THE MYSTERIOUS CASE OF HARRIS THE BLOGDOG AND THE MISSING AIRCRAFT.

BLACK BOX FOUND IN NORTHERN SCOTLAND

Good evening this is me, Kay Dog, 

with the six o clock news, here at skymadeupnewsandfilth. 
And at the top of the hour,
is this the missing flight recorder, the famous BlackBox from Malayasian Airlines, Flight wossaname, 370 something?  Over now to our Scottish correspondent. Angus Thug, who has some breaking news for us. Angus, what can you tell us?

Yes Kay, and thank you, well here from the north of Scotland the news is that I am joined by a man who was out walking his dog.........

No.

Sorry...?

I wasn't out walking my dog.

But you do have a dog?

Yes. Harris, he's my dog, well, he lives here.
 Dunno if he's exactly mine....

Sorry...?

Well,  the house is mine,  the land, the cars, all that stuff's mine...if you believe in property, that is,  I'm never too sure, myself, about ownership. Of anything. Never mind ownership of somebody else, like Harris.

But if you own that other stuff  you must own Harris, too...surely?

Well, I dunno what he'd think.  About being owned.  I mean, he does do thinking, I've seen him do it. Sure, he lives here. And we care for him. Even though he doesn't do fuck all.  We work for him, he doesn't work for us. I pay his bills, he doesn't pay mine. Who owns whom, you tell me. I don't own anybody.  Harris is  the blogbog.

But can we tell the viewers that you have a dog?

Yeah, I guess so. Tell them  he's the dogbloke.  I mean, equally, equally to me having him, he has me but that's OK, tell 'em that.  Tell 'em what you  want. I don't care.

About what?

About your viewers.

What?

About your viewers. You don't care about them either, do you?  In fact, you probably don't care about them more than I don't care about them.  I just don't care about them, one way or the other but you must hate them.  I know I would.  If I was you.

Well, be that as it may...

It is.

It is what?

It isn't may, it's is.  That's how it is.  You hate them.

Well,  we can edit all that, let's get back to the interview.

OK. If you like.

And so, mr ishmael, it is mr ishmael, isn't it, so  how did you and Harris find the BlackBox?

We didn't.

Didn't what?

Didn't find the BlackBox.

So how come you have it?

Whaddayamean, How come I have it?  It's mine.

But surely it belongs to Malaysia Airlines.  Are you saying you stole it. As in stole it by finding it.  On the beach?

No, I bought it.

Who from, was it terrorists?

No, it was from the local stationers.

Well, did they find it washed-up on the shore?

Dunno where they got it.  Where do stationers get stuff?  Stationery warehouse, I guess.

But what would a stationery warehouse be doing with the most sought after BlackBox in maritime history?

It's not.

It's not what?

It's not a BlackBox.

Course it is.  I can see it, there. In front of my eyes.
It's black and heavy and it's made of immensely strong,  steely material

No, that BlackBox, there, that's not a BlackBox.  BlackBoxes are orange.

BlackBoxes are orange???  So what's that then, if it's not a BlackBox?

Oh, this BlackBox IS a BlackBox.

So why isn't it orange, if it's a BlackBox?

Because it's a BlackBox, I told you.

For fuckssake, why are you telling me that this BlackBox, here,  isn't a BlackBox because it's not fucking orange. Are you people up here insane.  I have covered stories about you all being inbred?

Well, everybody's inbred.

Whaddayamean, everybody's inbred ?

Everybody's related to everybody else.  I'm related to David Cameron, y'know, WisteriaBollocks Cameron.  We come from the same Norman French lawyers who came to England, moved up to Ayrshire and became McAmbroses and Camerons.  See?

But your name's Smith.  Not Cameron.

No, it's not.

'Snot what.

It's not Smith, my name.

So you're not Ishmael Smith?

Oh yes I am.

But you just said you're not.

No. I didn't.

Yes, you did.

No, I didn't.  I said my name's not Ishmael Smith.  But that doesn't mean I'm not Ishmael Smith. What's in a name? My name isn't stanislav, either, a young polish plumber. But I am.

