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. 

   

   

   

   

BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME.

THE UNITED STATES OF ATROCITY

& now, ladeezangenullmen,

 The Boston Tea Party

 OBIE TALKS MORE YES, WE CAN'T SHIT

 

My Fellow motherfuckers.  
This is just  to let y'all know that I'm on the case, again. 
And you can trust me to sort this shit. 
 Just like I did with gun control. 
Y'remember how I sorted that shit.

THE THINGS THEY SAY. GRANT SHITTS, MP, ON APPROVED QUESTION TIME, BBC

"Of course  the reason we Brits don't like to eat horsemeat is that we don't like to eat animals which eat other animals........."

Shitts, or whtever he calls himself these days, is, quite fittingly, chairman of Cameron's and Osborne's Conservative Party.  How can they lose ?

sickbed notes. EQUALITY NEWS

EQUALITY NEWS.

Nay-dine, Honey is that you? 

(Charles Edward "Chuck" Berry 1957)

Poor Nadine Dorries; half, maybe more than half of the shit-eating slimeballs in the commons do second jobs, more properly first jobs,  many of them, like catastrophically pisspoor educashun seckatry, Michael Spit, 

 

when in opposition, earned far more from Rupert Murdoch's Times shitrag newspaper-of-record than he did as an MP, in fact it was his MP-ness which legitimised his dreadful,  spit-flecked columns - and, as we saw at Leveson, Micky is Rupert's man unto death - for they were awful, tub-thumping rubbish - nothing of a new philosophy  of education in a world upended by globalisation and hand-held media voodoo devices; nothing of teachers  dragooned into being servants  of the wider economic HellChase, of  LuvEmToBitsMyKids  fuckwit parents seeing professional educators primarily as child-minders - nothing of any intellectual merit, or even intellectual curiosity; no recognition, at least not publicly, that young Jamie and Kyle are carrying around, on their persons, clever little  devices which can access and contain a writhing, thrusting juggernaut of pornography which would have made Caligula faint and by which Jamie and Kyle are judging their pubescent girlfriends.  None of this, which is what you might expect from a concerned education minister; no, instead we see  just a nasty, vengeful, reactionary incompetent, bleating endlessly for a return to nineteen-fifties values, values which never existed, not even in the nineteen-fifties and which, even if they had, would be irrelevant in WikiWorld. No, he's an arse, Spitty, but  turd-polishing earnestly for his immensely wealthier colleagues in the Tory  cabinet, Spitty at least knows his place. I call him Spit, incidentally, because I used to watch the wretch, years back, on some late-night BBC pseudo politics  show,  generally debating, or filibustering, with Dame Polly Toynbee of Majorca and Tower Hamlets;  so fond of the sound of his own voice was Spitty, that during his incessant expositions on this or that affair of state he would gather bubbles in the corners of his mouth and eventually they would drip obscenely down his chops, a more modest man would have brought his speechifying to an end  and  whilst the camera was on her Dameship, dabbed at the corners of his mouth, before launching another I'm so Clever I Could Eat My Own Shit tirade on, as we mentioned in the last thread, any subject under the Sun, Spitty's verbal reserves, whilst neither illuminating nor entertaining took on such an andless,  diarrhoeaicly liquid nature that in a spitting contest he would have thrashed the arse off His Grace, the Lord Hatterjee of Spitbrook and Claridges. So desperate for a journalistic by-line, incidentally, remains the slooshing,  slobbering  prick, Gove, that he managed to get his imprimatur on the frontispiece of, God save us,  tens of thousands of King James Bibles, 

issued, on his ministerial iinstruction, to Britain's schools. You woulda thought, wouldn't you, that Archbishop Beard might've issued Mickey Spit with a rebuke about vanity, but no, render unto Caesar, or in this case, render unto fucked-up, saliva-dripping Tory orphan.

The artist formerly known as Canterbury.

What, argue with the govament?  Me?

Don't you know who I am?

I write the odd bit of cosmetic complaint but there's no way I'm telling a minister he's a cunt. Even if he is . Even if they all are. Which they all are.

        
 Anyway, many of them earn six figures prattling in the 'papers, just look at  the Shagging Albino, Johnson, troughing twice his mayoral salary from the Barclay ZombieTwins at the Filth-O-Graph.  More of   the right honourable and learned ones earn a fortune down the courts, only appearing in MediaMinster at prime minister's unanswered questions and non-lawyer, non-scribbling tosspots,  people like Andrew Spiv,

Yes, bribes from industry help me keep my snout in the real world, I mean feet.

 former privatising health seckatry, when in opposition, earned, in his own words, Just fifty thousand a year,  pimping, only took a minute or two a month, that's how brilliant he is.  They are all at it. And if they're not, they'd love to be. 

