SID FARAGE TO SUCCEED CLARKSON IN TOP QUEER.

He's been whining recently. About how hard it is for his children, having a name like Farage, other children taking the piss. Well, I never, fancy that, the playground being the cruellest place in the world.  But things're brightening for the Poundland Fuhrer. This is the news that he is hotly tipped to take over from Jeremy Clarkson as Widow Twanky in the  pantomime-with-cars that is Top Queer.

Seems that after his recent outing in these pages, Lady Clarkson has had, in his own words, all handbags and hissing with a young producer on his popular PBC show and is now facing the axe.

Questions fly and  arguments rage about who is crap enough, who is a shitty enough individual  to replace the National Baboon. 

Well, said PBC chief, Rona Fuckhead, 

  I may be a thieving, lying, rotten  crooked bastard 

but that's just normal for the PBC.

 like Mr Clarkson, Mr Faridge is a public school thicko, is almost unbelievably stupid,  is a bigot, is a racist and a bully;  furthermore, like Mr Clarkson, Mr Faridge  knows fuck all about cars,

Sid at the wheel.

Sid on the town.

Sid's smart chauffeur awaits.

 

 driving or anything,  really, when you come to think about it; 

 

like Mr Clarkson,
 Mr Faridge is a heavy smoker, 

Yes, I know, quite extraordinary, isn't it? To be perfectly  frank with you, I don't know what this country is coming to, under these public school Tory merchant bankers. Me, the prime minister elect, being forced outside, simply to enjoy my God-given right to poison myself and anyone around me.  Do you know what?  I wouldn't treat a nig-nog like that.  Even if he was born and bred here I'd simply send him back to his own country;  they probably  need him there, for shaking the coconuts out of the trees.  I mean, the country's over-run with them and here we are, stopping people having a fag or two in the pub, drinking a few pints and driving carefully home.

believing that smoking in public 

  

What? Public drunkenness?

Make it legal? Compulsory, more like.

 For patriots.

and drunken driving are the absolute, God-given  right of white Englishmen, enshrined in the Magna Wotsaname,  Castle, is it, enshrined in the Magna Castle; he is also popular with damaged souls the world over, Sun readers, UKIP voters, queer-bashers, wog-bashers,  wimmen-haters, the kind of  armchair psycopaths who froth at the mouth about free speech, but only for themselves, that kind of person;  he is the ideal choice. Filming begins soon.

  

Drive, what, me? 

No, usually it's a member of the Leader's Personal Bodyguard does it, sworn to defend me, they are, smashing chaps.

Shouldn't be a problem with Top Queer, though, let's face it, me not knowing about cars or driving or anything, it's just like my current game, isn't it, what Jeremy Clarksion does, ignorant tub-thumping and rabble-rousing, should be a doddle.

And with that bombshell, 

Sieg Heil!

WOTSONTELLY. PORN ON THE PBC.

ANDREW HAIR-TRANSPLANT.

 SEE HIM WHIP THE WOMEN, JUST AROUND MIDNIGHT.

I try to avoid stepping in this shit but I'm having to limit  my movement for a while and the other night I couldn't find the remote control - or the remote, as we call it in word-saving Britain, it's as though words cost money, the number of them we try to save. As adjective becomes noun, we all conscientiously save using the word "phone," Christ, such an effort it is, saying phone, and we gleefully and obediently cull these wasteful words even though we refer, in any event, not to a mobile phone, but to a portable one,  the mobile  telephone has no mobility but that doesn't matter a fuck, does it, it's all bollocks, modern Britain, texting bollocks and twittering cunts everywhere you look - anyway, I was kinda stuck, watching the grotesque, suppurating arsehole, Andrew Hair-Transpant bullying his ancient way through another week of tripe.


The hypocrisy - not to mention the arse-numbing stupidity - of Diane Lard  is stupefying;  more proof, if it were needed, of the garbage  first and second-class honoured from Oxbridge,  Lard cannot frame a sentence and communicates in a sequence of shrill malcontentments, amplified by thrusting palms and pointing fingers seeking to impose  silence upon those bewildered by her shitheaded stupidity.