You are what. Whom?

stanislav, a young polish plumber.  I am he.  Inasmuch as anybody is he. I used to be he, anyway.

But I thought you said you were related to David Cameron.

I am.  We're not close.  Just related. Like most families.  Y'know, blood's thicker than brains.  That nonsense.

Does he know you have the missing BlackBox which isn't the missing BlackBox?

I never told you that this BlackBox wasn't a BlackBox, just that it wasn't an orange BlackBox.  Obviously.  If it was an orange BlackBox it would be orange, wouldn't it?

And not black?

That's right, BlackBoxes are orange.

 Then why are they called BlackBoxes?  If they're fucking orange.

That's two questions.

How's it two questions?

Well, it's two answers.  So it must be two questions.  And anyway, that's what people say, these days, politicians, filth like that, they say, well, Andrew, there's two questions, there, Andrew, and I'm afraid that as ever, the devil is in the detail and so if you don't mind I'll answer the one you didn't ask me.

I'm not Andrew.

I know you're not.  But he is.

Who is?

Andrew is.

Andrew who is?


Andrew Neil is.

Andrew Neil? Does he have the BlackBox?

The PBC's senior political journalist relaxing.

Shouldn't think so.

So why are we talking about him?

I'm not talking about him.  You're talking about him. I only used him as an example, coulda been anyone  of those fuckers, Christ, there's fucking hundreds of them.

You what?

Look, I said it was two questions...

What was two questions?

The two questions you asked me.

What two questions?

Well, you asked me why it was called a BlackBox.

Yes.....

And then you asked me why it was orange.

Yes.....

So that's two questions, then.

I suppose so.

Do you want me to answer them?

I'm not sure...

You're not sure? But you're supposed to be interviewing me....

It's just that....it's just that I came up here on a report that you had a BlackBox.

That'll be the neighbours.


 What neighbours, you don't have any neighbours.

Well, look, there's Shotgun Johnnie, over there, across the bay and there's Keith GooGoogaJoob up on the hill, he sells eggs, from his hens, he's the Eggman.  And then there's Antoine Frog.  He's a Frenchman up on the other hill,  but he talks just like he'd been here ten thoosand years, d'ye ken, mon ami.  There's lots of distant neighbours and they all watch me with binoculars.

They all watch you with binoculars?

Not just me. Everybody.

Everybody?

Yeah.  Everybody watches everybody else. With binoculars. Apart from me. I couldn't care less.

So, the neighbours anonymously tipped me off that you had a BlackBox?

'Swhat they're like.  'Swhy there's no crime up here.

What's why?

Everybody's so fucking nosey.  You couldn't pick a blade of grass without some bastard scrutinising you and getting on the 'phone about it to his cousin,  Yon Englishman in the big hoose, he's been chewing grass from yon field, aye, that's right, you tell the others.

But you said you weren't English.

I'm not.

So why do they call you English?

Fucked if I know.  I'm more Scottish than any of them. 
D'ya ever see that numptie film?

Numptie film?

Yeah, the one starring Harrison Wood, numptiest actor in Hollywood ...

You mean Harrison Ford?

Nah, you mean Harrison Ford.  I mean Harrison Wood, I got lumps of pitch pine and oak and mahogany, stacked up in the byre that can do better acting than him. Cops, presidents, CIA blokes, archaeologists, space warriors, he just does that same stupid wooden stupidness acting.  Fuck me, Star Wars was the luckiest day of his life. Anyway, he was wooding his way through  a film which was set among the Amish people in,



 I dunno, Pennsylvania, one of those North Eastern states.  And the Amish, see, are stone fucking mad, ride around in horses and carts, have singsongs and picnics, read the Bible a lot, build barns at the drop of a hat,  


tut-tutting all day long and hate every other bastard on Earth so much that anybody who's not one of them - an inbred, technophobic, barn-building, hymn-singing, joyless, beardy,  proto-Nazi,  judgemental  hypocrite - they call English.  Don't have to be English.  Just like here, just like me, here; I don't have to be English to be English.

Ah, I'm beginning to see what you mean.

What I mean?

