SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND, THE RETURN OF MR SNOT.

MAD YOUNG  PARENT AND  DRUGGED-UP NUTTER

JOINS THE INDEPENDENCE DEBATE.

He's learned how to march but to his own tune,

 he is acting outwith the Better Together Campaign,

 

 No, piss off, Darling,  or ye'll get a Nokiaphone in the heid.

I am perfectly capable of fucking this up myself.

 just as he always has,  Gordon knows best;  if he saved the financial world - by privatisng its profits and nationalising  its losses -  why, he can easily save the Union.  He thinks he's aping the oratorical style of Mr Nick I-agree-with-Nick Clegg, who wanders around the stage asking himself questions such as 

 

Does this mean I am a liar,

No, of course it doesn't,  even though patently I am, and so on...

 CallHimDave, the unelected prime minister, spiv, cheat and nincompoop  has also taken to bestriding the stage, only not like a Colossus, more like a gibbon in a suit;  it is, in short, the new style of bullshit al le Bretagne, they all do it and we can bet that if he could be hooked-up to a portable autocue,  Uncle Sam's  Commander in Chief would similarly address his fellow  motherfuckers.  Gordon though, as you would expect, can't carry it off,  the casual, just-having-a-chat-with-you-approach,

One nation, Scotland and England, under me.

no, he marches, as though he has metronome psychosis, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like one of those Greek ceremonial guards, flinging each  leg in the air and swivelling, just-so, after just-so-many paces and returning across the stage. march, march, march.  You'd have a wee bIt more respect for him if he just stood at a lectern, and clawed it to bits.

Set yer moral compasS, Scotland. 

It's my way or the highway.

 Look, there's no snot on this tie, not yet.

NEGLECT IN THE COMMUNITY.

 I have tae go, the noo, it's time fer ma medi-cay-shuns.

(sings) So ye'll tak' the highroad and Ah'll tak the lowroad

An' Ah'll be in the loonybin afore ye.

  He has been schooled, obviously, in his new, Trust-me-I-can-walk style of haranguing people.  But it's the same old shit,  he no longer has a despatch box so, with his nailbitten Claws of Doom, he slaps the air itself, chopping downwards as though striking Tony Blair's Adam's Apple, he still does that thing with his jaw, his infamous, feverish drywank jawdrop and he still over-articulates his words in the ghastly, showy way he always has - dee-vohl-you-shun;  he still admonishes and harangues, he is still as mad as a fucking hatter, didactic I-Know-Bestism, ranting, growling, bullying and bad to boot. 

 First the leaden, hamfisted dunderhead. Fat Al Carmichael 

 

 Och, will you just get me, 

 mincing intae Downing Street as  Scottish Seckatry.

and now Gordon Snot;  greedybastard and lying fuckpig, Alec Salmond, is surely having it his own way......

  

 Aye.

Gordon, an' wisnae he the most hated politician in living memeory?

GORDON SNOT. WILL YE NO' COME BACK AGAIN?

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WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. AFP, HE'S BACK.

"GORDON BROWN  'SEEKS LUCRATIVE SPEAKING DATES.'

(AFP) – 14 hours ago

LONDON — Former prime minister Gordon Brown is offering himself for speaking engagements at a cost of 100,000 dollars (£64,000, 78,000 euros) an hour, a magazine reported Thursday.

Brown, whose book on the global financial crisis is due out in November, has asked a London agency to look for possible engagements for him in the Middle East and Asia, the Spectator said, quoting an unnamed "impeccable" source.

The former head of the Labour party, which lost May's general election, is also said to be asking for five-star hotel accommodation, a first class plane ticket and three business class ones as part of any deal.

His wife Sarah is reportedly available to present prizes at events where he speaks for a further 20,000 dollars."

Brown said before leaving the top job in British politics that he wanted to do "something good" afterwards, indicating this could include working in the charity sector or education rather than business.

He has kept a low profile since the election defeat, writing his book at home in Scotland, but last week appeared on television appealing to Britons to donate to Pakistan's flood relief effort.

The fees reportedly being asked for by Brown are significantly lower than those thought to be commanded by his predecessor Tony Blair, one of the most popular speakers on the international circuit.

Blair said this week he would give the proceeds of his forthcoming autobiography, set to total millions of dollars, to a project helping the rehabilitation of military veterans injured in conflicts like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Much is made, currently, of children - or students -  leaving school unable to read,  write or add-up, especially add-up. So pity, then, poor Reverend and Mrs Brown, all those years ago, their eldest son and light of their sanctimonious,  hypocritical lives, Gordon, the nail-biting, snot-eating freak, despite his hothouse education, couldn't even speak. The Browns should not feel as short-changed as the senior Camerons, whose son CallHimDave, despite costing them tens of thousands of pounds a term, doesn't know what day it is,  but even so, a boy who cannae speak, surely won't do well in politics. And Gordon didn't;  he did well in the Gang of Four which hijacked the labour movement and dressed it in a pinstripe suit, but even in that, left to his own devices, his gob failed him, time and again, I saved the world, that bigoted woman and so on, it was Gordon Brown's gob which visited upon us these Ambassadors from Satan's Engine Room.

From his earliest days in government, Gordon had a disagreeable manner of speaking;  legitimate parliamentary questions, from all sides - people scrutinising the Executive, as they then sometimes did -  were met with fevered bombast and bullying, clunking, inelegant, stagey sarcasm, coarse evasion, to me he was always an unconvincing giant;  I always thought him an arsehole, even when skymadeupnewsandfilth hailed his miraculous Prudence; still, the press only prints what it's told to print and people who read Andrew Gobsley or Rupert's Barrowboy, Jeff Randall,  obviously feel well-informed, Quite so, Andrew, Couldn't have put it better myself, Jeff, apparently unmoved by the fact that both of these seers were Brown cheerleaders, once over, when it suited, and would be again, were the price right.