 John Tedium Redwood, 


Redwood, fellow of this, master of that,
 director of something else  and, Oh, yes, MP
 
achingly, earnestly didactic when wearily outlining the national economic ailment, is paid huge sums by the businesses for whom he is actually pimping; lobbying,  they call it.  And it's quite legal.

But poor old Nadine;  Christ, you'd think she was running a paedophile brothel.  All she's doing is disappearing for a few weeks, at most.  Countless honourable and right honourable spivs find that they simply cannot carry out their duties unless they travel on fuck-finding missions to the world's most expensive and exotic locations, at our expense.  But Nadine's  a woman and she has dissed, as we now say, the public schoolboy numbskull charlatans on her own frontbench, open season on her, therefore, for  wimmen-hating,  apoplectic Tory burghers.

But leaving all  that Nadine stuff aside, the member for Kircaldy, as befits a ranting, screeching, footstamping, nail-shredding   bully,  blazes a moonlighting  trail all his own. 


Elder statesman.
Playing with his cock.

Since losing the election,  Gordon Snot has been seen once, just once, on the green benches, and then only to grind his own unconvincing Murdoch axe, sourgrapesing his former partner in crime. Oh, he's there, nods the cuckolded halfwit and New Labour's Mr Showbiz, Alan Postie Johnson; 


I sing and play guitar, y'know.
Do you think, Alan, maybe it was that which made your Mrs run-off with your bodyguard?  
At least, Michael, I'm not a fairy.
No, quite. And nor am I.

 he's there, just not actually in the chamber, insists the Johnson  cuckold, from the SlutSofa of Andrew Slag's This Week show, he's definitely there, doing things. Definitely.

But only some of the time is Snotty working his behind-the-scenes magic, Alan, for  the ghastly, gibbering, snot-eating  Presbyterian freak has a new, global position.  Young parent Brown, when not doing his bit for people down at the Kircaldy Oxfam shop, is now the UN's special something-or-other,  pontificating on Life in Pakistan, and how it's a fucking disgrace that we've let them away with all this Moslem shit for centuries. Seems that the madness light which illuminated his war crimes burns still brightly in his fevered mind, still fuels his bombastic I-Know-Bestism;  the teenage girls of Pakistan, they should be our focus. Why's that, then, Snotty? All of our own  bloated, drunken, brawling, incoherent teenage  girls sorted out, are they?

Didya see that Pakistani child, bytheway, wotsername, the one shot in the head by the Talimen?  Isn't she utterly fucking unbearable, she's like the young freakmonster,  William Miscarriage, at that Tory conference way back, before before, blethering on, like a grown-up, but more like a dog walking on its hindlegs. FuckMeJesus, you just know how she's going to turn out.  Her Dad needs a kick up his arse. Wossisname,  Mohammed Pushy Parent, 

 Christ, I hate  those bastards,  their fucked-up brats play the piano or do adding-up like they were fucking robots, off to Cambridge at ten or eleven, wrecked on the rocks of parental ambition by twenty.  Remember that horrid little cunt who was an expert on antiques, poor, pathetic little fuck.  This Pakistani kid is like him, repulsive little brat, lecturing the world, while Daddy smirks on the sidelines.  If one believed in Dalai Lama-style reincarnation one might see this gobby little child as the spirit of Whisky Maggie, articulating with pure Thatcher clumsiness and insincerity her crunchingly inarticulate Manifesto of Horseshit.

  I wouldn't care if she was Mozart, which she isn't, I'm not interested in teenagers' opinions and nor should anyone else be.  If the people of Pakistan want their women educated then let them sort it out.  Never heard of any Asians flying over here to stand with the Suffragettes, or the Roundheads.  Gordon Brown is such a cunting  awful son of the fucking manse that he still believes, despite all the evidence contrariwise,  that the world agrees that he knows best. 

She's at school in Edgbaston, now, getting the celebrity pupil treatment, for now.  

We must hope that it doesn't last and they start pulling her hair and flushing her essays down the toilet.  I used to know those Edgbaston schoolgirls,  mean, snotty bitches they were.

