NEWS REVIEW. JOB OPPORTUNITIES, CHILDMINDERS WANTED FOR BUSY, HARD-WORKING PARENTS ON THE PROPERTY LADDER, MUST HAVE RELEVANT DEGREE AND POST-GRADUATE CERTIFICATE IN EDUCATION

This is the PBC lunchtime news with me, Jayne Tits, and the top story of the day is that decent hard-working working parents all over the country have been forced to look after their own children, themselves.  For more on this story, over to Birmingham, where Samantha Tits has the latest for us.

Fifth columnists, marxists and paedophiles gather in Brum to molest children and undermine long-term economic reform and  growth and whatever.

Thanks, Jayne, and yes, that's right, this is the news that communist teachers, many of them of interest to the security services, have betrayed those many parents who expect teachers to do as they're told by the gabshite, mutant  lunatic,

Mr Spit, the education seckatry.  

I wrote the Bible, you know, children. Let's see, now....
  Chapter one, verse one, in the Beginning there were  Free schools.
And God looked on Mr Spit and was pleased.

Mr Spit has, today, reiterated his delusion that it is quite clearly the teachers' reponsibility, first and foremost,  to look after other citizen-suspect's children for them, while they, the hard-working parents, pursue their rewarding and important careers down Tesco or in the call centre. If it wasn't for their child-minding capacity, said the diminutive education seckatry, why, I could dispense with them and teach the nation's children myself, via television screens in their classrooms, bedrooms, nurseries, prams, buggies and so on; just imagine,  a constant LoopOfLearning,  A nineteen-fifties curriculum, for which we are all so nostalgic, for which the nation cries out  to me; me, Mr Gove, the nation's teacher.

  And I am joined now, Jayne, here in - whereisthisplace? - here in Birmingham's Victoria Square  by a local grandmother, Mrs Maxine Cough. 

Maxine, you're a local grandmother,  tell us what this strike has meant to you,  how has it impacted you? 


 How'sitwot, love, impacted me? 
 No, Oi'm a bit old fer that lark, me, bein' impacted.  Although there's them as does say, loike, that there's manys a good tune what gets  played on an old wossaname. But no, moy grandchildren, luvemtobits, me, doanyfinforem, 'snuffin's too good for 'em, phones, games, chips, pizza, if I got 'em, they got 'em; what's their names? Well, there's Delroy, loike, an' Winston an' Chardonnay an' Kylie an' Jason an little Manjit, only he lives wiv 'is dad, loike, in Pakistan. Never could take to 'im, Manjit's dad; nuffin' against them people, honest I int, right 'and up to God, so 'elp me, I int racialist, no way, Jose,  but they smell different, knowharramean, love, different than what we do.  Must be all them spoices, loike, what they 'ave in their dinner, Oi mean, you wooden wanna go in the smallest room, not right after Manjit's dad's been in there, prayin' to Allah, so to speak, break the 'eart of a bleedin' wheelbarrow, it would. Gorra face as  long as bleedin' Livery Street, they 'ave an' all, most on 'em, all beardy an' wearing frocks, loike, over pyjama bottoms.   An the blokes is just as bad. But 'ark at me, here's you wanting to know about the school stroike and I'm  gooin' all around the Wrekin, moaning about our Tracey's last husband, partner, achelly, don't seem no point in 'er marryin' em any more, all ends in bleedin' tears, dunnit ? Well, what can Oi tellya, love, it ain't roight, is it, them teachers'm  s'posed to look after the little uns, int they, I mean, swot we pay  'em for, innit?  Take me, Oi should be at 'ome doin' me online Bingo an' instead I gorra go traipsin' over to Druids 'eath and help our Trace out wiv the little darlins, and she ain't used to bein' up so early, at lunchtime, loike.  Diabolical liberty, 'sworrIcallit, them teachers gooin' on stroike an' expectin' us to do their work for 'em, idle bleedin' gits. That Nigel Fruitcake bloke, 'im wots on the telly, wiv 'is pint, loike, an'  puffin' on his B an' Haitches, he'd soon sort 'em out, send 'em all back where they come from, shouldn't wonder, send 'em all back to TeacherLand, or wurevver it is.