In his brief absence, I had forgotten quite how awful Brown was.  I hadn't forgotten his sins, his lies, his betrayals, his shiftiness, his cowardice,  his breathtaking, almost incredible incompetences, I had just forgotten how fucking awful he was as a human being, a truly ghastly, sermonising, know-it-all fuckpig. But it wasn't to last, this blessed oubliette into which I had fallen. Roaring my head off at the Jimmy Reid Funeral Jamboree, at Connolly weeping,  I found myself in a BBC interlude, plucked from the posturing mourners and watching, instead,  Gordon himself, lecturing some poor, hapless Muslims at a Glasgow charity, urging that people dig deeper for the Pakistan flood victims.  Jesus fucking Wept, the man is impossible, intolerable.  To a purpose unimaginable he was barracking those in the hall and those watching with his trademark Vaaahl-ewes speech.  If he learned his sermonising from his old man then Brown senior's congregants must have endured a lifetime of truly shitty Sundays, miserable beyond the normal, purse-lipped, tut-tutting, two-faced, penny-pinching, Godless, heathen bastard  Presbyterian  existence,  theirs must have been a weekly agony, hardly eased at all by the minidster singling-out some poor, defenceless Jezebel for shaming.

But the poor Pakistanis, twenty million of them paddling about in a sewer and their government so bent it can't organise relief, and now, as champion, they have this monster, putting people's backs up with his every bloated, phoney sentiment.  The country is better when it does as I say, he may as well have been saying; other people can do things, of course, but it is only under my direction that things are done properly, over and over and over again, only I can tell it like it is, be worthy of me; the world is better when it does as I say, only I, out of all the people, all the people in the world, have Vaaahl-ewes, share my Vaahl-ewes and I will make you fishers of men. All the world's great religions are Brown at heart; I am the right thing for the World. It was an example grotesque of mr mongoose's CNN charity.

Ninety seconds would have done it better, less is sometimes more and  - setting aside the fact that there should be a global fund and a global army of workers for such events, likely to increase, as they are  - a dignified appeal for money may well have been productive, both for the halpless millions and for Brown's partial rehabilitation, should there be such a thing on this Earth; Brown, typically, playing to an uninterested gallery, showing-off, I-Know-Besting,  made a grim feast of it, there not to relieve Pakistani suffering, but  his own.


Sixty-four grand an hour and a bung for  Sarah-George to keep her onside, seems like a lot to pay for a sermon from the UK's most hated man; he'd do better working down the Oxfam shop, for others and for himself.

SNOTTY IN RETIREMENT.

"No more than two garments in the changing room."

Hello, Gordon here, Prime Minister Emeritus,  and as I said, not for me the glittering prizes of the speaking circuit, Oh, no, not like some people I could mention. Who have NohVaaahl-ewes.  No, I always said it would be charity work for me. And here I am, my first day, volunteering in Oxfam, Kirlcaldy, or wherever the fuck this shithole is,

No, no, I'm sure it's a very nice place, full of people I put on the dole and made homeless, it was the right thing for the country. And, more than ever, they need my help and that's why I am here, sorting out the bri-nylon shirts for them, some of them, you know, they're not too bad at all, a bit smelly and sort of yellow under the armpits,   rather like a tired old government full of thieves and arseholes but, Hey, beggars can't be choosers. And that's what we are now, thanks to me, a nation of proud beggars in second-hand clothes, forced into driving little MickyMouse cars, because of the price of petrol, I don't drive, myself, being too stupid, and so the Mrs, who looks after me, dropped me off here at ten o' clock, we don't open earlier, because the old people who work here are often up all night being incontinent, or having nightmares about means-tested benefits and can only manage to totter in here at ten, and anyway, that's the time that their bus passes start working, thanks, I might add, to me, eleven million pensioners lifted in to poverty, meanest pension in Europe, that's what we can do, together, as Labour, Och, would you listen to me, sounding-off like I was still prime minister. Which, of course, I am.  But nobody is to know, until I have helped Mr CallMeDave and Mr IAgreeWithHim sort out this pickle they've got themselves into, with the NoMoney business, Don't know what they're complaining about. When I took office on that bright, glorious May morning in nineteen-ninety-seven, there was plenty of money, burnt a treat, it did. And anyway, they can always get Mr King to print them some more.

 There's quite a lot of stock, here, it's almost as if it was worthless, like the government bonds, and the pound; there's these things, here, piles of them, all folded-up by the volunteers, hankies, they're called, can't imagine what they're for, one of the  nutter volunteers - they've all been out in the Sun too long, you know, apart from me, or else they've missed their medication, which is someting they shouldn't do -  said they were for blowing your nose into but I can't see the point of that, why would you do that when there's so much hunger in the world, best to just eat those bogies right up and afterwards wipe your fingers on your tie, like  I do. It's the right thing for the country. And the world. Which I saved. And don't you forget it. Talking of which, I phoned my friend President Obama, the other night, to offer him some advice on the global situation but it must have been a crossed line because all I could hear was some rather unpleasant coloured people,laughing and swearing at me. I must get my new government to look into these communications difficulties. Only not Mr Blunkett, the blind bastard. Or Mr Reid. Maybe my old friend Peter Mandelson, he's very good at communications.

Well, there's some Danielle Steele books just come in and some Wilbur Smith, too, so I'd better go and dust them off, put those sticky wee price labels on them  - although I do think two pounds ninety-nine is a bit stiff, even if the money does go to tne savages  out in Africa  -   and put them over here with the James Galway cassettes and the pink bedside lamps, funny how one generations's sought-after and hard-won belongings are so swiftly revealed as worthless trash but still, that's the miracle of economic growth, or Boom, which I invented and Bust which is nothing to do with me. Look around, if only there was a poet, here, like my former young friend, stanislav, how he might mock these greasy Brevill sandwichmakers, these made-in-Taiwan brass plaques  and magazine racks, displaying Constable's England, blurred wee prints of Mr Breughel's Hunters In The Snow, once delighted-in, now discarded,  like a reviled and useless prime minister. It's one of the great strengths of the family, you know, of which I have a young one, that when parents die the children can't even be arsed to look at their parents' treasures but just fuck them all off down the charity shop, quick, so they can get the house sold-off, before Mr Osborne wants a chunk of it. The embellishments of family life, ghastly, cheap and vulgar, hastened away by grasping kin, to charity shops it's a sort of a metaphor, really, for people who aren't up to the job, and just cling on, being a nuisance. But I'm not like that, I still talk to my father, John, up in Heaven, he made me what I am, I owe it all to him; well, I owe quite a lot to you, too. But you've no chance.