From the Daily Filth.
The standards committee's  findings, seen by the Daily Mail, are critical of the makers of This Week, saying that 'Abbott's appearances on the programme since becoming a shadow minister had been too frequent'.
The committee added that paying Miss Abbott, who earned between £839 and £869 per edition, 'such substantial appearance fees since she took up her front bench position in 2010 was a breach of the guidelines'.
The complaint dates back to January when crossbench peer Lord Laird wrote to BBC Director-General Mark Thompson arguing it was wrong that, as a shadow minister, Miss Abbott should 'profit financially' via the BBC licence fee for expressing political opinions and discussing Labour policy as a pundit on the programme, hosted by Andrew Neil.

Even so, the fact that Lard is an obnoxious, troughing bully, herself, doesn't mean that Andrew Jock should be licensed to bully her, on his joke politics show, implicity bullying her on behalf of us..  On this occasion he read to his bloated victim a piece written by the hideous Mrs Michael Gove-Spit of the Daily Filth,  damning those who paid for their child's private education, those, in short, like  Abbott.

Abbott, with her own privately educated child.

Despite a face like icy thunder Diane wasn't able to respond to Neil's relentless, coarse goading.  It would've been acceptable for a decent person to tax her about her infamous hypocrisy - whoring a living from the poorest constituency in the country whilst sending her own brat away for Money's dark tuition - but Neil is such a piece of shit - the PBC's in-house Kelvin McKenzie,  that, like mrs narcolept feeling the anguish of Gordon Snot, one almost felt for her.  But not quite.

Neil has succeeded in persuading us that he is Everyman's journalist.  he's actually nothing of the sort and thirty years ago he should have been standing where Rebekah Brooks and her gang stand now;  Neil, it was, who first opened his whoremouth for Rupert Murdoch's septic media cock and its diseased pissing all over Decency. Neil's subsequent greedy, hypocritical unprincipled career - see his wiki rapsheet - has seen him become the Beeb's go-to political hack, much as Sir Jimmy Savile was its go-to charity worker. An' howsaboutthat then, nighty-night and don't let the PaedoChannel bite.

It is Abbott's own greed and vanity which puts her in Neil's firing line, just as it is with Tory thug Michael Portillo - Oh, I think he is here for the money, sneered Andy in the same grim show - so maybe we should have no sympathy for them,


 or for that other prat, Johnson, the singing, cuckolded postman.  It is not, though, a  sympathy which I feel for this trio of filthsters but a sympathy for Decency's  boundaries, so regularly trampled by Glasgow's finest.

Oh but mr ishmael, he really has a go at the politicians, they're scared of him, he holds them to account.  Aye, that's why they queue-up to be on his miserable fucking excuse of a Daily Politics show, to be held to account. Ah, so.

ANOTHER DISTINGUISHED CRIMINAL JOINS THE GUARDIAN AND THE BBC.

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DRUGS. I BLAME THE PARENTS

Worse than dodgy Mark Thatcher, this  but couldn't happen to a more deserving family.  Brother Dominic is a failed, whining,  right-wing hack, migrant guest from Filth-O-Graph to Mail to Independent, probably his next stop is the Redditch Advertiser.  Pops is a freak show, an eighty-two year old with strangely thick, richly coloured  auburn hair and a recurring penchant for women young enough to be his grandchildren.  

On marrying his second, trophy, wife,  the former chancellor - catchphrase: unemployment is a price worth everybody else paying  -  Big Fat Nigel Lawson shed stones of lard so quickly that one would think he was on speed.  But no, he wrote a book about a miracle diet that he'd invented.  And everybody believed it.  Everybody but me. And anybody else with any sense. 

