared Ali to the Peace Movement. The records and testimonies of those present indicate that, rather than a free spirit who had just found Allah, Ali was, body and soul, Elijah Mohamed's bitch. But ironically, it was Frazier who prevailed upon Tricky Dicky, then president, successfully petitioning him to restore Ali's fighting license, and Frazier who had bunged Ali substantial sums, as his income dried-up.

Fit to fight again, Ali faced Frazier three times, in each fixture sharpening the taunts which, once amusing, were now hateful. Despite Frazier's quiet, fraternal support in his dark hours, Ali, in his fashion, insisted on calling him an Uncle Tom. He was not a cosy liberal by any means, a Republican and unfashionable among the cognoscenti, but Frazier was by no means an Uncle Tom. Enraged by Ali's cheap taunts, in their first match, at Madison Square garden Frazier, in what became known as the Fight of the Century, nearly dismembered the favourite, the wisecracking jive-ass, showy Black muslem. Afterwards Ali, despite his thorough beating at Frazier's hands screamed fix! The ref and judges were white and had sided with the Uncle Tom. The press, of course, rolled with their gobby darling and a swift rematch saw Ali beating a then lacklustre Frazier. The ref and judges, this time, according to Ali, were still his enemy but had managed to deliver the correct decision, despite being whites.

Their final fight was the mythical Thrilla in Manilla, in October 1975. Ali, the hypocrite, pious and sanctimonious about marriage publicly, had jumped at the opportunity to take his new mistress out of the States, away from his wife. But at home his wife was watching teevee coverage of the event as Ali and his bint were received with What a beautiful wife you have, Mr Ali, by President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife, Cherie.

President Tony and Imelda Marcos,
corrupt, greedy dictators and unlikely boxing promoters.

The rightful Mrs Ali was on the first jet out to Manilla and gave the Champ a swift rub-down with a thick copy of the Holy Koran.

Ali's fun, this time, which nearly killed him - and may well have caused the illnesses from which he has suffered for decades - was to rhyme Gorilla with Manilla, dressing in a Gorilla suit and repeatedly slapping a Gorilla doll, as though Frazier was a Gorilla, a uniquely black-on-black insult. Ali, pampered, spoiled, theatrical, over-confident, forever thinking that he was clever, woefully understimated the blitzkrieg he was storing up for himself inside the muscled rage of former field nigger, Frazier.

Ali took the first few rounds but thereafter Frazier punished him without mercy; the ref, a Japanese, also halted Ali's customary dirty trick of holding opponents by the back of the neck and the ensuing rounds are breathtaking, the amount of punishment absorbed by both fighters is beyond imagining, Frazier, for instance, pummelling Ali's hips, in order to raise massive, immobilising haematomas, stop his fucking dancing around, thumping him time after time in the heart, the liver nad the kidneys, to cause swelling and internal bleeding. But by the fourteenth round Frazier's right eye was nearly closed by Ali's repeated left hooks, he was almost blind, anyway, in the left eye and his trainer, fearful that he would be killed, and much against Joe's own wishes, threw in the towel unaware that Ali was unable or unwilling to come out for the last round, having told his corner team that he felt he was dead; a few premature seconds had cost Frazier the fight which he would otherwise surely and deservedly and justly won. As Ali was declared the winner, he collapsed on the floor and lay there immobile for minutes, Frazier, meantime, dancing angrily around the ring and vivacious at the ensuing press conference was every inch the winner. Only he wasn't.

The bad blood rightly continued for decades. And as Ali slid into Parkinson's disease and a role in the States as,

well, I don't know what, some sort of avuncular, wheezing has-been, Frazier continued to train fighters in his gym

and at every opportunity reminded folks that
You see that man,
Ali,

you see what's wrong with him, I did that to him,
don't float like no fuckin' butterfly no more.

I don't know if there was some fearful, last minute rapprochement between two of the best fighters in boxing history. But I do hope not.

WOTSONTELLY, EROICA, BBC4, ON THE iTHING.

2011-11-05T05:23:00.000Z

Listen to me and feel God bowing the strings of your heart.

I've stood by his piano in Vienna, read a few biographies, I know a few of his symphonies inside out, a lot of his piano music, some late string quartets, the violin concerto in D minor, I know them fairly well and I'm familiar with lots of his other stuff, too. I probably know more Beethoven than the average person, but then the average person has less than two legs; anyway, I know nowhere near enough.

It's a funny thing but the older I grow, the sadder I become at how much of my time I've wasted listening to popular music, how very little I know of shithot incandescent greatness. I'd burn fifty years worth of rock and blues and folk and jazz to power up a few bars of Beethoven's Sixth symphony, or his Fifth, or his Ninth, preferably on a booming Deutsche Grammaphon LP by Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philarmonic.

I started listening to what we call classical music in my early twenties, at the prompting of a kindly, older friend and although I've learned and loved a great deal of it I have nevertheless favoured twentieth century UK/US popular music. Too late, now, too old to redress the balance. And I only recently discovered early music, Byrd, Pallestrina, Monteverdi, no chance of becoming remotely familiar with any of that.