I think I'll like working in Oxfam, I've already made some new friends 

 My new Cabinet at a working lunch. I was in charge.

and they all do exactly as I tell them to. It's an onerous responsibility on me, me being barking mad and a criminal lunatic but I had a wee fish supper with the manager  the other night and he said that after he'd had a good go at being in charge and  when the place was about to go bust then I could be in charge. But to start off I'd better just come in two half-days a week. Taking things easy, that's the thing for old people like me, with a young family. Divorce, what, me and Sarah-George, no, well, she hasn't mentioned it to me, anyway.

Well, I must rush, I'll just go and Hoover round those people, the ones trying to look at the books. Best to let them know who's Boss of this charity shop. (Me.)

And then I'll go home and have a wee sit-down, and hold my willy, for a few years.

THE OBITUARY PAGE: A POX ON HIM.

 Gordon the Ruiner, Field Marshal Snot has gone, punished only mildly, hardly at all, by rejection,  and was last seen hectoring his mindless constituents with leaden self-deprecation, I should study communication, hohoho, I should have studied management, gurgle-gurgle, the horrible fucking bastard, implying that his unpopularity was due to his lack of superficiality, that he was too good, too noble, too serious to be popular with the tawdry, ordinary, bigoted people; a hot-housed freak-pupil, a son of the fucking manse, as though either should endear him to normal people, his human decency corroded by family ambition, personal conceit, villainous dishonesty and staggering incompetence.

He was   a thoroughly nasty bully; Scotland, best part of England,  is, unfortunately, full of them, I-Know-Best Elders, yes, Elders of the Church of fucking Scotland, brooding malevolently over Humanity's shameful Earthly pleasures, plotting their restriction; Brown a sour,  judgemental hypocrite,  an unforgiving, two-faced, Godless heathen bastard Presbyterian  arsehole, entirely without vaah-lewes, save self-advantage, a moral compass pointing only to shitty soundbites, Brown, like some graveside clergyperson, quick and eager to capitalise on  the tragedy of others and to glean from it personal status, to shake hands, for the cameras, with Life's mourners, rubber-stamping Sorrow for electoral advantage;  I have to write those Commander-In-Chief letters, he gurned, to those bereaved by Labour's Wars4Bush;   unctious and hypocritical, like a Belfast undertaker.

He was a worthless coward, hiding in the toilet, biting his nails and picking his nose, whilst others made the wrong decisions;  like Straw the Torturer, Ainsworth the Useless Prat and other NewLabour filth; Brown was never to be seen when brave counsel was required,  instead, imagining himself some Christian Democrat Alexander the Great, waiting in the wings;  the Middle East is ablaze due to his hiding away, his  being in hock to Israeli-British funders - did he ever repay that dodgy Abrahams' money -   his was a  failure to speak out, his was a wish only to subsequently posture as the bold, Thatcheresque, Rejoicing war leader, the stuttering, snot-eating poltroon.

That he was incompetent as chancellor and premier and that he will be  judged more liable for Labour's Reign of Ruin than will the grotesque, grinning slags, Tony and Imelda Blair, is entirely unjust but entirely fitting and serves him right;  Brown, always happy to blame someone else, blamed, himself, for the vain, greedy sins of others.

From the moment of his entry to parliament he was a bombastic bully, fevered, paranoid and ruthless. Those ghastly metropolitans who now say he is charming and good company would  doubtless, had they been in his circle, have said the same thing about Hitler - it was the Berlin middle class, wasn't it, attuned to the string quartet in the salon, which ignored, in the street, the broken glass and  birthing cries of the Holocaust and ushered-in global mayhem. Fuck them and their Nice Guy Really, Once You Get To Know Him shit. He was a bully, first, last and always; a coward, a snitch, a blackmailer surrounded by blackmailers,  a thief, a fraudster and a money-launderer.

Ah, but look how happy, how normal he is, with his children, urge skymadeupnewsandfilth, nothing became him so much....blabber the commentariat, paid to say something, anything, happy-ever-after-ing, praise-singing the collective folly of business-as-usual  as we usher out one bullying, shit-eating, untrustworty, shameless, lying, ruinous bastard,  and replace him with two more. The parliament of the long ay - ay new politics, ay new govament, ay new approach, ay fuckwit gabshitery, ay nation moralised at by Nick Clegg,  ay leader who thought the OA pension was thirty quid a week, Jesus fucking wept. I'm ay little teapot, short and fucking stout, nursery rhyme politics.

For this is Brown's most stunning and apocalyptic  failure - that a large part of the nation now optimistically hosannahs the disgusting ignoramus,  Clegg and the airhead wannabee, Cameron, is prepared to listen to their reformist doggerel - ears plugged, simultaneously, to the sound of knives and hatchets and chainsaws being sharpened - and is willing this coalition of the  privileged to succeed in destroying our standards of living, out terms and conditions, delights at the prospect of  the abandoned elderly and at the persecution of the impotent poor and relishes the years ahead of penury, want and anxiety, as though they were an invigorating dose of salts;  this, a nation revolted, biting itself, this, far beyond his fellating the Red Braces, his burning all the money, this, this  stampede towards Ruin, privatised, slashed and burned and freshly platitudinised,  this  is Brown's awful, abiding legacy. A pox on him, he's due one.

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

In the film, 2001, A Space Odyssey, the hero, or the cipher or the character or whatever the fuck he is,  winds up at the other side of Nowhere, in  Everywhere and Everywhen,  spun across creation and time,  as though, tripped-out on StarGate voyaging, he  is sleep-walking into a heavy-breathing revelation of The Meaning of Life, albeit  in a claustrophobic construct resembling a windowless Life on Earth. This set looks like real life, with  real furniture, Louis Quinze Futuriste, it has tins and packets of food but they're not food as he knows it, just fucking goo;   the books are just covers, with nothing in them, it's like someone has attempted replication of  his EarthLife but only superficially; incongruously,  his space capsule sits on the tiled floor and he can't make head nor tail of what's going on,  as he observes himself grown older, sadder, dying. It is for my money, whilst notable for its technical, cinematic artistry,  a miserable and confusing film, anti-human and anti-life, it reminds me of the current election process, which  looks like an election on the surface but is really something else.