 Now, in his dotage, his Lordship maintains that despite a gazillion extra people on the planet,  churning out body warmth and burning fuel for heating and cooking; despite everyone in the developed and developing world  blasting the atmosphere with all their cooking, heating and lighting devices; their cars, their trains, their planes; despite the massive expansion of light and heavy industries and the massive Oriental and Asian expansion of coal-fired power stations, despite all this extra heat a closed biosphere can easily and harmlessly absorb and neutralise it all,  maintaing a steady, business-friendly temperature, doesn't matter what the thermometers say, there is no such thing as global warming.  He's a fool or a knave, probably both and the sooner he's dead and shut the fuck up, the better. 

What is certain is that as well as proudly being a Thatcher spiv, he is a nasty, amoral, narcissistic, elderly predator.  No wonder his daughter is a fuck-up; shaking her tits at the nation, at her age; doing food as soft porn.  I have never seen more than a few seconds of her dreadful show but it was enough; corny and hammy,  pouting and slurping and licking, ridiculous rubbish,  
 

I can't see Lawson's culinary bump'n'grind arousing even a fourteen-year old schoolboy,  who normally walks around with a permanent hard-on, but the telly folk loved her,  she is Oxbridge, after all.

And now, former hubby, Champagne Charlie,  is pissing into her souffle erotique.  It's lovely to see but barring a jail sentence she will survive it all, the charmed circle of celebrity knows how to care for its own.  People will be taking sides as we speak,  the poor woman, such a shame, all she ever wanted to do was help us cook and this nasty brute is saying all these terrible things.  Or, I dunno how poor Charles put up with her, she was an absolute horror, selfish, spoiled and a dreadful drug addict.  The TitFoodies will win of course and Lawson will be rehabiltated, her struggle serialised in the Mail,  a new series launched, with much greater depth and maturity, following her ordeal.  Cookery Confessions of a Crack Whore, PBC2.  Don't miss it.

WOTSONTELLY. A WORKING CLASS HERO IS SOMETHING TO SEE. OWEN JONES GIVES THE ROYAL TELEVISION SOCIETY'S HUW WHELDON LECTURE , PBC 4

I have a soft spot for Owen, just a small one, his heart is in the right place, just that his head is up his arse;  he works as a commentator on the dreadful Independent so he can't be all good and the amount of exposure he gets on stuff like Question Time means that  like Billy Bragg and Benjamin Poet,  he is just another one of Power's licensed rebels,  nothing wrong with being a Fool, I'm one myself but Owen isn't a fool such as I,  he confines his foolery to nostalgifying about a mythical halcyon day, during which writers, playwrights, hacks like himself and politicians coalesced into a band of brothers whose sole purpose was dignifying their horny-handed brothers, ennobling the clothcap and the public bar, fighting the good fight,  the rich writer in his castle, the poor labourer at his gate;  nauseating, really, if a little easier to digest than today's cross-party spiverry.  If only we could get back, he implied, last night,  to the days when party politics was genuine and when artists were radical,  that's all we have to do.  As bad, in his own way as Michael Spit-Gove's educational back to the futurism, is Jones's longing for decent, transformative teevee.

Believing that things stayed still,  something I find impossible to do, Owen wrote a proper, grown up  book, Chavs, The Demonisation of the Working Class, which was a well-intentioned but belated study of spite; an examination of how skymadeupnewsandfilth, in all its guises, trashed and vilified the poor for their poverty.  It's what I called, years ago, Cruelty TeeVee. 

 I remember, also, en passant, damning the cock-waving, class-traitoring, hypocrite lard bucket, John Prescott - one of Owen's tribe - for his use without irony of the term Underclass, the cheeky, fat, money-grubbing arsehole.  Prescott, for his despicable Blair-stooging should be first on the People's Guillotine, followed by his Mrs;  working class heroes, both.

In this televised lecture to a tame audience Owen earnestly damned  programmes like Jeremy Kyle, Shameless and, well, I can't remember any more of his specific examples, even though I saw the programme  less than twenty four hours ago,  they could all, in any event,  these series - Skint, was that one of them, variations, anyway, on scrutinising the benefit claimants' fecklessness -  they could all have been  written by whichever  cunt wrote George Osborne's Weimar Republic Curtains speech.