In the Hitler war my Dad made some money and my elder brother and sister both had piano lessons but the money had gone by the time my turn came. I've been able to auto-didact, teach myself a lot of stuff, but the piano isn't among it. And on top of family poverty denying me music lessons, at King Edwards, in the second form, I could choose between German and Music, and my Dad insisted that I do fucking German, a foul, guttural and complicated language, spoken by copraphiliacs in discreet spectacles and smart shoes; to this day I know maybe a dozen words of German; if I'd learned composition, harmony, musical appreciation, my life would have been wholly different. I don't blame him, my Dad. Most people do what they think is best for their kids. Even if it's shit. As it often is.

There's nothing wrong with popular music but as Ludwig remarks in this strange little film-cum-concert, difficult is good, the greatest compliment you can pay an artist is to say his work is difficult; I Wanna Hold Your Hand is great stuff and so is Sultans of Swing, but neither are difficult, they're both just singalongs for the Me generation.

The Eroica Symphony was completed as this old house of mine was rebuilt, in 1804; none then here, of course, would have heard it; not for another hundred years would people be able to reproduce music at home, in their drawing rooms, their parlours, their kitchens; and now music retrieval and reproduction are barely a breath away from being accessed via surgical implant.

The film purports to show the genesis of the Third Symphony and recreates the first public performance, a rehearsal, in front of his patron, his patron's family and servants and deploys a proper orchestra playing those shitty old 18th. century instruments; the audience is a handful of people, including the then Maestro, Herr Haydn and a widowed noblewoman who will not, cannot, for reasons of court etiquette, marry the composer, despite their mutual passion, Beethoven, a commoner, is verboten; all the audience talk through the performance - some of them disparagingly and contemptuously - and wander in and out of the orchestra, which is, like the composer, nothing more than the servant of the rich, no awe, no reverence, no fucking respect.. Beethoven, at this stage was not widely considered to be great. By this account, and according to the words spoken by Haydn and by both master and servant, this piece, written to celebrate Napoleon's supposed egalitarianisme, transformed forever the nature of the symphony, putting, for the first time, the composer's emotional maelstrom at the centre and throughout the composition. Everything is changed, now, grumbled a wearily moribund Haydn. Don't know if Haydn lived to hear Beethoven's Grosse Fugue, opus 130 but that is properly upsetting stuff, beside which the Third is a walk in the park. But Haydn was correct, Beethoven, by inserting himself so boldly, overturned the idea of artist as jobsworth servant of patron, making him or her, instead and properly, the servant of Art.

The production is really a filmed period concert with some dramatised inserts, but it's beautifully filmed and played especially tyhe First movement, and is - in the nature of the relationship between artist and patron - revealing and heartrending. The film closes with Beethoven's student informing him that the egalitarian Boney has just, in Paris, had himself crowned Emperor, thus depriving himself of Beethoven's dedication of the symphony a Bonaparte, not, of course, that the wee fella would have given un fuck de l'avion.

It's an old film now, this, but if you haven't seen it, as well as being musically magnificent, it will provide a salutory illustration, a reminder, of the now irritating ubiquity of all forms of music and of course of the devaluation attendant upon that questionable consumer blessing; part of the legacy of the late, odd, Jobs man.

Buy my shit. It'll make you feel clever.
But not as clever as me.

PRIVATE EYE KNIGHTED FOR SERVICES TO THE ESTABLISHMENT

2011-11-04T19:42:00.001Z

Have you got money for me?

Sir Ian Pissflap, OBN.

The unfunniest man in Britain was today knighted for his services to the Establishment. Licensed fool, bore, public school Torybastard, BBC gravytrainer, mock historian and all round wanker, Ian Pissflap, was today made a knight commander of the order of the Brown Nose, Tongue and Chin for his unfailing devotion to himself and to the ruling class. Knighting the worthless little turd, Queen Brenda said Arise, Sir Ian, Oh, one is mistook, you are already standing up, hard to tell there for a minute, still, one meets all sorts in one's line of work.

Satirist? Hislop? My royal arse.

And they tell one that you are hilariously funny, on the television, at pulling a funny face. And saying Not after everything. Just to let one’s audience know one was being ironic, or sarcastic. Or stupid. Isn’t that a faux-ironic device which the dimmer young people used a little while ago? That Not business? But even they’ve given it up. Even my grandson, Prince Gormless has given it up, now that he's married to Wotsername, the party planner, and his half brother, the drunken Nazi thug, one knows he can barely speak at all, unless it's some made-up bollocks about his mates in Afghan, who'd probably punch his bastard lights out if they saw him swigging eighty pound a throw cocktails, at my expense, I mean theirs, everybody's, but even Harry Shitbrains, a stuttering redfaced moron, he doesn't say that Not shit. Like you do. Moved orn, one believes they say. Only not you. Still, cutting edge of satire. And the Beeb pays you for it. That other chap, Merton, is he gay, d'you know? We queens have an eye for this sort of thing and he certainly seems to be fishing from the other bank. One really must say, Sir Pissflap, that what with the limp magazine which has never changed anything worth fuck all, the tedious railway programmes and that Have I Got Stale News For You, you really do demonstrate the advantages of a good education, how the public school and Oxbridge really do make a man excel. Not. A-ha-ha-ha. One’s little joke.