What is going on here, Gordon Snot, looking like a condemned man, wandering hopelessly around schools and supermarkets, accosting children and shoppers with repeated embarrassing inanities, smiling his sepulchre smile, wanly affirming his imagined role as pater familias not only to his own poor, bathing and squabbling children but to the nation? You're eight ? That's a good age. And you want to be a footballer?  That's why we are making money available for Sport. It's great to meet you. Do you have grandchildren? We are doing a lot for grandchildren.  You know, the Tories will put them down the mines. Aren't these shops great?  Such a range of products. I'm a parent myself. It's great to meet you. Hello, how old are you? That's a great age.........

Snotty's Man o' The People canvassing is stomach-churningly embarrassing, his cruel exposure by the gobby, overpaid, smarmy fuckwit, Jeremy Vine,  a low-water mark in public humiliation, from which a decent nation would have recoiled, its prime minister being treated the way those bold, pirouetting, fag dagos conduct their great sport, barbing, taunting, cutting, lancing, stabbing their fellow creatures to death, the disgusting fucking bastards;

Snotty stumbling around, flailing, wounded and bewildered, as shit journalists aim for their mark, picadors, toreadors, matadors, gleefully nipping in and darting out,  conjoined in cruelty. What a fucking carry on.

Aside from  Tony, Imelda, Donald and George in Shock and Awe, I don't  see snuff movies, praise God, but they can't be any worse, any more unsettling than Snotty's now ritualised self-abasement, his complicity in his own humiliation;  Prime Minister Snot, why does nobody like you?  from the oaf, Paxman, being among the milder catcalls  which Snotty tries to ignore, his PR wife looking on aghast, biting her lip. For whom is this charade noire enacted?

Sensitive souls such as myself were and remain distressed by the spread of cheap'n'nasty Cruelty TeeVee, whether it's the horrid old boot, Anne Robinson or the freaks Cowell or Morgan or the, whataretheycalled, housemates on BigBrother doesn't matter; people queue up to be nasty about others' homes, dinners,  even, in a particularly grotesque show, their business proposals, the screeching fag, Ramsey, hurtles around the world, highlighted and Botoxed, to shout at witless cooks and the cooks, the cooks are everywhere, piling up ever more bizarre, arsehole-scorching inventions for the delectation of sourfaced cookery writers, dickheads and slags;   these greedy bastards pollute, corrupt and deprave  the national discourse, any wonder that we are plagued by cruel, homicidal, knife-wielding, granny-raping, vagrant-burning little bastards, any wonder that over-stretched teachers are set up for humiliation by their pupils when, as a nation, we pay Jonafun Woss millions of pounds to do the same fing to old age pensioners, guests and audience alike, go on, Mrs, do you, you know, take it up the arse? Any wonder that, morally decrepit, we now applaud every insult hurled at our prime minister - and thus, ourselves.

No good, infantile, to blame Snotty for his predicament, for our own inhumanity to him;  time after time people lament his clodhopping, his bullying, his  Stalinist mentality, as though there was a better way than his.  And now they join in the bear-baiting as though two wrongs make a right,

as though shockingly bad behaviour by skymadeupnewsandfilth and its braying audience was not only justifiable but healing, as if this bitter bloodletting would heal the wounds of Iraq, ease the ligature of civil rights denied, amend and redress the plundering parliament and properly judge and punish the rapine,  the banditry of the criminal merchant banker, the jumped-up, Thatcherite barrowboy.

Unlike the professional commentariat, which hailed his Ironness, his Prudence, for a decade, only changing tack when the shit hit the City fan, I have damned Brown's incompetence, his bullying and his downright obsessive, compulsive I-Know-Best nastiness since his entry to parliament and his preferment under Kinnock and Smith, I have mocked and lampooned him before a wider audience than assembles  here, in Ishmaelia . It is not his hurt, as such, which alarms and depresses me, just the national lack of empathy as though bullying the bully made everything OK; it doesn't, nor does it substitute for proper scrutiny of his equally ghastly opponents.

Snotty  and the rest, on all sides, in my judgement,  should be in jail  for theft and deception, for blackmail, money laundering, treason and crimes against humanity but not for an unguarded aside which any of us, baited and cajoled, tired and anxious, might have made. The fervour with which the Sun-reading nation has damned'  Snotty's language,  the alacrity with which filth like Trevor Kavanagh - shit-eating political editor of the non tax-paying Murdoch titrag -  successfully dragoon  it to reinforce Mr Cameron's tatty, Blairite banner reflect a crudity, a harshness more Nazi-German demagoguery than British democracy.

Maybe,  as Ms Lilith notes elsewhere, Nanny Duffy reminds the nation of its grandma; an orphan in grandparent terms, I wouldn't know.  Maybe this brutality  masks a  chivalric outrage, a Mohammedan concern for the widow and orphan but maybe it doesn't  and the Sun nation sits back in its armchair growling, Bigot? He didn't say Bigot, did he, not the bigot word?  He said Bigot? And to that sweet old lady? Fuck me, we can't have people walking about saying the bigot word in their cars. How we gonna keep the Pakis out,  if everybody's saying fucking bigot? That bloke, Clegg, of the Wotsits, he wouldn't say Bigot, would he, he's married to one of 'em. Cameron, is his Mrs a nig-nog, too?  Doesn't matter, he wouldn't give offence to a proper English person, now, would he? That Brown, he's a bleedin' foreigner, if I'm not mistaken, innee, how dare he call that sweet old lady a bigot, when he's a wog 'imself, like?