Yes, it's starting to make sense.

Nah. It's just because of the italic.  You'll never understand what I mean. You don't do understanding.  You're part of skymadeupnewsandfilth.  Fuck me, understanding isn't in your job description.  Did I say job description?  I meant knob description.

Well, can you at least tell me about the amazing technicolour BlackBox?

Sure.

Well, go on then.

Whaddayawannaknow about it?

Well, which aircraft is it from?  Is the data still intact?

It's not from an aircraft, I told you, it's from Rognald Thorfinn's Stationery Supplies.

What, they sell submersible data recorders alongside the staples and sellotape and A4 binders, how so cool is that?

It's not cool.  It's just a BlackBox.

Which turns orange.

No it doesn't turn orange.

Well how do you find it, then?

I don't have to find it.
It's just there, on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. 
Where it always is.

But what about when the sircraft crashes?

Which aircraft's that?

The one that you'd take the BlackBox on.

I wouldn't take it on an aircraft.  Why would I take it on an aircraft?

Because it's a BlackBox???

No,  I just call it a BlackBox because it's black and it's a box.  And it's indestructible.  Like a proper orange BlackBox is supposed to be.  Probably moreso, actually; they're shit, those BlackBoxes aren't they?  I mean, if they were any good they'd make the whole  fucking aeroplane out  of whatever it is they make the boxes from.  Wouldn't they?  Stands to reason.

So, this is not the Black or indeed the orange box from Flight Wotsaname, I forget, now... wossalthatabout, anyway...orange blackness...is it drugs???

No. it's about visibility.  You know.  Can't see  much five miles down in the Southern Ocean, Didya ever read the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner? Nah, didn't think so. Wossitabout? 'Sabout guilt, remorse, redemption, penance - you wouldn't understand. But they're orange, anyway.  Mighta started off being black. Y'know, you can imagine the designer boffins, 

way back when, fag ash all down their shirts, saying, Now listen here, chaps, this recording box thingy is  a dashed serious piece of kit, dashed serious, pardon my French, and as we all know the right colour for Serious is, what, what's the right colour for Serious?  That's right, Smithers, good chap, Black is the only possible colour for a serious piece of kit like this.  Find it?  Find it?  Fucked if I know how they'll find it in the dark. I'm a fucking boffin, not a fucking crash-site investigator. 'Snot my fucking job to crawl through fish-eaten fucking corpses and soggy fucking luggage.

So they made them black, then?

Guess so. Why else would they be called BlackBoxes?

But then they made them orange but continued to call them black?

That's  what I've been trying to tell you.

But why have you got one?

I haven't.

Haven't what?

What I said.

Do you mean you haven't got one?

Well, I wouldn't put it like that .

How would you put it?

I'd say I don't have one.

That's just the same.

No. It's not. It's not just the same.
Not having one and not having got one are two different things.  But that's to do with English, which you neither speak nor understand, right?

Right. Why should I? I'm just a journalist. And as a journalist, I'm curious to know....

Curious.

What? 

Just curious.  That's what you mean.

What's what I mean?

You mean you are curious.  Not curious to know.  The to know is redundant.  Do you know what redundant means?

Course I do.  It means workshy, the unemployed, a scrounger.  Everybody knows that.  Redundant people are scroungers.

I wasn't talking about people, I was talking about words, about words being redundant. More use pissing in the wind, than talking to you, eh, Angus?  It is, Angus, to satisfy your curiosity to know,  a deed box, mate.  I keep the deeds of the house in it, passports, that sort of thing, birth certifcates.

Keep them in what?

In my black fucking box, that's what, now will you fuck off out of here, before I set Harris on you?



Well, that's the breaking news here, a fascinating story, we'll keep you up to date on developments with the Orange I mean the Black Orange Box,  maybe it's the Orange Black Box.
 And now back to you, Kay, in the studio.


Thanks, Andy.  That was sky's Andy Thug for us there and over now to the Vatican where the late Jimmy Savile has just been made a double saint, not only by Pope Nazi but also by the current Nonce Protector General, Pope Frankie de los Fray Bentos, 

How do we get away with this shit?
Fucked if I know but don't knock it.

 the Morecambe and Wise of Holy Fathers. They are having a laugh, aren't they,  making saints of child molesting former CEOs?  Nil desperandum, as they say in the noncing business. Stay tuned.