In contrast with this shit and with soul-bludgeoning predictabilty,  Owen cited Boys From The Black Stuff and God fucking help us, Cathy Come Home, as the twin pinnacles of social justice delivered  via the idiot box.  Oh, if only, Owen seemed to say, if only we lived in the good old bad old days, still, of Alan Bleasdale and Carla Lane and Jimmy McGovern and Jeremy Sandford. Jones's confirmation of the - non-existent - impact of Cathy Come Home was that lotsa people watched it, just as as they do Strictly Come Dancing.  Quite a confused young man, actually, is Owen;  ratings and social justice are not the same thing;  the Ratings War, in which the PBC should never have engaged, is just one septic province of Murdoch's cultural colonisation, a signpost on Ruin's Highway;  that Owen engages in its battles shows the paucity of his principles.

The paradox,  the contradiction in Jones's lecture - and I must say I could only bear to watch half of it, strolling about in his shirt he seemed like Ed Nobody-Miliband on speed  
 
Give that man a Workers' Bafta.

- is that as the dogs in the street know, if all this wonderful, gripping, social realism docu-drama was worth more than a cup of piss then things wouldn't be as bad as they now are, would they?     

The fact of  TeeVee's losing battle with the bewildering cornucopia of cyber devices is no consolation,  all that stuff is worse,  much worse, than Owen Jones's ossified sixth-form  mewlings but  I'm tired, nevertheless,  bone-weary  of telly moralists,  tired of people who confuse - as does Jones - showbusiness with reality  and would similarly and wilfully confuse me.  

One of the biggest and most corrosive conspiracies of our time, uniquely of our time, is that of those working for skymadeupnewsandfilth,  the PBC - whatever you want to call it - against those watching it.  In acknowledging that, of course, jumped-up Wheldon song-and-dance lecturers like Owen Jones  would be pissing in their own champagne.           .

THE SIX O CLOCK NEWS FROM THE PBC.

 

EMILY SHOULD HAVE HER OWN CHANNEL,  SAYS VETERAN TURDCASTER, DIMBLEBY

 SHE PUKES TO CONQUER.

After countless failed attempts on the Newsnight programme,  Ms Emily Stringbean  tries, again,  to show the nation her arse, bless.

Good evening, this is Huw Welshman with the six o clock news from the PBC and in breaking news  the nation's first hereditary broadcaster, David Dimbleby, has fired a round of fucks, look you,  into PBC managers, isn't it.

The veteran broadcaster, is a legendary veteran of such shows as Question Time....and.... and.....oh, yes.....  and a load of other old bollocks, isn't it, about paintings and stuff and now, I understand,  about his fucking boat,

Well, you jolly well should watch me on my boat,
 you paid for it,  and now you're paying for it again.
For me to make a programme in it.
About me and my boat.

and Dimbleby has now said that most programming, apart from his own, like  that tedious all-night election coverage, 


L-R:
FIONA COKE, NICK TOENAILS, JEREMY BEARD, DAVID HEREDITARY, EMILY WITH HER FINGER UP HIS  ARSE, HAMPSTEAD STYLE,  AND JEREMY VINE, THE THINKING WOMAN'S JIMMY YOUNG.

- as though anybody sits up all night watching that rubbish, look you -  is shite.  Mainstream programming, which people do watch - antiques and food and houses - well, according to the veteran hereditary broadcaster,  it's garbage, all of it.  They should all be scrapped, insists Lord Dimbleby.