Maybe it is just that, after all, after the Miracles of NoMoreBoomAndBust and its attendant national bankruptcy, of EducationEducationEducation and its wastepaper A- levels and  bogroll degrees, after the deathcamp hospitals, the lavishly overpaid laziness and incompetence of our GPs, the PFI insanity of  Our NHS and after  Baghdad, Fallujah, Guantanamo, of Stockwell Underground Station and The Lonesome Death of David Kelly, after the full and wide-ranging cover-ups, Hutton and Butler and now this useless, twittering   buffoon,  Chilcott  and after the obscenity of Tony and Imelda,  whoring their way around the world, hoovering-up his Iraq bribes, after all that - and the rest - maybe Cruelty TeeVee, the modern Colliseum Games,  is all that people want to watch; maybe  Snotty's public emotional dismemberment, his protracted evisceration by semi-literate, gabshite  Lobby jackals like Andrew Rawnsley and his abandonment by the thieving charity bandits at the Guardian is the true post-showbiz entertainment of the times; if it is, we are in worse, more Ruinous trouble than we had imagined,  our times miserable and confusing, anti-human and anti-life. It looks like an election, on the surface but it's actually an exercise in Swingometer sadism,  ringmastered by  those in skymadeupnewsandfilth, who, as deeply, as equally immersed in shit as Politics plc, brought us here.

SNOTTY: I AM MORTIFIED. I WOULD NEVER INSULT THE STUPID OLD BITCH IN PUBLIC

PRIME MINISTER MORTIFIED

I AM A PENITENT SNOT-EATING SINNER.

VOTE FOR ME. 

IT IS THE RIGHT THING FOR THE UNDEAD.

I MEAN THE COUNTRY.

skymadeupnewsandfilths's Jayne Tits said that they would always try to bug people's private remarks and conversatiions and hold their lives up to a scrutiny which so-called journalists - shit-eating drunken scavengers and bullies - could never tolerate.  It is what Mr Murdoch wants us to do for him; stay tuned, we're back after the break with Jeff Barrowboy and why the rich are so entitled to all your money. 

I'M YOUR MAN.

 WE THREE KINGS.

 Cleggie is on air-guitar, bless.

 They all do this shit with their hands, chopping, framing, emphasising but Gordon Snot's clunking, snot-stained, nail-bitten fist of Doom and Ruin does something else.  In Tonight With Adam Lard (Mr Anji Hunter) side shots of Snotty revealed his right arm repeatedly punching forward, in vicious jabs, as though he was  beating a defenceless, restrained  man in the kidneys;  he really is a horrible fucking bastard, a bully, a coward; a lonely, fucked-up, desperate wanker.

ON THE LEVEL, WITH WORSHIPFUL MASTER SNOT

OUTGOING PM SNOT TO PARDON CRIMINALS

In a controversial move, outgoing English premier, Gordon Snot, is set to pardon large numbers of serial criminals when he leaves office shortly. But not shortly enough.

" EVERYBODY'S INNOCENT.
ESPECIALLY ME."

It is in the finest traditions of the White House, which I have been proud to occupy these last thirteen years, that I controversially pardon anyone who has the dirt on me,  proclaimed the babbling lunatic in his traditional Easter address.

Now is not the time for blame, fuck me, no.  Instead we must rebuild the nation's faith by letting everybody off Scot-free, otherwise the jails would be bursting with perfectly innocent warmongers, money-launderers, pedarasts, drug addicts, blackmailers and  embezzlers, indeed, the whole of the house of commons, the media, business and the church would be behind bars. And who would run the country then?

on y soit qui mal y pense

trans: nobody gets any jail time, nobody.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, DON'T MENTION THE WAR.

Army faces Afghan gag for election

The Ministry of Defence has been accused of ordering a “truth blackout” over the war in Afghanistan amid warnings it is attempting to “bury bad news” during the election campaign.

FROM THE DAILY FILTH-O-GRAPH MAY 7th 2010


Speaking to the Daily Filth-o-Graph, the prime minister, Field Marshal Snot, said that during the upcoming election of himself as life prime minister there would be no news coverage of the war in Afghanistan or Somewhere in Asia as it will be known henceforth.

We are not at war, said Snotty, I simply don't accept that. We have no troops deployed and even if we have it is the right thing for the country not to talk about them, even though there aren't any and if we had have been at war I would definitely not have refused the troops any requsts for extra corned beef but would have given them due consideration within the constraints of the budget which is the right thing for the country.

In the war, continued the horrible fucking bastard, which is not happening in the run-up to my election, reporters formerly embedded with the troops will be thrown out of bed, apart from foreign reporters who will not be covering my re-election; they can stay in bed with the troops, which is where I wouldn't mind being, if only I wasn't so busy running the country and the war, which is not happening and therefore mustn't be reported. The war was started at the right time, it was the right decision, for the right reasons and it never happened and certainly is not happeneing now, not until I am re-elected prime minister, which I haven't been in the first place but it doesn't matter because it is the right thing for the country. Like not having a war somewhere else so's the terrorists can shoot British soldiers on their home turf thus saving them the airfares from Somewhere in Asia to London Heathrow which can be quite expensive and is another way in which I am relieving debt in poor countries along with my good friend Lord Geldof of the Boomtown Shits and his lovely wife, Paula, although I prefer the Antique Monkeys, myself. It is only by not having a war in somewhere else that we can keep terrorism off the streets of England and get me re-elected.



Field Marshal Snot at the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, perorming the old Scottish air, There Ain't Nothing Like A Gangbang to Blow Away The Blues, D'ye ken?

It's not bloody fair, said Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, I mean what about my career as a pundit? I could be on WarTime with skymadeupnewsandfilth morning, noon and bloody night, earning a packet, a general's pension is peanuts, y'know, I could be explaining the long-term strategy to all the unemployed, retired and Alzheimeric skyviewers, not that there is one of course and even if there was I wouldn't have a fucking clue what it was, no more'n the fucking prime minister, Snotty, what a fucking tosser, eh, wastea fucking rations, if he was in my regiment he'd go up against the wall, motherfucker.
That Kay Fright, though, wouldn't mind her giving me a good batman's spanking, what? Sassy minx.

DUMB ANIMAL

THE CHANCELLOR ON BULLYING

"And then they poked sharp sticks in. And smoke, too, they tried that. It was like the fires of fucking Hell, in here. And dogs. Little McBrides they were, nasty little bastards But they can't get rid of me that easily. And I'm still here and the McBrides are not so that shows who's who and what's what, even if it doesn't get any of the money back."

The Badger-Keeper, Mr Incapability Brown, said sometimes he had to be cruel to be cruel.

Mr Brown highlighted the long service and "huge loyalty" of his animals, saying many had been with him for nearly 20 years.