And Yes, one understands you do edit a magazine, sort of, which has been publishing the same old jokes for fifty years. Mr Auberon Waugh and Mr Peter Cook and Mr Richard Ingrams and Mr Paul Foot. Yes, nearly all of them dead. Just as well, really, one imagines. Don’t know what they’d make of you doing your funnyface trick every week on the telly. And cleverly saying Not after everything. No, no splitarses, of course not, not at your mighty organ, wouldn’t be the same would it, having women around, apart from Matron.

And one understands that you and those rotten greasy smarmy pimping child molesting slags in the parliament, you give each other awards? Quite so. And that you have jolly nice dinners together, in rather louche establishments, how very daring. And that one of them moved a vote of thanks to you for your sterling work over five decades - well, not just you, but Ingrams and so on, whom, one understands you have completely ignored in this fifty year bash - in keeping things just exactly as they have always been, never having, as young mr stanislav would say, called a cunt a cunt. Yes, of course, one quite understands, you have to work within the law; although you should try telling that to Mr Blair or Mr Brown or Mr Cameron or any of the jumped-up cocksuckers, and don't for fucks sake get one started on that whimpering little shit, Wotsisname, Clegg is it. I'd chop his fucking nodding head off if I had my way.

Well, there you are, little chap, knighted for holding the Establishment in check. Not.. So sorry. Couldn't resist. Who's next, don't tell me it's Bruce fucking Forsyth. Well, at least he can sing and dance. And be quite funny.

a reader writes.

The Eye published a self-mocking cover to mark its fifty years in the business; side by side 'photos of Harold Macmillan and CallHimDave, with a caption to the effect that See, satire does work, fifty years apart and we have two Old Etonians fucking-up the country with a government of their cronies; Macmillan at least had fought in the Great War, whereas CallHimDave has been mentioned in PR despatches, Public Relations, the last refuge of the scoundrel. Aside from that, they are one and the same, doing the same shit. It was a rare moment of insight from Hislop, if, indeed, he had anything to do with it. For all his smugness, all his Bananaballs, all his claims to litigative heroism the Eye is as much a part of the Establishment furniture as is the Church of England

But the Eye as public sentinel, as keeper of some sacred flame of accountabilty, of investigative journalism of whistle blowing, is no more risible than is the idea of the BBC covering politics and current affairs. As the unelected fascists of the EuroReich make economic blitzkrieg on the Greeks the repulsive Jock Neil, on his putrid pantomime, This Week, fawned over Big Al Campbell, the man who, inter alia, made millions fucking the labour movement up the arse with a Perrier bottle, blatantly faked the cassus bellus which saw Iraq invaded, burned, tortured, occupied and looted and who carpetbags, yet, for the infamous Blair. Even by Neil's dismal standard of guest this is a truly pistaking choice, Tony McNutter, Peter Stringpenis et al are bad enough but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit. But together with an uncomfortable-around-women Michael Portillo, of skymadeupnewsandfilth, Campbell and Neil drooled over dreadful old baggage, Nancy de Lollypop, courtesan extraordinaire et antique just like, well, just like dirty old men. Cheers and laughter and big cheques from the BBC all round.

It's as though just as long as we, we in the know, get a fix of sarcasm now and again it doesn't really matter that the people in charge are the very same people who fucked things up so badly, are paying one another more for continuing so to do and are, with redoubled effort and increasing pungency, voiding their bowels in the faces of those they piously claim to represent. But who may not have a referendum.

Oh, for sure, the people who toil at the InTheBack section of Private Eye do, fortnightly, reveal the leprous hand of the great and the good, as it fists the arse of Decency; they do expose the rottenness of councillors and chief executives and honourable and right honourables; often they hymn the breathtaking brutality of PC Plod and Chief Constable Gob presided over, serenely, by Right Worshipful Brother, Mr Justice Slag but, you know, if the Eye was really any good, wouldn't Hislop have committed suicide, by now, in some twee woodland, or be on the plane to Sweden ? Isn't that what happens to proper whistleblowers?

Sir Ian and Lady Pissflaps. Scourge of the Establishment,
Shurely shome mishtake.