   There should be two channels only, said the veteran hereditary broadcaster - one starring himself,  on which basically a camera crew is just following him around and capturing, isn't it, his hereditary veteran  thoughts on politics and art and life and stuff, as they already do, isn't it, and let me tell you, viewers, 

(singing) 
 
that ain't working,  that's the way you do it, 
money for nothing and your chicks for free, 

and the other channel dedicated entirely  to my colleague, Emily Stringbean,  trying to show the nation her arse.  Or her tits. Wasn't aware she had any, me.  Anyway, a valued colleague, Emily,  and we all wish her well in rehab, I mean in her new role.    Does she take drugs? Fucked if I know but she certainly looks as though she's a bit of a pisshead. Don't know how she'd manage here, at the News coalface, staggering  around pissed in the Newsnight studio is one thing, chatting with her friends and neighbours, 



but reading the great autocue of state,  here, at the front line, that's a whole nother one, boyo. Face like a fucking horse, too, if you don't mind my saying so. Pit pony, more like, too long underground.
   

Speaking, anyway, from his hereditary Oxfordshire home, the veteran  hereditary broadcaster poured scorn on the idea of there continuing to be a youth-orientated  Channel Three, a quality-orientated Channel Four, a ponce-orientated Channel Two  and a paedo-orientated  Savile-Channel One. 

 Come, come, now,


they can't all talk at once or no-one will hear me.....No, no, I'm the chairman and I decide what, so to speak, is what. Yes, yes, you, over there, you, you, the poor man, in the back row, let's have your tuppence worth, no, not you, the other chap, the darkie, what's your view? And make it as brief as you can, please, you're only an audience member.

What we need around here is a bit of order and so I propose that young Emily, bless her foxy heart - forty-eight's no age these days, is it? - be allowed to occupy Channel 1, hereinafter, as the lawyers say, to be called Channel Tits'n'Ass whilst I, myself, a veteran of these things, born, actually, to the role, do everything else. 

And don't forget, if you want to take part in any of my veteran hereditary programmes, you can't.

sings: See them yo-yos, that's the way ya do it, 
ya play yer gittar on th'Em-Tee-Vee.....

David Dimbleby there for us, quite a sweet old man, once you get to know him, not that you will, fuck me, no. 

Royal news, now and the PBC has learned that that silly cunt Charlie is off again, look you, isn't it.

The heir to the throne, an unemployed   benefits cheat, a squatter, a layabout and a tax evader,  is the scion of an immigrant  criminal family which has stolen, murdered and extorted these lands and people  for centuries;  they have never been prosecuted for any of their crimes on the basis that there is one law for us and no law for them.    

Last year, his mother, Brenda, gave the worthless slag the three highest ranks in the armed forces, she made him 
 
Field Marshal Charlie, 

 
Admiral of the Fleet Charlie 


and Air Chief Marshal Charlie. 

 No, it's right, it's what it says, there, in the autocue, I'm not taking the piss, isn't it; I'm not Andrew Neil, fucking about with that fairy Portillo, as though they were clever.

Without his make-up or wig,
a political broadcaster relaxes at his home in France.

She made him all these fucking nabobs and brasshats, did Brenda,  because of what she called his service to the military, obviously forgetting that when he was a pilot he crashed his plane and when he was a sailor he grounded his ship, HMS Bronington, it was,  ran the fucker ashore, he did, the useless fucking bastard.  
 
Stand to attention, lads, here comes HRH Jonah.

Anybody else'd a been court martialed, look you, it wasn't a fucking great battleship, just a tiny minelayer, a child could steer it, smallest thing they could give him to command and he still fucked it up, he'd a sunk a fucking rowing boat on the river, he would, good for fuck all.  And now he's admiral of the fucking fleet. Man's a cunt. Never actually been in the army, has he, but for years he fucked the arse off a Colonel's wife so they probably think that that counts as army service.

Our Royal Correspondent Nicholas Knobcheese sucked the royal cock for us, like he does, I mean interviewed his royal highness. The interview contains flashing lights, bouncing off all the diamonds and medals and gold braid and shit.