"There's a huge loyalty in my animals and I am very sorry for them that they have been put through these allegations because we work together as a team," he said, " I beat them and they do as I say. That's real teamwork."

"I don't say it is not a difficult environment because you are challenged every day to make a decision." switching from first to second person as politicians now do, when they are discussing unpleasant things, as in, well, you just have to go to war, don't you?.

Mr Brown was asked whether, given his denials of bullying, he was prepared to take legal action against Andrew Rawnsley, the smug, gobby hack whose new book has sparked the furore over his alleged treatment of animals at Number 10.

"You could, you could, but you could spend all your time with legal actions," Mr Brown replied, meaning I could.

Asked if animal cruelty would leave a "stain on his character", Mr Brown replied: "I don't think it will, because I have answered the questions and I am saying, look, I do get impatient, sometimes you get angry, sometimes you have to do things that are very, very challenging. But at the end of the day they are only animals and you're the cleverest, no, I mean I'm the cleverest boy in the school. And anyway, stain on my character? You must be fucking joking"

But the thing is that you have got to get things done and you are pushing the animals all the time.

"We have had a recession and there are many people in jobs, many people who are still in their homes, many businesses that are still going because we had to beat the animals, yes, and kick them, too, we had to intervene and take the action."

The RSPCA has said that it thinks this Badger-baiting is among the worst cases of animal cruelty it has ever seen and Mr Incapability Brown should be banned from keeping animals or being in public office for life.

THE SUNDAY ESSAY. METAPHOR AND REALITY

Col. von Fawkes of the Israeli propaganda unit, relaxing.

Metaphor & Reality

The bankers’ blogger, Guido Fawkes, probably doesn’t relax like this but he irritated someone and they put this together and there it is, the cyber biter, cyberbit. That’s what happens. Out there. Metaphor or simile - judiciously stoked, they run and run and run.

     The Colonel denies ever launching the rumour of there being pictures extant of Gordon Brown in a nappy, on a rocking horse, daubed in shit, sucking a dummy; any number of frantic, deranged parasexual conditions, positions and costumes were said to be captured on film and used as leverage against the then chancellor as he busily burnt all the money in a furnace below Downing Street. But somebody started it and enough people believed it, wanted to believe it, that Google has one hundred and twenty four million pages of Gordon Brown Rocking Horse Nappy. It doesn’t matter if it’s real, as long as people believe it.                                             

                                                                       

These things take off. As stanislav, a young polish plumber, this writer launched the delightful confection, among others, that Ms Jacqui Smith’s previous career had been as a cookery teacher in Burglarsville High School, Redditch, and it runs to this day, the most inept and mediocre home secretary in history is, in the minds of many, always a jumped-up cookery teacher - and isn’t it the case that, what with the hubbyporn and the bathplug and squatting in sister’s broom cupboard, Schmidt acted in just the way you’d expect of a greedy, belligerent cookery teacher propelled into wholly unsuitably high office? The reality, in Schmidt’s case, has outrun the metaphor. Jacqui Smith; you couldn’t make her up, her taxpayer-salaried husband-assistant writing, under a nom de plume, to the local paper, praising the local MP, pretending she wasn’t his Mrs, that he was just a regular guy, spontaneously commending his elected representative. Since I was paying him, not the Labour party, that - the crass, cynical, illicit propagandising - for me, was the graver SchmidtSin, and in a proper country he’d go to jail.

     People may have believed the cookery teacher spoof, they may equally have believed my satirical suggestion that “Sir” Michael White, surely the most obnoxious Guardian hack ever, carried kneepads, the more conveniently that he might fellate Labour government ministers. Michael Kneepads White, Toilets Maguire, Ruth Man Kelly, the PBC’s grunting, hunchback, transsexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, Jack Torture, The Nutter With The Stutter, the individuals who inspired these caricatures brought them to life. I hope that someday, twenty years hence, someone accosts the forgotten Jacqui Schmidt with the words “wasn’t you that cookery teacher, fucked up as ome seckatry?”

 The way these caricatures ran and ran was not evidence of widespread cyber-gullibility but of a wish to label, announce, proclaim, define by suffix, prefix or substitution that something was very rotten in what von Fawkes usefully described as the media-political nexus. These terminologies provided a lingua franca shorthand of Dissent. And they run and run, McRuin, McBroon, Snotty, Mandelbum; one, Hoon, an utter fucking waster, has seen his name become an alternate form of Cunt.

     But however much we vilified his partners in crime, Brown remained the grand, nose-picking enigma, imagined frenziedly masturbating as he fled from crises and responsibilities, disappearing like McCavity. Questions were asked, claims made, theses written predicating that Gordon Brown was a bondage freak, a nonce, mentally ill. Fawkes’s “prime mentalist” (a coinage that enraged those hustling a crust in NutScape or whatever they call the mental illness charity business while delighting many less correct souls) was an infantilised snot-eater, medicated, disordered, bad-tempered and violent, stuttering, gibbering and gulping, ascribed the usual characteristics of politicians everywhere - greedy, untrustworthy, larcenous, hypocritical, inebriated and degenerate, good,  as we say, for fuck-all; the face of the modern career politician,  for sure, but something else, too, something beyond.

 Even the French or Russian Revolutions, as far as I know, offer no equivalent to the sheer volume of heartfelt hatred which our cyber-literate dissenters have blogged, texted and twittered about Gordon Brown. Few parallels exist to the raging cataracts of criticism so luxuriantly, explicitly descriptive of his imagined private sexual identity; “gurning, pouting, shit-eating, cock-sucking, one-eyed, arse-bandit” doesn’t begin to do justice to the rich catalogue of names which Brown has been called. What is it about this man that attracts such speculation?

    That the cruellest lampooning of Brown resides almost solely in terms of sexual perversion voices a tenor of insult unique to him; the revulsion which people feel for and express about him would lay low any normal young parent, such as he risibly claims to be, yet nothing dents his Messianic belief in his exclusive, even Divine right to lead us all into Ruin. Any normal person, so castigated, would say the fuck with this shit and go and do something else, but my experience of people like Brown is that they keep secrets even from themselves and most of the time he doesn’t even know how inexplicably loathed and detested he is; he gladhands with his fellow Euroleaders and, we must assume, thinks that to those who matter, he matters. Brown’s is a deep and strange madness and  I venture that no understanding of what makes Brown tick - or tic - no comprehension of the scale of his folie de grandeur is possible this side of autopsy.