Sir Andrew Nonce, BBC's Mr Playboy. Jesus fucking Christ

. Nighty-night. I'm off to Annabels with some wanton teenager; that's how funny I am.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE CHURCH TIMES . ENTIRE CHURCH OF ENGLAND RESIGNS

2011-11-01T22:31:00.000Z

If it please my noble Lords, I would like to say, Fuck all this shit, evictions and fucking protests, fuck all that, and fuck all that render unto Caesar bollocks, I didn't work my arse off getting to be a Bishop just so's I could get involved in all this shit, bailliffs and fucking nutters living in tents like fucking Ay-rabs, here in fucking London. I'm off. Yeah, me, too. And me. Count me in. Onward Christian Soldiers, that's the thing, onwards to the job centre. Anything's better'n all this shit. Many are cold but few are frozen.

(from Tory benches) That's what you think Ladyman, just wait until Austerity winter happens along.

In a shock statement the Association of GayBisexualNecrophiliacLesbianTransgenderBestialCopraphiliacClergypersons - aka the Church of England - announced, yesterday, that it was resigning en masse, many of its members forming a new church, the Church of the the Queer Jesus. A splinter group of Anglo-Catholics was said to be contemplating joining the Holy Church of Saint Anne Pizza Widdecombe the Tangoing Virgin. whilst the Bishop of London, The Not Very Reverend At All Bishop Richard Shitters.

Kiss my ring, commie bastard.

His Most Unpleasantness Richard Shitters, Gabshite Bishop of London.

stoutly averred that he would be staying at the wheel of the stinking ship, sorry sinking and had assumed command in the absence of his notional spiritual leader, Archbishop Beard.

Bishop Chartres and Colonel von Fawkes, back right, famous catholic Nazi, share a moment of ecumenical right-wingery.

It should have been me, y'know, whined the horrid bastard from behind his snuffler's beard, I should have been Archbishop of Canterbury, not that fucking druid git, spewing out all his silly old hippy sociology shit, fucking dipstick

Archbishop Rowan Beard of Canterbury and MiddleEarth

Bishop Shitters said that he was seeking help from the wider Anglican communion and had recruited from South Africa the Exceptionally Reverend and Learned Doctor Eugene Kaffirbasher

Look, I'm telling you, there is no place in Heaven for blecks.
Heaven is for decent hardworking white people.

and some of his congregation of Bruderbonders for Christ in order to clear the protesters from the bank's steps, sorry, the Cathedral's steps, although it is hard to tell the difference. We suspect there are blecks there, causing all the trouble, shoot a few blecks and that should sort it out. It's always the fecking blecks, thet fecking little bleckkaffirbastard, Desmond fucking Tutu and his fecking Peace end Reconciliation shit, shoiuld have hanged the fecking gobby nigger when we hed the fecking chance, never mind making him an archbishop. Who ever heard of a nigger archbishop? Witch doctors, thet's what they do. Margaret Thatcher, thet's who you should fecking have, she's sort these fecking kaffir terrorists out, soon get them off the fecking steps of Saint fecking Pauls. I mean, I ask you, how can a fecking nigger be a fecking Christian? In the great Efrican Book of Common Murder, I mean Prayer, you never see no mention of praying for fucking blecks, do you. Anyway, me and my pilgrim brethren here will just join together and sing that great Efrican hymn, All Things White End Beautiful and then we'll get the kettle prods on these fuckers, that'll make the bastards jump for Jesus all right.

In the house of commons, former vicar, Mr Chris Underpants MP, seen here modelling for his FuckBook entry and a prominent member of the GBLTNCB said that as a former gay vicar he had every sympathy with his former colleagues. You know it's very hard, leading a double life, as I can vouchsafe unto ye. On the one hand, my brother and sister priests have to maintain that they are on the side of the downtrodden, the sick and the poor, whilst, really, they all have to suck the cheesy knob of Mammon whilst he's shitting in everyone's faces - you know, they are a multi-national company, themselves, after all, second biggest brand in their field. It's a bit like me. I mean, presenting myself in the house as a serious politician whilst posting pictures of myself in my Y-fronts on gay dating sites. Sill, as it says in the Gospel of, I believe it's Mattew, verily I say unto ye, it is easier for an camel to pass through the eye of an needle than for an rich man to be sent unto prison for massive, widespread, ruinous fraud. Or even to have his collar felt by an law enforcement officer. But we must remember the motto which guides this illustrious chamber and unites friend and foe alike: to those who hath shall be given and from those who hath not shall be taken away. Amen and blessed are the cheesemakers

HALLOWEEN CAPTION COMPETITION

2011-10-30T03:06:00.000Z

STILL AT LIBERTY, TONY AND IMELDA

EVENSONG, Prejudice by Tim Minchin

2011-10-30T01:28:00.000Z

Bill Bailey, eat your heart out.

THE SIX O'CLOCK NEWS BULLETIN: WRONG PEOPLE KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN; CREEPY OLD POOF DEAD

2011-10-29T18:01:00.000+01:00

NOW LOOK, WHO'S IN CHARGE AROUND HERE?
NOT YOU, MR UNELECTED PRIME MINISTER,
THAT'S FOR SURE.