Your Most Serene and Excellent Majesty, I cannot tell you how grateful your subjects are that you are prepared to speak to me about your latest venture to help those less fortunate than your own Exalted and Divine Holiness, - ie everybody in the fucking country - what with me being an unworthy mortal and you  being a God Emperor, the Friend of Faith,  the Keeper of the Planetary Good and of course, the baker of some most excellent biscuits. 


Yes, one is rather, isn't one, 
all of those things.
Not bad from one's, one must say, humble beginnings.  Started out without a penny of one's  own, doncha know but soon managed to amass a substantial fortune.  And all without giving the appearance of doing anything.  Oh, one knows one worked hard at one's holidays, skiing and shooting and polo and what have you 


 

 

 
but if you asked one  how one  made one's fortune,
 one's houses,

one's lands

one's trains and boats and planes, as it were, not to mention one's fleet of environmental Bentleys and Astons

 

 

- Oh, don't worry, one doesn't drive them around the world, no, a chap in the RAF flies them around the world for one, damn decent sort, actually, no, no, he's not the same chap as squeezes one's toothpaste, no, it's quite another chap who dries one's John Thomas, as it were, after one has had a Gipsy's, what? well, fucked if one knows actually, must be scores of them, servants;  you don't expect one to do anythng that someone else might do for one, do you  -  but as one was saying, about the Bentleys and palaces and jewels,  one doesn't actually have a clue what one has done to earn them.  But what I want to say to our very many young people who are presently idle is that you don't get given anything in this life, well, one does, but you don't. 

And I do think it's time for something like national service, gives people such a sense of self-worth - those that aren't born with one - when they do something without financial reward or incentive, not that one, personally, would ever do such a thing, of course.  Just not bred for it.  What's that saying, no pain for you, no gain for me?

Quite right, Sir, your Worship.

Her Majesty the Duchess? She's quite well, thank you, looking forward to being your Queen.  What's that?  No. I never said she wouldn't be Queen,  you must be mistaken. Of course she'll be Queen.  I'll be King. And she'll be Queen.  Dirty old slag? What's that got to do with it?


We are a fairy tale;
 keep on giving us fairy tale money 


Your Holiness, I am so touched that you have spoken to me. I wonder if there is any possibility that I might, just for a few minutes, lick your arse. Again.  I'll pay anything you ask.

And now back to  Huw, in the studio.

Huw Welshman, stood behind his desk,
 shaking his hips, singing:

- ......look at them yo-yos, that's the way you do it, lemme tellya, buddy,  them guys ain't dumb, maybe get a blister on your finger, maybe get a blister on your thumb......we gotta in-stall microwave ovens, custom kitchen delivery-ee-ee-eez, we gotta move these ruhfridger-ay-tors, we gotta move these colour teevees, yeah,  bom-bom-bo-bo-bo-bom-bo-bo-bom-bom."

That was Nick, there for us, at the palace.  He's a very sick man, y'know, must be something he eats.

And now I'm joined in the six o clock news studio by a very big star, who's gonna help me out. Some people say that even though the competition is fierce he's the most obnoxious human being in showbusiness, on Earth, some have even joked.  In history.  Anyway, he sang the high bits on the original recording of Money For Nothing, which is our theme tune tonight, wossat???  sorry, viewers, there's a voice in my earpiece, drive you fucking mad, it would, look you,  fa-what?  Falsetto?  I'm told it's called falsetto, the high bits.  Anyway may I ask you at home to put your hands together for our super-talented guest tonight, formerly of the Police, it's the man himself - String. 

Ah-one-two-three-four...

(in very high or  falsetto , Geordie voice)
 I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV



(in ordinary, Taffy voice)
See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup
Yeah buddy thats his own hair
That little faggot got his own jet airplane
That little faggot hes a millionaire
We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchen deliveree-ee-ee-eez
We gotta move these refridg-er-aytors
We gotta move these colour teevees.

That aint workin', thats the way you do it
Get your money for nothin', get your chicks for free.
 
 
 I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV

performance continues all night over on PBC4
or press the red button.

It's time for the weather, now, with Jayne Tits.