That was Birmingham grandmother, Maxine Cough,  there, telling us what, frankly, Jayne, we are hearing from all over the country.  People are utterly dismayed at being dumped with the care of their own children; it's absolutely not what we had them for, complain many, to look after them,  that's why we have teachers in the first place,  as child minders, so we can go out to work to pay the mortgage; isn't that what the property ladder is for, isn't that where it leads, slavery?

Thanks, Samantha, that was Samantha Tits for us there, in Birmingham or Wolverhampton, one of those dirty places, anyway, but to discuss this crisis further, here in the studio, we have professor Germaine Drongo of Oxford University, the Daily Telegraph, The Sun, Nuts Magazinee, The Times Literary Supplement, Have I Got News For You, I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, Big Brother and Screw Magazine.

  
 Professor Filth, 

writing in the NewYork Quarterly Shrubbery Review,
c.1955.

Professor Drongo, you are a widely respected educationalist, drunk, gabshite and pornographer  who is addicted to appearing naked in public, even in your late sixties, and you have no children;

 what does this tell us about the teachers' strike?

Nothing, babes, sweet Fanny Adams, zilch. Teachers?  Fuck 'em. If they don't wanna get their kit off for the camera, pointin' it where the Sun don't shine, that's their problem.  But I love it. It's the essence, actually, of feminism. 

 Now, babes, what about you an' me slippin' outa here an' doin' some girly stuff to each other? 

 

I got loadsa fags and fuckin' cases fulla strong lager.

 How about it, bitch? 

  I bet  you bang like a shithouse door in a gale, sweet thing. What? Clive James?  What? 'Strewth.  I'd  fuck a kangaroo before I'd do that.


Well, we're interrupting the programme there because our political editor,  

Nick Toenails, 
is at the prime minister and that other bloke, the one who's always asking himself questions, at their press conference at the White House, I mean, in Downing Street. Just looks like the White House, with those flags and seals. Let's hear what the unelected prime minister has to say.



My fellow motherfuckers.
 And suspects, Yo, suspects, because that's what y'all are now. 
Lets be quite clear about this, we have to read all your mail and listen to all your 'phone calls because, well, just because I say so. I know it's illegal but I am a great respecter of the law, so that's why I'm doing this, it may well actually be illegal, but actually it's not. And as I never tire of telling people, only those who fear totalitarian dictatorship have anything to fear.  Would you rather that we appointed paedophiles to run the place?  What? Sorry? We already do? Always have? Mr Patrick Rock?  Well, Nick, I think you'll find that he never actually ran anything in Downing Street, apart from kiddyporn programmes on my computer, er, his computer...... no, no, neither of us's computer, your computer, you, the public's computer, you own it, paid for it.  Now, do you see why we have to watch you so closely? Over to you, deputy prime minsiter.



And look,  and I want to be quite clear about this, am I the sort of person who would see his party wiped-out in the polls just so's I could play at being deputy prime minister? No, of course I am. Am I the sort of liberal who would attack the poor, the old and the sick? No, of course I am.  Did I become leader of this great, tiny, shrinking party just in order to usher in a police state? Well, that's a question which modesty forbids me answering.  But yes, of course I am. You know, I didn't come into politics to do anything other than burnish my ego and line my pockets...wossat? yes, of course, and to bully people, taken as read, to bully people.  But let's be quite clear about this, liberal democrats, labour politicians, me and the other prime minister, we have all  had our struggles about this legislation


 but - and I stress this - if we want to protect the govament from you, the suspects, or the public, if you prefer;  protect the elect from the electorate, even, then  we simply must have the powers to keep a close eye on you in case you disobey me, I mean us;  this is a democracy, after all. 

Just ask yourselves, suspects. Would you rather my party fiddled its expenses,  stole housing benefits, lied to the public, lied to the courts, took bungs from dodgy donors, bashed queer people and covered-up sexual harrassment by our peers; covered-up the  noncing of the mentally ill and  decades of kiddybeasting by our MPs?  No, of course you would.

