LADY SINGS THE BLUES

Didden wake up dis mornin', oh yeah,

Got me dem  Dead Man Blues

I'm on my way up there to Hebben,

Gwine tell my Saviour the news,

Ain't gonna make no more blues records,

Got me dem Dead Man Blues 

Doodley-doodley-doodley-doo

Ba-bomp-bom

 Good evening, I'm Emily Stringbean,

 

 here on KiddiesNewsnight,
 with the very sad news of the untimely death of  blue musican, Mr AB King at the untimely age of a hundred and fifty.  King was known as the Father of the Blue and most of us  clever people will be steeped in his music,  believing that he personified the Blue.  Hits such as One Man's Ceiling Is Another Man's Blue  and some other ones made sure that AB King was rarely in the charts.  We are joined now from Los Angeles  by Mr Gene Psycho, formerly of the great rock band,  Piss, I mean Kiss

Mr Psycho, 
you've sold billions of records, what's your take on Blue legend AB King, who passed away today untimelyly, at a hundred and fifty? Was he the greatest guitar player in the history of music?

 Well, Kirsty,
 
 King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.

 Just imagine that.  


No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer.

How, specifically, did he influence your own art?

Well, Kirsty, 
King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones,

 no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.  
Just imagine that.  
No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer.


I get the sense that you're saying Dr King was a black man in a white man's world which was once a black man's world,  given back to him, so to speak,  by the likes of Mr Eric Wifeswapper of Cream. And heroin. And brandy. 

And Rolex. 
I mean, I understand that his collection of watches is limited to the number which Rolex give him. To underscore his Bluesness, so to speak.  He only has diamond ones, and gold ones, and ones with emeralds and rubies. That's what you call the blues.

And Ferrari. 

I read that he once had to wait six months for his latest Ferrari  to come. And it give him the blues wa-a-ay down inside, only having a half an acre of other Ferraris to play with.

Do you think, Gene Simmons, that Eric clapton will go back on heroin, now that Dr King is dead. And cocaine? And wife-swapping?

King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.

And finally, Mr Psycho, how will President Obama be taking this news, tonight, of the death of one of his house niggers?

..

Well, Kirsty, 

 King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.  Just imagine that.  No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer. A pioneer and a trailblazer.

I suppose we should be grateful that Newsnight couldn't, for this eulogy, contact the diminutive humanitarian, Mr Bono  and settled for Mr Simmons, who really is as tongue-tied and addle-pated as I portray him

When you see one of the Kirstys completely wrong-footed, as in this case, talking out of her arse abour something of which she knows less than does my little warm brown friend, Harris, it makes you wonder if the entire PBC News operation is run on a similar wing and a prayer, hoping nobody'll notice.

My own opinion is that BB King was a vastly over-rated blubber mountain, a monotonal singer,  peddling a tedious vibrato long past its shelf life and that his longevity stemmed not from any great talent or reinvention but because he was happy to play house nigger and eminence noir to all the filthy trash of rock'n'roll, even its honorary member, DroneKiller Obama. 

 I could start now and off  the top of my head, still be, next week,  naming blues players far more influential, far more talented than this bloated old fart and I think that, far moreso than Robert Johnson is rumoured to have done, all these fuckers who wind-up crooning in the White House, really have  gone down to the crossroads and sold their souls to the Devil. 

MAN DIES FROM HIMSELF. LA's CORONER TO THE STARS RULES; IF I WAS HIM I'DA TOPPED MYSELF YEARS AGO.

WE WON'T LOOK ON HIS LIKE AGAIN, WEEPS TOP ENGLISH SHOW-OFF, SIR STEPHEN FRY, NOT UNTIL THE NEXT ONE

This is the devastating news that tireless Hollywood funny man, Robin Something, finally got bored with his own act and fucked-off out of it.  And who could blame him? Who could live with that arsehole, warbling and chirping, look at me, look at me, from dawn 'til dusk?

Some of us grew bored with him half-way through Good Morning Vietnam, one of the first of his ghastly,  rushing about, pulling funny faces and doing funny voices films and never wished our interest in the horrid freak to be revived.  Rather watch Norman Wisdom, me, if I want a quick dose of the horrors.

Unfortunately, when some arsehole Hollywood junky dies, the viewing public - serves it right for watching - is subjected to a barrage of maudlin hyperbole; to tales of self-slaughtered genius misunderstood; to the deeply sincere regrets of every slag in showbusiness who ever shook the deceased's septic hand. And sure enough,  our own name-dropping junky-aristo, none less than the cock-waving  Sir Russell Brand, current swain of 

 

 Lady Forty-Something Khan; 

laird of Chipping Sodom and poor, exhausted masseusista,  did not disappoint.

The Daily JailBird, known to we ancients as the Guardian, recently printed Brandy's eulogy to Robin Something;  it was, as you'd expect, an oily, name-dropping, Look-At-Me lamentation,  Brand the iconoclast, hero-worshipping ad nauseum;  that it sat oddly with our boy's customarily espoused, Everyman egalitarianism  is unsurprising, for he is no more a socialist egalitarian revolutionary than is young parent, Lady Sir Elton John; his burnishing of the wretch, Williams', noisesome ouevre  is no more shocking and hypocritical than is his knobbing some wealthy old baggage for class kicks and calling it love.  And it wasn't entirely hero-worship, for man of the people, Russ, in illuminating Robin's tragedy, let the limelight flood his own, equally obnoxious, self-centred existence. 