NEWS REVIEW. OSCAR NEWS. GOVE INSANE, YOU'LL NEVER SQUAWK ALONE.

Good Afternoon,  this is SkyNews,

 

 with me, Kay Burley.

 And we're taking you straight away to Sky's Jeremy Filth in Pistoria, where he is covering the trial of Oscar Testosterone, the legless runner, spoiled brat, celebrity and gun-crazy psychobastard who murdered his harmless, gentle, beautiful, undisabled, gold-digging trollop, Wotsername, Rhona,
 is it,

 Rhona Steamkettle?

 Jeremy, what's been happening today?

Thanks, Kay and Good Evening from  Pistoria where it has been another dramatic day with the  murderer being cross-examined by State Prosecutor, Mr Harry Knobkerrie. 

 

 It's just been one dramatic interchange after another, with the murderer sobbing his socks off, vomiting and pissing himself as he has tried to deflect the questions of ace state prosecutor Harry Knob. This is from this morning,  just before the judge adjourned proceedings for the vicious mutant to compose himself:

I put it to you, Meesta Testosterone,  

 

that there were no intruders and thet you jest shot the bitch for badness, jest to show her who wes boss. She wes dissing you, wasn't she, the dirty sleg, mebbe admiring a proper man with both legs, end you killed her, didden you? 

 

She ren into the shithouse, locked the door end then you shot her four times through the fecking door end now you come here with all this bollocks about fecking intruders end fecking ladders end fecking dancing magazine racks when in fact all thet heppened wes that you were pissed at the bitch end you chased her and fecking shot her fecking arse off, 

 

end, Mahlaydee, her fecking head, too, shot her fecking head off, is whet you did, why don't you jest fucking admit it?

 Feck me, Mahlaydee, weth the greatest respect, her fecking brains was all over the fecking shop. Tell the court, Meesta Testosterone, how you came up weth all this shit about burglars when every fecker end his fecking dog heard her screaming for you not to shoot her and you just kept on firing your fecking gun at her like a fecking lunatic.

That's not true, Mahlaydee,  I did jest shoot the bitch bet I didden know it wes the bitch when I shot her,  I didden  know et was four shots I fired into the bitch, I jest sort of  fired accidentally, Mahlaydee, eet wes the most terrible thing even though it wes accidental, it wes deliberate, too, but in self defence,  when you consider thet it might have been heavily armed burglars hiding in my shithouse like they was silly totties, instead of it being en actual  silly totty, I mean my beloved Wossername, who was actually very comfortable in our relationship,  Mahlaydee,  end thet wes why she wes cowering in the shithouse with the door firmly locked end screaming her fecking head off for me not to kill her, even though I couldn't hear the bitch because I wes repeatedly firing my weapon accidentally end I couldn't hear nothing, end everymorning I pray thet you will let me off shooting the bitch, which I didden  do enyway, or if I did, I didden mean to, in fect, es I have said to Mr Knob, I thought she wes a gang of armed robbers end I definitely didden mean to shoot them with my weapon...... Oh, oh, I thenk I am going to be seck. Bluuurrrrrrgh.........

And it was like that, Kay,  you there, Kay?...

 all fucking day long, cunt was screeching and throwing-up like a virgin at a News Of The World gangbang.
You there, Kay?


Yes, Jeremy, still here, I was wondering about a facelift, what's your take on that?

Well, as you know, Kay, I always think you look great.  Rough as a bears arse mind, but great, all the same.  And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of the old PolyFilla mightn't go amiss.

Another Murdoch bint in plastic surgery viewer fraud.

But what else is happening in Pistoria, Jeremy?

Well, Kay, Bow-Wow, Whoosagoodgirl? No, only joking. Anyway,  for an expert view as to whether he's guilty or extremely fucking guilty I'm joined here by our South African legal expert, Lllllewelllyn KaffirBasher, 

a member of the South African bar. 