And let me just come back in, here, Nick,
 

 and remind people that,  as with bringing Mr Murdoch's obnoxious  deviant thug,  Mr Coulson,

 whom I have never actually met and will never meet again,  into  the centre of govament, ignoring the irrefutable  evidence that he was a crook, 

well,  just as with that, if it turns out that these security measures are undemocratic, alien, unconstitutional, improper and wholly illegal,  I will of course apologise and take full reponsibility. And what does that mean, you may ask.  Nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, it means nothing at all. Except that, well, nothing really, it means nothing. It's like the Deputy Prime Minister says,  if any of us wanted to be held accountable - for anything -  this is the very last place we'd be. Let me be quite clear, doesn't matter what we do;  just because we pass the laws, doesn't mean we have to abide by them.  I'll take some safe questions from safe journalists,  Nick Robinson, of the BBC.


Prime minister, what do you say to the charge that historically your party has been a hotbed of child sex assault, torture, even murder...?

Historically, did you say historically, Nick, I think you'll find that it's a bit more.......whoops, got my wires crossed there, Nick, but look, we were both at Oxford, let's not make a mountain out of a mountain, eh?  There's a good chap.  No, I think you'll find that that nice actor chap, Mr Nigel Havers, 

WHY THE GOVAMENT IS EXACTLY RIGHT.
BY SOME REVOLTING OLD TORY LUVVIE.

yes, him  off Coronation Street, he's bang on the money.  No, no, his Dad was a great guy, a simply great guy, 


 
 a great govament law officer who simply wouldn't let his mate off  a charge of noncing, and even if that is what he did, which it is, he never told his son about it, so, obviously it can't have happened, can it? If the man from Coronation Street says he doesn't know that his Dad had a rewarding career as HM Nonce-Protector General, 
 then that should be good enough for ordinary people, who aren't in Downing Street, I mean Coronation Street.  And I would remind people that his aunt, Lady Coronation Street, 

whom I have appointed to head-up this very important, full and far-reaching cover-up, Mrs  Butler WhiteSchloss, is lovely, too, her nephew said so,  and furthermore she actually never met her brother, 
 
his Dad, never met him once, so how could she be compromised in investigating him?  I mean, and let's be quite clear about this, Lord Havers and  his sister, Lady Butler WhiteSchloss,  were only brother and sister, it is not as though they were related or anything.  Look,  to be quite frank, they never even met, let alone spoke to one another.  Yes, like myself and Mr Coulson and myself and Mr Rock. No, I think the nation will thoroughly admire the cut of Mr Nigel Havers's jib.
 
  I mean, it's not everyday a man stands up so impartially  for his own family, now, is it? 
 I think the very least we could do for him is a knighthood, he is one of us, after all, not that that would influence his judgement, of course. Just because a man loves his aunt, that's no reason not to give him a second chance.  Not that he does.  Not in that sense.


And what happens, prime minister, if she, if Auntie dies before accomplishing the desired whiteschloss, I mean wash, forgive me, been reading that ishmael chap....no, no I don't think you should;  what would happen, were her Ladyship to die before finishing the whiteschloss, damnit, wash,  the whitewash?

Well look, Nick, it's quite simple.  If Dame Not-Actually-Related-To-Her-Own-Brother should pass away, which, let's be fair, is highly unlikely,

not as though she looks like Death warmed-up, is it, 

and she's only in  her eighties, if, however, she should croak, well, then I will accept full responsibility for appointing her and, should I still be prime minister, appoint some other old coffin-dodging lawyer to start all over again, with  a safe, if shaking and palsied pair of hands.

But prime minister, this enquiry could take years.
 
Yes, Nick. 
And years and years and years.

And finally, if I may say so,Nick, to you and your colleagues, it's not us, the rich and powerful, that you should be investigating. If, despite Francis Maude's best efforts, you hadn't noticed, the fucking teachers are on strike, yes I know they only teach in ordinary schools but even so, And the strike is entirely legal.  It's the teachers you should be attacking, not, if you don't mind me saying so, not harmless old gentlemen, generally from good families,  whose only crime is buggering a few children to death, whilst laughing their heads off. Long grass, Mum's the word.

HIS LORDSHIP'S HOUSE

 

Norman Tebbit is now an old man, his wife disabled by the doings of noted conflict resolution expert and statesman, Mr Marty Kneecaps, deputy first minister of the house of horrors which is the Northern Ireland Assembly. 