     Why is this? What is it about Brown that he can mince around the capitals of the world, ludicrous and jeerworthy, as though he heralded, or was, the Second Coming, while at home he is hated in strange, suspicious and frightening bogeyman ways? No prime minister in living memory has been so traduced. Alien visitors would surely contend that no one so ferociously and consistently abused from all sides could reasonably be entrusted with serious responsibility; that he should, in charity and decency and mercy, be taken to a place of soundproofed safety. Instead, Piers The Smirking Prat waltzes Brown across a grim, self-exculpatory floor and back again, grinning, to a national tumult of derision and catcall.

     Overseas readers may be unaware that in Ruinous UK, Daytime TV is partially dominated by ghastly barrages of self-revelation and irresponsibility from John Prescott’s Underclass, their shortcomings as couples, parents and siblings being ruthlessly condemned by worthless prick presenters; it is cheap and revolting  television, its depths commanded by a vicious, snarling boy reporter called Jeremy Kyle; Brown’s DeadBaby shit and his Oh-Fuck-Me-I-Was-Injured-But-Carried-On-Courageously rubbish was crafted by him and Piers to excite such an audience, in the vain wish that, identifying with his vacuous soap opera grievance, it might vote for him. Vote for Snotty, He Even Left His Breeding Ruinously Late. He’s A Tosser Like You. A member of Ruin’s rank and vile.

 Allegations and complaints have been made, historically, of incompetence, greed, venality, drunkenness, extremism, unsuitability. No one in modern British politics has ever been so reviled as Gordon Brown, and this national beasting of the prime minister is not consequent upon the financial Ruin which he has so assiduously nurtured over a decade and seen recently triumphant; no, he was detested, viscerally, long before his talents delivered rotten fruit, certainly in my case, and I know in others, too. It goes back to his emergence as Smarmy John Smith’s Shadow Bogus-Tractor-Statistics Spokesman and heir apparent. Brown has always looked like a wrongun, a freak, a bully, a frantic wanker; a creepy fucking  bastard.

     

He is awkward, seems hardly able to walk in a straight line, jerks and spasms and twitches, stutters and splutters and gulps, and that thing, the jaw thing, the dry-wank jaw drop, the obsessive squaring of the papers, the nail-bitten Claw of Doom flagellating, with manic purpose, the despatch box or lectern, the blitzkrieg of phony statistics, the wrong-time-wrong-place Death’s Head grimace; these, individually, or even in small handfuls, do not themselves illustrate  lunacy, a rank and putrid soul far gone in rottenness, but all together, in this ballooning, shifty carcass, I think they do. He looks as though his sins were fighting their way out into daylight, as though, inside his wretched, obnoxious, wriggling skin, sound Mayhem’s alarm bells.

The skymadeupnewsandfilthpress of Murdoch and McKenzie and Toilets Maguire is ever quick to invent paedophiles requiring vigilanteism, whilst advertising, on other pages, granny fucking phonelines, teeny fellatrixes, flourescent barbed wire dildoes, semen-hungry asian babes and Jesus knows what other family-newspaper-values activities for, presumably, the determinedly masturbating family. Show them a story, however, of PaedoSheriff&Advocate, a properly bent Scottish firm of lawyers and fuck me, most will run a mile. The Herald and the Scotsman busy, daily, analysing the minutiae of Scottishness under Salmond's blustering Tribesmen or JockLabour's shifty thugs are both too self-important to expose Establishment noncing. You could light up the night sky with a bonfire made from editorials in the Glasgow Herald or the Scotsman damning Noncery, generally, and yet a scandal so gross, so vile, a cover-up so brazen, so intricate; a catalogue of offence so foul that it should bring down the governments North and South goes unremarked in the press, here, in smart successful Scotland, home of the Enlightenment.

The piety of Victorian Britain, of course, concealed a putrid trade in child prostitution, whether for the presumed sport of deflowering, as they called their rapes, a young virgin or from a wish to engage in the brutality to which Power ultimately becomes slave, the trade in children for abuse was rife. Now, however, we expect better, we expect the powerful to protect the weak. You must be hollowly fucking joking.

We should remember that despite pleas from the families of the massacred children, for their release, the papers on the Dunblane atrocity have been sealed for seventy-five years. That's seventy five years, who, pray, is that protecting, if not the great and the good? The web howls and screeches with conspiracy theories about Dunblane, as it does in relation to three Jock Law Lords' conviction of Mr al Magrahi for the Lockerbie bombing, the closest observers of Lockerbie, including bereaved father, Jim Swire, insisting steadfastly that Mr al Magrahi was framed by Jock Jurisprudence. The best in the world, they say, up here.

We have always promoted here the work of Scotland Against Crooked Lawyers, google them if you have a strong stomach and normal blood pressure, unlike many they have no agenda but justice and their back pages will offer a flavour of Scotland's unique rottenness, of the place from which Ghastly Gordon Brown derives his only phony legitimacy.

We depart here from our customary lofty laments and peruse, instead, the altogether more pragmatic remarks of Mrs Woman On A Raft, from the other day. They relate to historical events in the development of NewLabour by Mandelstein and whoever else was involved in promoting Blair over Brown. We should point out that figures mentioned as being close to Thomas Hamilton, the alleged paedophile who entered a primary school and massacred children and a teacher, were his Labour MP, George Robertson, now Lord Robertson, Michael Forsyth, Tory MP, now Lord Forsyth and the local Chief Constable.

It is claimed that many, aware of Hamilton's behaviour and of the threat he presented, opposed his being granted a gun license - in those days for handguns as well as rifles and shotguns - but were over-ruled by those in power, with drastic consequences. It is claimed that Robertson supported Hamilton's application and Robertson, almost immediately after the shootings was airlifted out of Scotland, out of England and into Brussels in the made-up job of General Secretary of NATO. Hamilton was dead, others kept schtum about their involvement and, as mentioned, the official papers relating to the events are sealed for seventy years, despite the clamouring of the bereaved for their release.