 Lllllewelllyn, how's it going, from your point of view?  Thenks, Jeremy and well, the bestard is geelty es fucking sin and we should jest hang him up by his goolies until he coughs, thet's how we used to do things in South Efrica, only mainly to darkies, but this git is helf way there, isn't he being  desabled, as they call it, fucking freak.  No,  Harry Knob is doing  a first rate job, tripping the bestard up, whether he hes his fecking legs on or not, a-ha-ha, give the fecker an even chance, sort of; mind you, the Judge is a fucking kaffir so there's no fecking telling which way she might jump.  Did you see her fecking hair, Jeremy,

 looks like a fucking savage, neh? Wooden be fecking surprised to see her coming to court with a fecking great bone in her fecking nose. I jest dunno how it came to this shit....

What shit's that, then, Lllewelllyn ?

How we heff ay fecking voodoowoman, setting up there on the fecking bench, like a proper judge. 

 I betcha, Jerry, thet she goes home at night to her fecking tent and instead of reviewing the evidence that says this fecking bestard is fecking geelty she slaughters some fecking chickens or goats or some sheet like thet and smears her fecking self wiuth their fecking guts end rolls around in the fecking dirt. 'Sjust the sort of thing they do, these fecking savages.

Thanks for that, Llllewellyn, that was Mr Llewelyn Curlewis there for us, and like all of us here and you too, at home, Mr Curwotsit is absolutely convinced of CryingBoy's guilt.   And it's back now to Kay in the UK where it seems the education seckatry has declared war on  Birmingham.

 

That's right, Jeremy, and we go over now to the Daily Filth-O-Graph's Toby Young 

who is, to Michael Spit-Gove what Adam Werrity was to Dr Liam Foxx............a sort of a, whatchamacallit, sort of, well, boy, yes, that's it, Michael Gove's boy,


 Toby Cock, one of MediaMinster's boys.

Toby, as a grotesquely pushy parent, a gobby, empty-headed self-publicist;  a grubby, seedy wanker on-the-make  and as an all round worthless piece of MediaMinster shit, what's your take on this quite extraordinary development, where the Education Seckatry has appointed the former head of national counter-terrorism to investigate a couple of school governors, meeting-up in Brum and dribbling over the Koran, like they do.

Well, Kay and thanks, by the way, for having me on the show again but if I might just, before I answer that question, correct a widespread misapprehension  that I am a pushy parent, I am absolutely nothing of the sort, it's just that I can recognise that my children are intensely special, not just to me, although of course they are, but it's more that I see them as an invaluable resource to the world and so in wanting the very best for them that someone else's money can buy I am being entirely selfless; frankly, Kay, the world needs my sperm, I mean my kids, like never before. And it is only by diverting resources from less special people's children to children of my own issue that we can make any, wossaname, headway, yes, that's it, headway.  And if you can call that pushy parenting, well, I suggest that you are entirely mistaken.


Yes, but about Govey, he's a bit of a nutter, 
isn't he...?

No, Kay, no, absolutely not, Michael has the very best interests of the nation at heart, 


Nutter Alert.

moreso, I might say, than does a closely-knit cabal of public schoolboys which I could mention and  he and wossername are great, personal friends of mine.


Mr and Mrs Spit-Gove, living it up.

But sometimes, you know, Kay, in the life of a great statesman like Michael,

 

 he needs to strike whilst the iron is wossaname.

Like invading Birmingham and executing school governors, you mean?


But Kay, if you don't mind my correcting you - even though I do have the ear of His Michaelness -  these people, these so-called governors are actually highly dangerous terrorists, dangerous to all out children but especially mine, I mean, just look at them.

One of the governors of Small Heath Primary School, 
Birmingham, 
(photo: Daily Filth-O-Graph, UKIP, DofE.) 

That was Toby Cock, there for us, shedding some light on events in the second city.

And now to showbiz,  And this is the griefparty at Anfield football ground, where former NewLabour minister, Andy Burnham addressed a capacity crowd about himself and his part in their whateveritis.