Ever since he was forced to return the Range Rover donated to he and his wife  by Mohammed al Fayed - of whose bribes his Lordship of course knew nothing - Tebbit has grown more unpleasant, his incessant Why-Oh-Whying sometimes like a national rash,  the answer to his querulous, whining  enquiries is,  obviously, Because of you, you cunt, and your fellow spivs, flogging-off the national silver and holding Greed's coat for him, that's Why-Oh-fucking-Why,  Lord fucking Telecom.

One can understand there being bitterness in his daily round but his own wounds do not warm his snide cold-bloodedness;  he was a ghastly reptile before the Brighton bombing and he remains hissing, scaly,  untrustworthy and venomous.

He is adored, yet, by followers of his Filth-O-Graph blog, by other sclerotic old men who delight in addressing him, in their comments, as my Lord or your Lordship, as though he was a noble warrior king and they his sturdy yeomanry; not for them the notion  that he is a  cruelly disgraceful old bandit and they a bunch of cranks clinging in their dotage to their illusions of Whisky Maggie is a shiny armoured delusion,  unoxidised by the rainfall of Time's realism but  burnished, instead,   by Lord Snide's undimmed hatreds and resentments, by  his readers' fretful, aged alienation.

It may well be the case that his recent - customarily veiled - references to the Great Noncing Cover-Up by his government are an attempt to get his own retaliation in first, as we now say, blaming others for his own actions.

Tebbit was close to Savile, not a crime but surely a huge misjudgement, perhaps worse than a misjudgement;  what ordinary person could not be repelled by Sir Jim's bespoke bestiality, his monstrous, bullying ego, who could admire him?  Well, Tebbit did.

And who would not sue the ghastly trollop, Currie, for her remarks, below, regarding Tebbit's acceptance of another nonce into the inner sanctum.  If I was him  I would have had the lawyerly mr umbungo all over the case.

Tebbit  often whines that he is misquoted, misrepresented over his On yer bike remarks, he never meant it quite like that or didn't say it but few would doubt that his thinlipped, cadaverous,  greedy soul meant exactly that, and worse. Wasn't his gang of bent spivs determined that (someone else's)  employment was a price worth paying, and do we not see, all around us,  the generational consequences of their filthy cynicism? 

The sneer is Tebbit's default expression and as he sneered at those dashed on the rocks of his vicious policies so he licked the arses of the City gangsteriste noueveau, begging for his crumbs.  It is easy to see him sneering, too, at the fate of worthless social services rentboys, what were they, compared to Greed's Crusade.

Somebody should ask his fucking Lordship about this Morrison business.  And be quick about it, before he, like his mate, Jim, is feeling Satan's poker up his arse.

Well, of course,  if I had known that the kiddybuggering and killing were fact and not rumour, I'd have privatised them.  And yes, probably taken on a non-executive directorship after retirement, but not for the money, just to protect the taxpayers' interests.

Old friends.

 

Jolly nice chap, Jimmy Savile, and rather sharp.

Self-made man, just like me. 

 In 1986, Edwina Currie wrote in her diary: 

 

‘One appointment in the recent reshuffle has attracted a lot of gossip and could be very dangerous: Peter Morrison has become the PM’s PPS [Parliamentary Private Secretary]. Now he’s what they call a ‘noted pederast’, with a liking for young boys; he admitted as much to Norman Tebbit when he became deputy chairman of the party but added ‘However, I’m very discreet’ – and he must be! She [Thatcher] either knows and is taking a chance, or doesn’t; either way, it’s a really dumb move.

  

FREAK SHOW

The lady's not for turning.

EVENSONG WITH ALAN SHEARER, DEATSCHLAND UBER ALLES

Aye, Gary, I wuz right, didn I tell you that them was a loada ladymen, like, and couldn't play fer toffee?