  I have mentioned, before, in reference to Welsh Guardsman and gabshite, Simon Weston,

Disappointed Wannabe Crime Commisioner, Weston.

 amongst others, that getting hurt isn't actually heroism, and nor is getting better.  Everybody tries to get better, it's hardwired, it's not heroism. It is of course deplorable that this kid  was shot but she's ok now, unlike countless thousands of her compatriots, scores, hundreds of children in Ireland, in Africa, in Palestine, in Syria, all over the place there's children being topped by headbangers,  Uncle Sam does them by the score, at home and abroad;  this girl is lucky, she should count her blessings, cultivate some modesty and shut the fuck up. 

Funny, too, how no-one accuses her and her family of health tourism.  No, go on, it's not in bad taste,  there must be tens of thousands of Pakistani children who would benefit from a trip to an NHS hospital, mustn't  there;  the water's shit, there's fucking floods and famines and earthquakes;  the little buggers live in mud huts with cattlleshit everywhere and they're oppressed on one side by Barmy Benazir Bhutto's sticky-fingered, would-be dynasty,  on  another side by vicious, headchopping religious fundamentalist nutters and from the skies by Obamalama's atrocitydrones, shot at them by crewcut, psychobastard, momma's boy, gangraping fuckpigs, sitting in a bunker in fucking Idaho, or some other Uncle Sam shithole state.  One way and another,  Pakistan must be littered with injured children. Funny how only little wotsername was singled out for Mercy's Airlift. 
 
stop press, since writing this, the wee darling has  signed  a three million pound book contract, maybe Jeremy My Name'sHuntNotCunt or Nigel Farrage will ask her to pay for her treatment. As if.

Don't know, anyway,  if Snotty's  UN position gets him loads of free trips, on which he can take the dreadful beard, Sarah, but probably. Probably he does. And what with that,  the one day a week in the Oxfam shop - giving something back  - and the clandestine, ex-camera operations in Westminster, no-one can accuse the distinguished SnotMuncher of neglecting his parliamentary duties for more than two years.  Even though that is exactly what he has done, disgracefully, despite the absurd protestations of the  ridiculous Alan Johnson.

 Poor Ms Dorries, however,  will, in all probability, by doing a second job,  bring herself and  the entire shithouse of honourables and right honourables into disrepute.  Unlike, say, Mr Huhne, who in the words of so many of his colleagues,  has suffered a dreadful family tragedy. Whisky Maggie headbutted her way through the glass ceiling ? A role model for women? You have to laugh or you'd fucking weep.

WOTSONTELLY. GREAT BRITISH RAILWAY JOURNEYS, WITH QUEENIE PORTILLO.

Yes, that's right. Good morning, I'm Michael., And I understand there were hundreds of workers and their children killed building this viaduct, this miracle of British engineering.  Gosh, that's really shocking. Yes. And I find myself strangely moved. Hundreds of people died, making this structure.  They really were the good, old days. Long gone, I'm afraid.

 

None of the brave employers - fortunately - suffered any mishap, though, and I understand that they paid for an extension to the local graveyard, to put the children in, the ones who died of Smallpox, from the overcrowding.   That's the sort of folk  that Tories are,  they may work people to death but at least they give them a decent burial, sort of, good enough for the likes of them.

Just as well - I venture, at times like this, wearing my Radio Four Moral Maze hat, I am, after all, a paid moralist - just as well,  that there weren't any trade unions or any of that infernal health and safety rubbish when we were building the railways - well, not we,  but  the dirty, poor people  - otherwise, can you imagine the trouble it would have caused?  I can tell you that there would have been no end of complaints about lethal danger, and filthy, overcrowded accommodation and hardly anything would have got done.

And I should just recall for you that when Mrs, as she then was, Thatcher most graciously made me her seckatry of trade and industry the very first thing,  the very very first thing  I  thundered - well, hissed, actually -  was that I Am Not In The Business Of Making Deals With Trade Unions. (I could say that sort of thing then because I 'wasn't gay and I could also support all the anti-gay legislation.  Because I wasn't gay.  And that's why - not being gay - I couldn't run for prime minister and fetched up with all the fags and paedos in TellyLand ) . So you can jolly well imagine how I would have dealt with the filthy navvies who made this wonderful example of British engineering, working in all weathers for a fucking pittance .  A spell in the stocks and a week or two on bread and water.  It's the only thing these poor people understand. Either that or set the Army on them.