Is there a nationwide paedophile ring in Scotland, involving cops, lawyers and politicians, as there was in Northern Ireland, in Belgium, in the United States? Why are the Hamilton-Robertson papers sealed for seventy-five years ?

Anyone watching the post-Kinnock Labour Party would have judged Brown and not Blair the heavyweight. Mandelstein, with the ghastly Geoffrey Robertson, was a Brownite, to claim, as they do, that Blair was chosen because he was the more telegenic is disingenuous, Blair was, is, bug-eyed, buck-toothed and jug-eared and speaks a grating and patently dishonest tongue, nothing remotely attractive about him; now, though, that skymadeupnewsandfilth has fellated him all these years he looks marginally more acceptable, but he was never a handsome man. What happened? Why despite Blairs' leadership and huge victory was Brown always able to disobey and undermine him? Why was Blair - the butcher of Baghdad - too frit to sack grumbling, groaning Gordon, throw him out of his bunker, with all his scheming lieutenants? This is preposterous, a prime minister with three large majorities, forced out by his chancellor. What was going on here? Are we doomed never to know? Instead, to be fed tittle tattle by Sir Michael Kneepads White and Polly Last Chance Toynbee, as though we are too immature to know these things? 

Brown's body language, alone or with Sarah-George, shrieks derangement, his huddling for comfort on the Treasury bench with whoever is there is pathetic; consider his casual look, as uptight as a guilty man can look; consider how often his chosen self-description is some of form of "right"; I haven't read Rawnsley's supposed revelations because they are not revelations to me. Watching Brown as Chancellor, browbeating the commons with his tractor stats, years ago, prompted me to write "Stalin is not gay." Here, in other words, is a bent thug. Neither parliamentarian or statesman, Brown was just a punk bully from a club you wouldnwanna go in, comforted by husband and wife teams of praise singers, like Mr and Mrs Balls, neither of them parliamentarians, either, parachuted-in from Labour's undemocratic management team. To any with eyes to see Brown has ever acted like a freak, staying publicly just this side of Reason, and privately straying over into madness. Is he on pills, his weight balloons as though this fine athlete, rugby player and all around All American Boy was completely fucked, grey, paunchy, jowly, seedy, gibbering and spasming, his outside reflecting his inside.

What is it then, with Brown, which deterred him from family-making until the age when most are grandparents? What is it with Brown, which enabled the flyweight, Tone, to push him aside but which also enabled Blair's removal? What is it which sees him get up and start his dark workings at Ruin in the middle of the fucking night and then brag about it, as though he was personifying the Presbyterian work ethic of his mad father? As though, by sleeping normally, we sinned? What is it which makes the flesh creep at the sight of Brown at Auschwitz, in a school playground, at the sight of Brown, alone, signing the Lisbon Treaty, alone though surrounded, picking his nose and eating it, on the front bench of the House of Commons. What is it which makes him say with such spectacular cack-handedness "...having saved the world?"

Like the cyber metaphors, once said, Brown's assertion cannot be taken away. He thinks he saved the world. He really does. There should be no doubt that he is stark staring, gulping, gibbering mad. 

BROWN GETS A GOOD CHILCOTTING, WHAT THE PAPERS SAY IN A FORTNIGHT, THE SCOTSMAN.

Chilcott, verb and noun;

v, to be chilcotted - asked long- winded, bumbling, irrelevant questions which are easy to sideswipe, it was more of a chilcotting than an interrogation, like a swift rubdown with a feather duster, really;

noun - shit; this is a right load of chilcott, innit?

from stanislav's Great Book of Shite

FIELD MARSHAL SNOT,
LEADING FROM A LONG WAY BEHIND

If he'd been closer to me I would have taken him out with a salvo of mobile phones, like I do the typing girls, never mind what Tony Hitler, I mean Tony Blair says, about Weapons of Mass Destruction, everybody knows his country was a rusty shitbucket, good for fuck all, couldn't raise an erection, never mind an army, rather, your worships, like we are now, after my first few triumphant years; it was the cheeky fucker's refusal to do as I told him which led to my invading Iraq and deposing him, Saddam, not Tony Hitler, although I managed that a wee while later, Vote Hitler, Get Brown, that was my pledge. And the invasion was the right thing for the country, not for Iraq, mind, or for this one which I successfully lead to complete Ruin but for the great shining retirement destination of everyone in UK politics and organised crime, the United States of Murrca.

"If Saddam Hussein had signed up to international commitments to disclose everything about munitions to the international community and didn't do it and then failed to respond properly, then the United Nations itself and collective action by the world community itself was put at risk, so for me that was the issue." mumbled the snot-eating lunatic, incoherently.

" Everybody else said that we had to invade because of WMD but I was the only one to think that Saddam was very disobedient and had to go on the naughty step. And then fall through it, only the rope thoughtfully tied around his neck breaking his otherwise dangerous fall. I was always the cleverest boy in the class and only I knew what was really happening in Iraq. To invade a sovereisgn nation on the basis of what Alastair Campbell had completely made-up would be rather like me having an election to validate my prime ministership and then not having it, or giving away all the gold with free TESCO points, or wanting, rather like Mr Saddm, himself. to lock everyone up and beat them, or rather have them beaten and wired-up to the national grid by nasty nignogs because of course I am against torture even though it is the right thing for the country. It would have been entirely the wrong thing to do so that is why I did it. So there, Blair and everyone else was wrong and only I was right. Thank you, your worships, I believe I have proved my worth to the British people. Vote for me and stamp out naughtiness and inattention in class"

"Capital Punishment, yes, entirely against it, apart from when Murrca does it. Ditto with torture, kidnap, detention and, well, anything really."

"Yes, there are questions, about Mr Hoon and others who say naughty things, these are very real questions and I am very keen to make up answers to them just as soon as I have told you what they are and when to ask them, just like everyone else does here. Chilcotting, it is the right thing for the country."

"Regrets, nein, Ich haben keine regretten.....if I had to do it all over again, I would do it all over the British people. And the Iraqis and Afghanis. And Tony Hitler, of course."

sings, in doleful, brown voice: Oh I come from Alabama with a banjo on m'knee, Oh, I come from Alabama, with a banjo on my knee, O-o-o-h, Sarah-George, Oh don't you cry for me..........