 

 I mean, they crack-on like they was proper fellas but you only had to look, like, at the shorts and you could see that they 'ad some proper tackle doon there.  Wossat. Ah, yeah, s'pose yer right, 'adn't thoughta that, like;  aye, yer reet, bonnie lad, they would have, wooden they? My mistake.  But even so, the supporters,  they  was ladymen to a man, they was, 

 

  all that make-up an' fake tits an' what not. 'Snothin' gets my goat like a ladyman, Gary; did it never 'appen t'you?  You know, you got yer arm round this gorgeous  bird, 'avin a few drinks after the match, you been 'avin' a reet good snog and you slip yer hand into the penalty area an' fuck me there's meat an two potatoes?  Never 'appen to you?

Can't say it did, Al, can't say it did. 

 

But was this in Brazil, Rio?

Nay,  lad, it were in  Rusty's gay bar, in N'cassul, like. 

 

'Slike that most Fridays.  An' Satdays. 
 You should gi' it a go, like, Gary, they sell crisps.

But that bloke, that cunt, wossisname, ishmael - what sort of a fuckin' name is that anyroad, is he a fuckin' foreigner? - that bloke as is writing this, he says we gorra play this record, like, for the defeated nation of Ladyman, might bring 'em some comfort, like, after bein' handed their  arses by the Super Race. Fair's fair, lessfaceit, Gaz, they 'ad some good points, them Jerries. An' he says it's one a his favourite quartets, whatever one a them is; is it like a, you know, a threesome, only better, with more cocks, not that I'm a big fan a cocks or owt, an' he says that even though it were turned into a national anthem it's a sublime imagining, what can, like, move us all.  He says this here is a movement from the Kaiser or Emperor quartet, by some Herman called Haydn. Is that like in Haydn Seek, do you think, Gary?  Only we play that, down Rusty's,  of a Friday, hide'n'seek each other marbles, like; reet bonny, somea them lads, I mean lassies.

BROTHERS IN ARMS.

There were some friends here, a little while ago and a text message came from Birmingham, favourite son was unexpectedly flying out to the already kicked-off THIEFA World Cup.

He's one of those forty-year old Mummy-dependents, on his second failing marriage, trapped in an immaturity undisguised by his beery blokeishness, his bloated, red-faced excess.

We were talking, here,  the other night,  about what we now call consumer choices - how you spend your money - and there has never been a time when I could afford to fly-out to Brazil, didn't matter how much money I had, I could never afford to do that.  This guy also, with his mates,  regularly flies to European capitals in order, bless,  to get pissed and obnoxious. I blame the football, it is the bloke's equivalent of Because I'm worth it.  Somehow, thousands and thousands of pounds are diverted from family budgets into the pockets of spivs, gang-rapists and a United Nations of foreign gangsters.

Today, two young British Muslims face lengthy sentences for having flown abroad, not to engage in the mass hysteria of footy, not to get pissed-up and shame their country but to risk their limbs and lives fighting an enemy which the British government was desperate, a short time ago, to annihilate.

By today's yardstick any Briton who  fought fascism in the Spanish Civil War would be deemed terrorist and face durance vile upon their return.  And let us not even consider the bizarrely  incongruous judicial example  of Old Queen Brenda having a knees-up with Marty Kneecaps, or the fact that no British or any other kind of  Muslim has come anywhere near Marty's record of killing British citizens, men, women and children.

One would hope that, come sentencing time, Mr Justice Slag will say, Listen lads, fair play to you for wanting to have a go at Bashir Assad but, you know, you can't go taking the law into your own hands, you're not Tony Blair or anything.  I'm gonna give you a suspended sentence, just as long as you swear to me, before Allah, peace and whatnot be upon his wotsaname.... that you'll step back from this Jihad stuff.  Now off you go and stop worrying your parents and everybody.

But these young men are black-ish and they didn't go to Eton or Repton,  they were never in the Bullingdon Crime Gang  and they must, therefore,  be punished for their youthful high spirits  and idealism.

I am related neither to the lachrymose, neglectful,  spoiled, ageing footybrat nor to the young Brummie Jihadists but  think if I was looking, from among them,  for brothers in arms, I'd have to think long and hard.

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL.