It goes to show that we have them on the run, the fuzzy-wuzzies, said Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap of the Queen's Own NancyBoys Regiment, and that's why they're killing so many of us. Responding to the death of Western personnel in a Kabul suicide bomb attack, the Brigadier said it was always unfortunate when the wrong people got killed, much better when it's Afghani or Pakistani citizens, tragic though that is, and we do try very hard not to kill them, although, as that great Afghanistan warrior, General CallHimFlashman has said, you can't make a war omelette without breaking a few eggs, or children's legs, just as long as they're nigger children, living on benefits. Responding in the UK to those events, the unelected Prime Minister said Now Look, lets be clear, ordinary normal people would be quite happy to see suicide bombers fined twenty five pounds a week, and not the derisory fiver, as at present. No, he continued, jaw set truculently, arch traitor Sir Doctor Liam Fox is not being fined £25 a week or even five pounds a week for his crimes but instead would be given £17, 000 in benefits, a load of wellpaid sinecures and a seat in the Lords, in order that he keep the fuck quiet and not make my job more difficult, not that it is difficult . I do believe in giving people a second chance, only not poor people, of course, who are poor by their own choice, their own fault. Dr Sir Liam has paid a significant price - ie nothing - for not doing anything wrong, apart from treason, fraud and false accounting and it is only right and proper that he be rewarded by the taxpayer with a lifetime of luxury and keeping quiet about what he knows about me. Not that there is anything to be ashamed of, and if there is it is a private matter.

In other news the most famous, most ghastly, creepiest closet queen in history, Sir Jimmy Arsehole, has passed away;

we, guys an' gals, must hope that in due course, Mr Satan fixes it for Jimmy. Police said there was nothing suspicious about his death, although they could not say the same about his life. No business like showbusiness.

a reader writes: Sir Jimmy raised a great deal of money for charity, especially for the Stoke Mandeville Spinal Injuries Unit and you should show him some respect, signed Terry Wogan, (Sir) of the BBC and the Sunday Filth-O-Graph, a fellow charity bandit and cheery deejay, spinning platters for the people.

In response to Sir Terry's letter (above) I would just like to say that I think Jimmy Saville was a cunt. And so is Terry Wogan. And as for Dave Lee fucking Travis, Jesus, don't start me. signed, Ishmael Smith, blogger and graduate in anarcho-plumbing studies.

FLASHMAN: LET'S BE CLEAR, ST PAUL'S PROTESTS WORSE THAN THE BLITZ.

2011-10-29T03:21:00.000+01:00

Now look.

I think it's high time we got something clear, regarding this so-called protest at Saint Paul's which is, frankly, worse than anything we saw in the last great war when we were the junior partners to Mr Obama, or was it President Lincoln? Whatever, the fact is that I was elected to run this country, the people elected me to privatise the health service, scrap employment rights, increase unemployment and inflation and force disabled people into jobs which, if Mr Osborne has his way, won't exist, even for the able-bodied. Be that as it may, there's no doubting that at the ballot box the people voted for my brand of stupid, I mean caring conservatism. And you don't catch me putting up my tent in Oxford Street when I don't get my own way. No, I send in NATO, I find that usually works, that and a steel bar up the arse. And I think it's time we looked very closely at these protesters. I'm all for the right to protest, just as long as people don't. ( editor's note: this is the default position of everyone in the sewer-nexus of politics and infotainment, the bloody, snarling Death'sHead of skymadeupnewsandfilth to whom all the aforementioned are in shitty thrall. Jon Snow, Jocky Neil, Toilets Maguire, all of them.)

And another thing, Liam Fox may have been a cunt and a traitor, running his own foreign policy, or somebody else's, but not the UK Govament's, anyway, but at least he had the decency to resign when he had actually done nothing wrong apart from high treason, you wouldn't catch him and his young friend, Mr Werrity,

Happily married Mr Doctor Fox with his young boyfriend.

dossing-down in a smelly, old tent outside St Paul's, not when the taxpayer was funding five-star hotels, well, I say the taxpayer, but often it was a bunch of international gangsters, nothing wrong with that, when one is in public service one has to take bribes from all sorts of people. And let's be clear, say what you like about our distinguished Foreign Seckatry, Mr Miscarriage, he didn't let any gangsters pay for his young friend's hotel bills, he insisted that the taxpayer pay for it all.

Happily married Mr William Miscarriage. And his young boyfriend. One of his young boyfriends.

And for my money that says a great deal about William. Lets be clear. We are very lucky to have him in the role of Foreign Seckatry. And so is he.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Adam Lard of skymadeupnewsandfilth charms some people who think, quaintly, that what the citizen thinks should matter.

Welcome to Lunchtime with Lard, with me, Adam Lard, political editor of skymadeupnewsandfilth, you know me, I'm the bloated one, married to one of Tony Blair's bints, Anji Hunter, that's Anji with a J, or is it a double J, or a double I, fucked if I know.

Mr & Mrs Lard.