Did I tell you that I'm half English, half Scottish, half American, half Spanish and that my father inspired Picasso.  No, no, it's true, it says so, here in my Bradshaw's guide, under Holidays in DagoLand.

Join me next time for another dose of cack-handed stupidity and hypocrisy.

Yes Andrew, that's right, I think of myself as a sort of a rich man's Fred Dibnah, although Mr Dibnah knew what he was talking about and I, of course, haven't a fucking clue.  Still, why should that matter, never has before.

sickbed notes: HAVE I GOT SOME OLD NEWS FOR YOU.

CHURCH NEWS

THERE ARE MANY HARD COCKS AHEAD, I MEAN CHOICES.

 His unholiness, Archbishop JR, oilman and cleric,

 now Archbishop of Canterbury.

Founded for absolutely no other spiritual  or temporal reason than to facilitate the anger, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy and gluttony  of syphilitic, headchopping monster, 'Enery the  the Aighf, the C of E, now in its dying days, aptly  represents  and promotes - the Gospels having been, like so much, hijacked by Ruin's highwaymen - frocked'n'collared, unbridled licentiousness; belligerent and  impertinent Sapphism  and doesn't even try to do God, just buggery and whatever is its Sapphic equivalent. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Really, I don't. 

Wishful lesbian pornography is one thing, gross Karen and grosser Caroline, Mr and Mrs-ing around the place, Karen pierced, tattooed and driving tractors like  an inflated, MichelinMan  version of David Archer; copping helpless babies from gaybisexualpre-optransexual freaks of nature, over indulged by a misrun health service - gender reassignment, indeed - well, Karen and Caroline, blubbermountains decked-out in manly suits for their faux wedding are too much for me,  and me probably the most liberal of persons to haunt this quadrant of cyberspace. 

 That the C of E's mission statement is now a catechism of the sexually aberrant and bizarre - in Christian terms, at least - that its Moving with the Times  agenda - as we now call bad intentions - negates everything for which it once vaguely claimed to stand; that its most strident voices sing not Hymns Ancient and Modern but  Perversion's Praises, instead, well, it's all quite comedic, really,  the Established church revealing itself as the overbearing, hissy freakshow its most powerful always knew it to be.

 I have personal reasons for asserting - insisting - that all clergypersons are  beasts, unrecognised nonces, either by deed or by omission, by collusion, denial and obfuscation.  If you think about it even for a minute or two - the costumes, the ritual, the incense, the falsetto chanting, the pseudo-solemnity, the intrusive power over the vulnerable - Vicaring, like showbusiness proper,  is just the sort of gig sought by the flashy, showy predator;  rubber-stamping for God the souls of the young, the bereaved, the hospital patient, the homeless and the hungry. Zoning-in, like a heat-seeking missile on Grief's inevitability, your whoreson vicar/chaplain/priest/padre can sniff out your sorrow and stick his cock in it. Pack up your sorrows, he'll simper, and give them all to me. But he'll minister, especially,  bless, to  the young.  Suffer the little children to come unto me. 

 Choirmasters and vicars, how many thousands of the fuckers were exposed by the old News of the World,  week after week, year after year?  And yet, still, as though we were mediaeval serfs, bishop-nonces and archbishop-nonces hiss and glide and simper among us,  lording it up  in palaces - y'ever see the Bishop's Palace at Bath and Wells?  FuckMeJesus, they have the cheek of the Devil, the churchly princes - and, all dragged-up, sitting even in our legislature, the cheeky cunts.  Fuck 'em, up against the wall with them.  Take our  money and property back from them, give it to the poor. We should hang up Justin by his nuts, just for his cheek.

 I do not believe  that homosexuality and noncing are the same thing, I do feel that the Anglican church's loving embrace of all things evolutionarily and scripturally aberrant must make it a hotbed of unnatural carnality, the sort of environment which sees paedophilia as part of God's rich tapestry, for Him to chastise or forgive and for the rest of us to meekly accept.(I say that I don't conflate gayness with beasting - which  would be the gravest of secular sins - and in truth I don't, but I stumble a bit when I hear Peter Tatchell, in many ways an admirable, sincere and courageous person, when I hear him call for the lowering of the age of consent for young gay men aged twelve and thirteen, a bit of a queer leap, that.)

This newest gabshite, the old Etonian evangelical,

Swing swing together,

With your bodies between your knees. 

JR and his  first lady sing the Eton rowing song for the meeja.