HILLSBOROUGH,
 KEEP RIGHT ON 'TIL THE END OF THE SHOW

What is it with Liverfuckingpudlians.? Instead of marching on South Yorks Police HQ and tearing it down, they all get together and have a fucking sing-song, waving their footie scarves aloft, naming, with great respect, naturally, virtually every citizen of the city.

I have been to three football matches in my entire life and on each occasion I was terrified by the potentially uncontrollable, drunken  vicious tribalism of the crowd, thousands of nincompoops alco-welded for a few hours into a juggernaut of reckless malice, fuck 'em, I thought,  they're all fucking mad, they deserve whatever they get.  And they got it at Hillsborough.

There's one guy, particularly, gets me mad, grown eloquent with years of self-pitying, he whines about his two daughters getting crushed to death, as though permitting two teenage girls to enter a stadium full of shouting, drunken neanderthals was the act of a responsible parent.  It is not something which I would ever have done;  those places were and are intrinsically dangerous.   Everywhere, of course,  is intrinsically dangerous in our infinity of paranoid possibilities  but sending your kids into football stadia has clear and present dangers;  regardless of the quality of policing, stewarding and constructional safety it is a chance you take with the lives of your children;  that all three were bad at Hillsborough does not relieve parents of their duty of care. 

Oh, there's no question but that Chief Inspector Filth


 is a lying, crooked, cheating  bastard but surely it didn't take Hillsborough to persuade people of that,  surely everybody knows that.  Doesn't everybody know that PC Plod sits with his mates and writes up invented evidence so's it all matches, just so; surely everybody knows  that his seniors call him in  for a quiet word


and tell him what to say in a big case;  surely everybody knows that governments will always side with the police against the citizen unless, of course, the citizen is Andrew Mitchell, MP and flogger or Nigel Evans, MP and predatory homosexual. 

 What is the matter with these maudlin, self-pitying Scousers that they'll sell their lost family members' memories for a poxy, meaningless, showy, full and far-reaching cover-up of an inquest, one which opens, disgustingly, with a name-check of every concerned participant? Do they really think that the filthsters who covered-up this cack-handed policing of a football match  and then slandered the dead


Kelvin McFilth, Hillsborough Sun editor, PBC pundit and Murdoch dingleberry,
 enjoys himself with Piers ShitFerBrains Moron.
( When is he going to jail?)

give a flying fuck for anything that this service of mewling and puking and this showbiz inquest reveal? They must all be pissing themselves, the cops and MediaMinster,  as Liverpool does what it does best, moans and whinges.

And as for this arsehole, well, there aren't any words which would do justice to his performance, unless they are spelt BAFTA.  Bubbles Burnham sank to the occasion. 

Repeatedly  linking himself to the very existence of the post-Hillsborough presure group, this smirking turd, this obnoxious, Oxbridge, career politico front-and-centred himself, spinning patronising yarns about Footie and Mams and shit.
We all know that shame and embarrassment are alien to the likes of he but this really was vintage, premier cru sick-bucket stuff.



I am humbled, Liverpool, before you, as you give me this opportunity to act like a give a fuck, you stupid cunts.  If it wasn't fer me mam, an' me loyalty to a certain other football club - giggles - and for the friendship of all these great, millionaire, gang-raping, coke-snorting, repulsive and vulgar sporting heroes, here today, I never would've been able to wash me 'ands, like, of the twelve hundred or so deaths in that Staffordshire Health Trust, what I was in charge of. 

Andy Bubbles Burnham, NewLabour scoundrel and the most dangerous health seckatry in history, takes a Staffordshire bow.

  
That, of course, should read Faculty of Death, 
prop HM Seckatry of state for health, Andy Burnham.

It is not for their meaningless crowd-sentimentality that I abhor this gang, it is not that I dismiss their righteous indignation, it is that, in exchange for Grieving's tacky celebrity,  they do.

Never mind singing You'll Never Walk Alone,  never mind applauding shit like Andy Burnham,  these people should have seen to it that Kelvin McKenzie, fatwahed,  left the country; should have pelted Andy Burnham with stones and should, even now,  be ripping up paving slabs.