(editor's note: Hunter was BloodyBlair's so-called gatekeepeer, in fact one of his many publicly-funded SpADS, despised by Imelda Blair for her closeness to Tone she eventually left to become, like so many in the NewLabour putsch, a highly-bribed servant of transnational thievery, in this case BP, which paid her £25OK pa. Selling-off contacts and info acquired at the public expense, Hunter should of course be in jail, next best thing, I suppose, is being joined together in holy deadlock with Murdoch's GB bumboy, Lardy, hysterical Adam.)

y'remember me????....I'm the one who Alastair Campbell nearly made cry, only he didn't, so there. And anyway, he's a fairy, everybody knows that. That was the unelected prime minister babbling there, he's got very macho, these last few days, usually an indication that we are in the last of days. But to move on, in today's Lunchtime with Lard we'll be examining objectively the position of the Church of England vis a vis the riffraff and benefits scroungers and drug addicts and illegal aliens protesting on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral, although, Heaven only knows what they're protesting about, and no pun intended there. They should go and try protesting in the US, and see what Mr Murdoch's Mayors and Governors and policemen make of them. Anyway our reporter, Jayne Tits, is in our Saint Paul's studio for us now, Jayne, what can you tell us?

Well, yes, Adam, that's right and I'm joined by one of the canons of the cathedral, the Most Extremely Reverend Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite. Jervaise, what do you think about all this ?

Well, of course, we support anyone's right to protest, wasn't our Lord, Himself, that is, if you, believe in a literal Jesus..........

His Most Exalted Reverence Canon Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite.

Sorry, Jervaise, you will have lost our viewers, there, what exactly do you mean by a literal Jesus?

Well, Jayne, to be in communion with gay men and women and young choir persons all over the Anglican, well, communion, it doesn't mean that you have to literally believe in Jesus, or indeed God, or, in fact, anything; man - or woman's - love for his fellow man - or her fellow woman-

is what this great big family is all about; Jesus and the Resurrection is, frankly Jayne, a load of old cobblers......

But.....

But as I was saying, if Our Lord HAD existed, which is frankly laughable, he would've been a tent person, too, kicking-up fuck about whatever got on his tits......kind of like Julian Clary, only in sandals, bitching and whining about stuff.....

Like one per cent of the population owning, or having stolen, nearly everything ???

Oh no, I doubt that, it's a well-known fact that our Board of Trustees is made up of, well, the one per cent who own everything..., if they say Shit, Your Reverences, we say What Colour? You know, the Corporation of the City of London is just like, well, just like the Kray Twins, really, just better tailored.... crooks, racketeers, moneylenders and pimps.....

And you mean they own Saint Paul's????

Well, yes, actually they do...

And that's why......

Yes, that's why neither they nor we want this riffraff hanging around here, trying to draw parallels between Christianity and quite frankly, lets be clear, what can only be called Anarchy, Anarchy in the UK.

That was his most exalted gay reverence Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite, there, preaching from the gospel of Sodom & Gomorrah, here, at St Paul's and now back to you in the studio, Adam.

Thanks Jayne, that was Jayne Tits there for us. Stay tuned because after the break Kay Burley

Kay Burley of skymadeupnewsandfilth

will be asking if Victor Tubak, the immigrant sex killer should have his balls cut off and fed to him, why it is that the old fairy with blue hair is able to claim compensation from newspapers which quite fairly wrongly accused him of killing landscape architect, Jo Yeates and why people in this country actually have far too many rights for their own good. Don't go away.

(editor's note, regular readers might conclude that our view of the Church of Rome is that it is little more than a fabulously successful global crime corporation, trading in fear, superstition and guilt and that its staff, nuns, priests and noncing monsignors, are either by sins of commission or omission a repulsive, degenerate and amoral criminal community, engaged historically in all manner of nefarious genocidal, racist and exploitative and extortionate activities and notably in the persistent sexual assault of infants and children and in the blackmailing and terrorising of their parents, in which the current Capo, Benjy the Nazi, has particularly distinguished his rotten self and that we consider the Anglican Church to be a rapacious landlord, an investor in dubious companies and nations, a historically warmly complicit arm of the state in all its wrongdoings at home and abroad and recently not so much a faith at all as a powerful proselytiser of homosexuality, contrary to its own doctrines and teachings hitherto, and they would be correct. The idea that a spontaneous global movement opposed to the status quo maledictus will find any common cause among the hypocrites, bandits, torturers and Godlessheathenbastardfrockwearingchildbuggeringcocksuckingmotherfuckingsonsafuckingbitches of Religions Inc. is preposterous, may God rot their fucking black hearts and roast their wicked poxy arses in Hell, forever and forever, Amen.)

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. CLARKSON DROPS RICH MAN'S INJUNCTION

2011-10-27T19:38:00.000+01:00

A disconsolate Clarkson, pictured comfort eating, the horrible fucking bastard.