We are all in this together.        

will be entertaining in a brisk, clean-shaven sort of way but his - or anyone's - capacity to reconcile the louche, sybaritic,  amoral, white, western Anglicanism with the diehard, punitive, reactionary, black  African  Church of England/Christ the Cannibal is so limited as to be irrelevant. The Church  of Christ Sodomite  and ChristCarpetMuncher is fucked, like Woolworths. 



Don't ask me, chief, I'm outta here.
Cannibals, arse bandits, surplice-clad, dildo-wielding dykes in the rectory? Fuck that  shit. Amen.

 It will matter fuck all to Justin, of course; he will have reached the second-highest position in the God-serving career ladder - woe unto ye, ye who see contradiction in such Godless,  heathenbastard,  hierarchical horseshit - and that, for a gobby alpha male like Justin, is the main thing;  the poor ye have with ye always, innit.

Perhaps we will now  see,  across the constitutional board, the full fruits of those with Old Etonian expertise;  a fuckwit, pig-ignorant unelected prime minister presiding over the break-up of the United Kingdom, for his own electoral advantage and witty, grinning Archbishop/CEO Justin presiding over the long overdue break-up of this worldwide, Godless, money-changing, bomber-blessing,  child-molesting, hypocritical, homosexual freakshow. An institution founded entirely upon one man's cleaving not to his God but to the seven deadly sins, at last reaps its reward. The mess, one might say,  is over, go in peace.

EVENSONG. Mellow cello. Yo-Yo Ma & James Taylor - Hard times come again no more

(just click the arrow)

Steven Foster's Hard Times is the soundtrack  to so many of Life's eternal tribulations that to connect it to the grimy doings of the ThatcherFilth may be to coarsen it;  this, however, is a sublime version and as we have seen recently - despite the jaw-dropping bias of skymadeupnewsandfilth - many ordinary people, my age, older, younger are hardhurt, still;  they became the Enemy within and fought, unarmed, what was actually a Civil War against  a brutal,  mercenary police cavalry, mediafilth did then what it is doing now, sandpapering reality, abrading the truth, smoothing grotesque , propaganda lies and distortions into axioms of patriotic scoundrel righteousness, God damn their filthy souls.  When I see formerly hard-working men in their seventies embittered, still,  their whole lives having sung a  jaded, furious requiem for their own devaluation I need something like this, to help me cry, a little.

GOTCHA, REJOICE! WE ARE A CORPSE; THE LADY IS FOR BURNING ET CETERA..

 THE DECEASED WITH SIR JAMES SAVILE.

THE DECEASED WITH GENERALISSIMO TORTURE,
 AUGUSTE PINOCHET.

 THE DECEASED'S REFORMIST POLICE FORCE.

 THE DECEASED WITH LORD WILLIAM MISCARRIAGE.

WHEN 'E WERE NOBBUT A LAD, LIKE.

THE DECEASED'S SON, VISCOUNT THIEF, CONMAN AND FAILED COUPSTER,
 LEAVES COURT, AGAIN.

I  guess that Lord Michael Spiv's 

Fuck me, is it my turn next ?
WOULD YOU BUY SOME USED FURNITURE FROM THIS OIK?
 
was the blow which most hurt Whisky Maggie and that after his flouncy betrayal  and her concomitant, thwarted egomania, everything else - birdbrains like Cameron, for instance -   was  just Life's toilet flushing her away; mad and increasingly powerless, counting as her friends only filth like the Barclay ZombieTwins and the infinitely self-effacing Lady Sir Charles Moore, in her dotage she could hardly even have taken comfort in the measures of her children, both of them gabshite thickoes - Carol even managing, uniquely, to lose a berth at the BBC, and fuckwit kaffirbasher, Mark's, name a byword for cowardice, greed, thievery and ineptitude.  David Beckham would of loved to of been her mate, him and Victoria but rich or not he's too vulgar even for this most vulgarian of prime ministers, God rot her black soul. And may her co-spivs from all branches of MediaMinster swiftly find their arses, too, embracing  Satan's special poker. Amen.


From his Praetoria bedroom, the next Greatest Living Dead Human Being, Nelson Mandela, said that he had always told Margaret Thatcher that she was a few mealie beers short of a booze-up but that she hadn't paid him any attention and that now, unfortunately, she would not be joining any of his famous parties with the Beckhams, Naomi Campbell and fuck knows what other filth he could invite.  All sing: Nkose sikelele Africa, Maggie-Maggie-Maggie Out-out-out.

She is now.