Cock-waving, 
it is the very essence of my Art.

Russy, you see, darlings, had met the dear departed one, 

 

not only that but Robin had complimented Russ, presumably on  what he calls  his work, an activity  which most of us would describe as showing-off to a cretinous, uncritical public;  Robin and Russ, creative junky-brothers under the skin, both toiling thanklessly, prodded and scourged by a relentless muse, both driven, by forces unknown to the layman, to play silly buggers.  Poor Russell, for all his supposed streetsmarts, unaware that luvvies endlessly and  meaninglessly compliment everybody, Darling, you were wonderful. Oh, was I? Really? Do you really mean that? And actually, darling, so were you, and so courageous, so Out There. Anyway Russell had met the Star and the Star had recognised Russell's  fellow-genius,

 fellow selfless artistry, fellow-suffering, Christ-like,  for  his Art.  The art of showing-off.

Just like every self-obsessive, showbiz arsehole before him, Robin Something had EverythingToLiveFor, ALovingFamily and NumerousProjectsOnTheGo, he was perhaps at the Peak OfHisWotsaname, HadSoMuchMoreToGiveUs  (sell us, actually but never mind, luvvies don't do it for the money, darling) but it was just all too much and in order to punish, further,  his long-suffering wife/audience, gifted, complex, sainted genius Robin strung himself up, right where she'd find him, worthless piece of shit. 

Don't worry about the age difference, Honey,
or the size difference;
I'll be easier to cut down.

Not so much, in my view,   Good night, sweet prince and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, no, more like good riddance to bad rubbish.

Maybe it only underscores the brutality of the United States - the fact that while running an aparthied police state, murdering, raping and torturing far and wide,  her jolly and Oh, So Humourous white folks gorge themselves on the callow, infantile mewlings and pukings of the likes of Williams, comic genius and 24 carat waster, and call it Art.

By a thousand to none, caring Guardian film junkies uncritically  prostrated themselves before Russell Brand's powers of eulogy, 

 

elevating the insufferable tosser to greater heights of self importance; it was all very depressing - a dead,  sometimes-funny old junky luvvie; a live, sometimes-funny younger junky-luvvie and a brain-dead, wittering mourn-a-mob, staggering weepily between the deaths of pampered junky rubbish like Amy Winehouse, Philip Seymour Hoffman and now this jerk. 

 Rich junkies go to  showbiz Heaven, are soireed in  the White House and Downing Street, ribboned  and knighted; poor junkies, of course, go to jail and preferably to Hell.

Force-fed Tinseltown illusion, stumbling, self-blinded with phoney tears, Facebooked and Twittered to death with risible sentimentality, is it any wonder that the children of Ruin, cretinous and uncritical,  cannot grasp, cannot even clutch at an understanding of why it is that some of our less arty, less showy, less precious sons lie headless in foreign sands? Can't quite see the comic genius in that, can they, their elevation of the mawkishly worthless, nor their indifference to the monstrous cruelty which it obscures;  Hollywood, mon amour.

WHAT THE 'PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. DEAD CROW BLUES. OLD BIRD THROWN ON THE FIRE.

• 

    LADY CROW AWAITING DISPOSAL

   

  A moment of deep civility amid the bitterness

  Peter Oborne »

• The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Christopher Howse »

• Britain after Margaret Thatcher is a disunited nation

  Iain Martin »

• Will we see another winner like her? Don’t bet on it

   

  Thatcher funeral: applause came from nowhere and followed coffin

   
  Crowds broke into spontaneous applause as Margaret Thatcher's hearse came into view, drowning out the jeers from protesters on the route to St Paul's, writes Michael Deacon.
  

  The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Thatcher funeral: as it happened

  Granddaughter says public speaking is "in the blood"

  Powerful images from funeral  

   

  Despite all this nauseating tripe from Redneck Central, the Filth-O-Graph is still not accepting comments on anything to do with Thatcher.  Obviously those great democrats, the Barclay ZombieTwins believe that their opinion, filtered through such cheap  lickspittles as now edit the shitrag, is all that needs to be said, pack of cheesy lies or not.  They do not own a dying newspaper, after all, to give a flying fuck about what their - albeit non-paying - readers think

  
  

   Daily, ancient, redblooded, well, perhaps a bit anaemic ex-pats, living in Spain or Florida, with sunny erectile disfunction and varicose veins,  flood the Filth-O's comments section with praise for the grubby old git, Tebbit,  or with damnation for lone parents or wogs and the BBC but since the terrible passing of the old crow, now, thankfully, ashes and cinders, like most of the country she so stridently and impertinently fucked-up,  all comment portals are closed, slammed shut, in fact.

  
  

  Might it be that even your whoreson redneck doesn't quite support the adoration of the Maggie, which has so dominated  and colonised the 'papers and  skymadeupnewsandfilth and most notably, the BBC?