Popular loudmouth fatso, Mr Jeremy Clarkson, today abandoned his legal attempts to keep secret his love life, I mean sex life. It's no good, moaned the worthless, over-exposed, over-paid, over-rated lump of shit, you might think that I'd been having affairs with all sorts of unlikely loony bints, like my producer and my first wife and my second wife, the dwarfy one; you might think that I ran about between lovers so fast that my hair caught fire, that no sooner had I done a handbrake turn on Jemima Wotsername, that I'd be burning some rubber with my ex-wife before screeching home sideways to my current wife and children and faffing about with her column-mounted gear paddles, pausing only to let little Richie Hammond lick my tailpipe for me. But you'd be wrong.

No, the truth is that I've only ever had one love, myself; I simply cannot help it, I adore myself. I am the man I most want to touch, to see, to be with. David Cameron, James Murdoch.... they're alright, but they're just mates, when you're rich, like me, you need rich mates, nothing like getting together with other rich guys and mocking the poor - you know, those morons who stand around in my studio, applauding cars they'll not even get to sit in, much less drive, never mind own - but it's not the same as love I feel for myself; I am the Hispano-Suiza, the E-Type, the GT40 of men, just look at my lines,

and hear my throaty roar. And the injunction, well that was just a way to keep that knowledge private. But you know, there comes a time in your life that you have to face up to the fact that you're just an empty-headed exhibitionist, flogging a dead horse of boyish, faux rebellion to an audience of equally empty headed boymen - and the odd silly tart. Uncompromising and fiercely opinionated, they call me, those that don't call me a fat, spoiled, indolent, bullying, racist fuckpig. But they're all wrong. I'm just a helpless, old-fashioned narcissist.

I've done the injunction thing, now, kept me in the gossip pages for ages, which is the main thing, nobody reads my column in the Times anymore, or anything else in it, for that matter, and TopGear just goes from bad to worse, it's like the Wacky Races, only not funny. Next week Hammond and me and that other cunt are going to drive our cars to the top of Mt., Everest , set fire to them and throw them off. And I'll be in the studio talking to Ronnie Wood and some other nonces about how brilliant they are. And I am. Oh, and I'll probably be saying something ballsachingly funny about Birmingham. It's what I do.And it's why people love me. Only not as much as I do.

a reader writes: I'd just liike to say that whatever Mr Smith says, Jeremy Clarkson has given me a great deal of pleasure over the years, it's all good, clean fun, what he and the boys do, and it earns the BBC a lot of money, I can tell you. So let's have a bit less of the sarcastic moaning Mr Smith and instead, a word of praise or two for a fine British institution,

signed, Shirley Clarkson, (Mrs)

MORE HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

2011-10-27T02:30:00.000+01:00

President Dwarf, Prime Minister Ali Baba and Prime Minister CallHimDave

We are proud of the role Britain played in helping the lions of Libya reach peace, democracy and the rule of law.

trans: And if this little fucker doesn't do what he's told, Sarko, he, too, can have a steel bar up his arse and a bullet in the head, mon ami.

Oui, d'accord, CallezVousDave.

Is 'ow we say, in la Belle France, liberte, fraternite et le sodome brutale et metallique.

Lions, eh? Jesus fucking wept.

WOTSONTELLY, JACKINTHEBOX.

2011-08-18T06:51:00.000+01:00

FORMER TORTURE SECKATRY SMARMING ON NEWSNIGHT.

I agree with the prime minister.

Tough on crime, only not war crime, clearly.

Mr Jack Torture, looking like a PR man for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, made a welcome return to BBC Televiasion last night. Asked by the corporation's grunting transexual hunchback, Mr or Ms Kirsty Wark

about recent sentencing controversies, the creepy bastard said that he was quite relaxed about savage, wholly unjustified and MediaMinster-directed sentencing in the British courts.

If someone deliberately misleads parliament, the United Nations and most importantly, if I may say so, Kirsty, Newsnight viewers, about the existence of weapons of mass destruction, if one acts, if I may say so, as, if I may remind you, a lawyer, with others in the preparation of false dossiers and if one thereby incites a holocaustal war,

bringing death, injury, homelessness and terror to hundreds of thousands of entirely innocent human beings and, most importantly, if I may say so, as a lawyer and the former Justice minister, causes evidence obtained by the foulest torture to be admitted into the British Courts then one really should expect to be harshly dealt with by the Courts, although, of course, I haven't been.

You'll never get me in one of these places fuck no, if I may say so.

Chilcot Report? Oh, do fuck off.

EVERYWHERE THERE'S LOTS OF PIGGIES.

2011-08-14T02:20:00.000+01:00

Mr Eric Pig, MP, was heard the other day saying, oh, these rioters whining, they sound like they've been talking to their social workers. Here he is in full flight, whining; lest we forget.

Hang an MP Week, he mocks; this bastard should be hung-up by the scrotum.

THAT NEWSNIGHT ROW

2011-08-13T14:04:00.000+01:00

Professor Doctor David Gay, off the telly.

Look I simply put it to you ....shut up, I'm a famous telly historian, listen to me and you might learn something...I simply say that all black men are gay. David Lammy's a gay black man but in a decent white sort of way. And all...oh do shut up, I've been on Jamie's Magic School.... and all white men are gay,too. And all women. Black ones. White ones, gay, all of them . And you, Emily, you too

Who me?

Yes, Dearie, you too, no use telling me you're not a carpet muncher, I am a very famous historian and I know these things. Almost everone in history is gay. That Enoch Powell speech, it was Rivers of Sperm you know, originally. Mmmmm.

Are you seriously suggesting that I'm gay, me???

Well, of course you are, it's nothing to be ashamed of, perfectly normal, all important people are gay.

Well, I'll have you know that I am a serious journalist which is why I take every opprtunity I can to show my arse to the viewers, or anyone who'll look, really.

Yes, of course you do, you silly girl, and that's my point ...and I do wish you'd pay attention....flaunting your arse at complete strangers, millions of them, what could be gayer than that? There, queer erat demonstrandum, as we scholars say - gays do it standing up. Fancy a cigarillo afterwards?

RESHUFFLE NEWS.

2011-08-12T22:31:00.000+01:00

AN ANGRY, OLD ETONIAN LAYABOUT GETS TOUGH.

Let me be clear, You will see more cabinet ministers getting arrested,

I mean looters........

Look, Mr Prime MInister, Sir, I'm down here.

Mr Chris Who, minister for windmills.

Public school, Oxbridge, MEP, intolerable arsehole.

Faces prosecution for perverting the course of justice.

Unless it's not in the interests of justice/unlikely to secure a conviction/the DPP has been instructed to soft pedal. As usual.

But if he goes it will trigger a reshuffle and a rebalancing of the Cabinet to reflect the move to martial law/emergency powers.

And I'm a liberal democrat, Mr Prime Minister, could I possibly do anything wrong, like lie to people about being a hopeless drunk, shoot dogs, dump his wife for a dyke or pay people to shit in my face and eat it. Am I the sort of person who would say one thing, solemnly promise one thing about student tuition fees and then do the opposite? Well, exactly. It's not as though my party is full of liars like Mr David Laws and Mr Straight Simon Hughes and Highlands Charlie the ginger dipsomaniac and Mr Mark Oaten, the unfortunate balding copraphiliac and Mr Nick Gimp, your personal, nodding gimp, is it?

Baroness Gob, the disappearing Party Chairman/Person.

Recently seen briefly on TeeVee, looking as though she had been dragged by the hair backwards through the Hindu Kush. Otherwise entirely absent through MurdochGate and now RiotsGate.

Michael Filth, Deputy Party Chairman/Person.
Tory media enforcer. Or bully, if you prefer.

Now listen, let's be clear, I'm a hard man. Unlike that wog bint,

whose job I should have and am, in fact, doing.

I'm like a white version of Norman Tebbitt.

The guy who made all that money from privatising Telecom.

And unknowingly took bribes from al-Fayed.

Or so he says, the rotten old shit.

Now, gimme a proper job.

THERESA NEW BOOTS AND PANTIES, HOME SECKATRY.

Woefully out of her depth in RiotsGate and a surpise appointment to the Home Office.

Good, really, for fuck all.

Mrs Michael Spit-Gove, adding-up minister and allround cunt.
A loyal Murdoch employee whilst moonlighting as an MP in Opposition
Sent out to quell the riots and speak saliva-flecked, angry, red-faced peace unto the Heathen whilst the catastrophically over-promoted Mrs May was busy sorting her shoe cupboard. More U-turns at Education than a whirling fucking Dervish.

Good morning children, my name is Mrs Gove and I'm frightfully clever, spit-spit.

And I should be home seckatry, in charge of punishing naughty people.

Just like I punish you by closing down your schools and youth clubs and throwing your parents on the dole, but only for a fortnight.

After that they must stand on their own two feet, spit-spit, as we do in parliament.

WOTSONYOUTUBE. Cameron's back, and useless, looting at number 10.

2011-08-12T01:56:00.000+01:00

THINGS YOU SELDOM SEE IN RUIN'S BRITAIN

2011-08-12T00:27:00.000+01:00

I HAVE NO COMMENT TO MAKE, I AM IN MOURNING.

MINDLESS CRIMINALS RECALLED. NUMBER 1, DIANE I HAVE WALKED THE STREETS OF HACKNEY ABBOTT, REVISITED.

2011-08-11T21:54:00.000+01:00

Apologies to People's Heroine Abbott.

Prompted by mr oldrightie I checked Abbott's entry in the Register of Members' Bungs; the BBC only paid her approximately three hours @ £300 for her hourly appearances on This Week probably an hour in make up, an hour getting pissed and an hour on the sofa, not quite a grand an hour, then. ITV, by contrast, paid her the whole grand for her appearance on Cash In The Fucking Attic. Got her finger right on the pulse of urban deprivation has Comrade Abbott. Fuckpig.