  
  

  I suggest this for two reasons.  Firstly, if, as is claimed, only a few feeble-minded nutter anarchists, such as your correspondent, question the mythologising of old Mrs Crow, then surely the Filth-0-Graph would be delighted to publish thousands of tub-thumping comments in praise of the Boudicca de nos jours.  Secondly, in both Paul Dacre's filthy rag, the Mail and in the Filth-O-Graph, a recent editorial posture was that, Yes, the client welfare nation, is, as fuckheaded, innumerate, incompetent squeaky wee George Osblow insisted,   a mindless horde of nascent arsonists, child killers and dogging fiends.  One would have thought that the Filth-O-Graph would be fertile ground for this learned exposition, but au contraire, by a hundred-to-one Telegraph commenters not only disagreed with George Fuckhead but by the same ratio, fired a round of fucks into the worthless little chancer;  it was most heartening, although it must have had the editorial staff reaching for the cocaine or the brandy. The BBC comments pages, too, don't quite toe the establishment line, more than half of all comments, today,  are angry, anti-funeral, anti-crow, anti-politics and a good quarter of them have been censored for breaking house rules,  the BBC, run by thieves, arse bandits, panderers, ponces and child molesters is dead keen on politeness, after all.

  
  

  I suspect, therefore,  anyway, that Mr Retiree, eking out his pension on the Costa del Poverty is growing a bit tired of the continent-wide austerity, as they call it, which is the natural and inevitable consequence of  the ThatcherOrganisedCrime Gang deregulating the banks  and privatising our means of keeping warm, getting around and now of staying healthy.  Blatcherism, as it has now become, a dire blend of OldTory and NewLabour, citizen-hating, anyway,  is dead in the water, anyone with a hole in his arse knows that.  And I suspect that many former Tories are now taking a UKIP hammer to a Thatcher legend once set in stone.  The Barclays and their slaves wouldn't publish that, now, would they? Be interesting to see when ornithological comments are again welcome at the Telegraph.  They will probably insist that comment was disallowed as a mark of respect.
  
  I didn't watch the old crow's  junta-style funeral but I did have a moment of the day, a bit later, during a closely-controlled BBC voxpop segment.  There was this ex-paratrooper, bent as a nine-bob note, he was - a forty-five pence coin, for younger readers - probably has Do-Or-Die tattooed on his foreskin  and he had  one of those noncey, snuffler's beards which are so fashionable;  all rigid he was, in his blazer and his beret, virtually standing to attention.  He said, all parade-groundy, that Mrs Thatcher was a great prime minister because she allowed him to do wot 'e wuz trained for, killing people, and he would always be grateful. Funny how, with this gang, one minute, it's OhMyGod, Terrible Post Traumatic Distress Order, and the next it's a great privilege to rip some bastard's guts out with a bayonet, or better still, your bare hands.  As with the cops, we need to make soldiering a graduate profession.  Asked if he thought she was as great a PeeEm as Winston Churchill, Tommy thought for a moment and said,  the silly fucker, that Yes, in his opinion she was. No wonder Arnhem was a fuck-up, no wonder Bloody Sunday kicked-off.  If this mad old cunt is representative of ex-servicemen then it is they, and not old-age pensioners, tax-credit recipients and disabled people who are a threat to the nation.  Nearly a thousand people died in that Falklands Jamboree, and all because Lady Crow scrapped a South Atlantic Royal Naval patrol vessel;  mad old bitch.
  
  I had another moment, too,  as some old Tory hag, dressed and made-up and veiled like a whore in a French farce was fronting-out the fact that only criminal Americans had turned-up for this nonsense - Kissinger and some old White House goons, Cheney, for fuck's sake,  the Thief of Baghdad; Margaret wouldn't have wanted either of the Clintons and both Dubya and his old man were indisposed, Yeah, right, Dubya'll be coked off his chimp face or else in rehab, and  his old man's loopy, like Maggie.  No-one would have expected Obama, she simpered, he's far too busy. No mention of Jimmy Carter, this Polyfilled and  lacquered old boot probably never heard of him. There wasn't even a US Ambassador, Obie couldn't be arsed to appoint one, to attend the funeral of the woman who won the Cold War.  So there, a quartet of vicious, warcrimeing old degenerates, none of them in office, all of them lucky not to be in jail;  wasn't that proof of Maggie's specialness in the US?
  
  And yes, it was; most of her kin and cronies, after all, especially her son - what did they call him and his new bint?  the honourable Sir Mark and Lady Thatcher? FuckMeJesus that prat's got some nerve, if he was a kleptobanker, or almost anyone else, people'd be calling for him to be stripped of his hereditary viscountcy -  are or were crooks, thieves, torturers and worse.
  
  MediaMinster put on a good show, with our money but it looked to me that attendance was thin - it wasn't like Diana, for instance, or Michael Jackson - and that  a lot of it would've been a mixture of tourists and applesanpears, troubleanstrife pearly KingsanQueens type Lahndunners, 'avin a day out.
  
  A damp squib, despite everyone's best efforts but one that may yet re-ignite.  We might yet see MediaMinster eating crow, instead of burning it.