There is much comment, on the information super highway, much of it thoughtful and well-informed, about the conviction of Rolf Harris.  Some complain that the evidence is all hearsay, others that it is too old, or historic, as we must now say, aping our arse-watching masters in MediaMinster.  One strand in this unpopular campaign is the fact that one of his victims took thirty grand or so, in advance of the trial, from a tabloid; another is that Harris's daughter's friend, upon turning 18, voluntarily remained in a sexual relationship with the old creep for thirteen years, only raising Hell when he refused her demand for money and there are yet others who insist that even if he did do that groping and all the rest it, it isn't really that bad. Strengthening their hand, paradoxically, some might think, is the intervention of Ms Vanessa Feltz, complaining very late in the day of events she alleges took place decades ago.  Like so many in showbusiness, Feltz, indefatigably talentless, is a Cantabrian, amongst the finest brains in the country, yet she breaks, it seems, just like a little girl.  I don't know the extent of the Harriskrieg on Feltz's underwear but whatever it involved it is a long way from child abuse and I guess, par for the showbusiness course, these people are uniformly repulsive and amoral and Feltz's belated cant unreasonably fuels the unreasonable assault on feminism which underpins, I think, much of the disquiet around Harris's conviction. 

I do not know if he was guilty as charged, if the charges were lawful but I must presume that the judge and the jury decided rightly, on my behalf, on both.  Judges, however,  are neither infallible nor always entirely honest; look at the trial, ancient now, historic, of Liberal leader, Jeremy Thorpe, in which the judge directed the jury that it could not convict an Old Etonian; look at the trials and imprisonments of so many supposed IRA bombers, who were all innocent; at the outrageous framing of Barry George for the murder of Jill Dando and the unanswered questions about her investigations into establishment paedophilia; we could fill the streets of cyberspace with the rotten, scandalous behaviour of judges high and low. Overwhelmingly white,  privately educated and Oxbridge, who could doubt that these vermin will, first and foremost, protect their own, I would believe anything of Mr Justice Slag.

I am also perfectly willing to believe that Hall and Harris and Clifford have been chosen  as scapegoats; indeed, watching, a few minutes ago, a sinister, former Tory children's minister, smarming and soothing, advising caution in the face of hysterical conspiracy theories and blaming all but parliament for all this shit, I would almost bet my life on it.  Thrown to the wolves or not, though,  I have little doubt that Hall and Harris and Clifford behaved reprehensibly for significant periods and towards those who were vulnerable to them as a result of their celebrity.  This does, of course, open an argument about the nature of celebrity but I have been having it here for years, already.  I wish more would engage, would see the true meaning of the phrase, There is no business like showbusiness.

But the danger I came to talk about is that old one, divide and rule, which Mediaminster so readily deploys against us.  Cameron’s spivs and gangsters would, at a stroke, repeal equal pay legislation – Look, it hampers the wealth creators, simply gets in the way of long term economic reform; would repeal anti-discrimination legislation -  Lessbeclear, it costs the taxpayer a fortune; would, as it so successfully does, even further set worker against worker, black against white and man against woman.  The women’s rights struggle was and remains everybody’s struggle; it is a piquancy of our ruinous times that so many blame it - and not himself - for the apprehension and conviction of a wretched old nonce.

HOW TO SPEAK GOVE. BBC News Michael Gove No to public enquiry on missing files

NO RETREAT, BABY, NO SURRENDER.

I don't know if Rolf Harris included any Bruce Springsteen material in his repertoire but if he did it would be no more incongruous than his version of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven, a perfomance  strangely adored by the popmusic/beasting crossover cognoscenti, silly, festivalising, singalong fuckwits.  

Rolf,  however, is not surrendering to hysterical calls for him to at the very least express remorse but ideally gouge out his own eyes in penance, burn himself alive on a bonfire of his own money, money given him by legions of those wise after the event, stupid and tasteless at the time.  Pay good money to watch a creepy  old party turn like him?  Aye, right. 

As with Savile, so with Harris;  it is the public veneration as much as the personal vice which permitted and encouraged the crimes, let he who never sang along to Sun Arise cast the first stone.  Will his doting audience express its own remorse?  Is Old Queen Brenda going to say, fuck me, subjects, one is really pissed at oneself for posing for a filthy old kiddy-fucking drongo like that?  

I don't know what makes an outsider but the longer I am one, the better it feels. Fuck art and guile and cleverness, I would always rather leave a woman than watch a Woody Allen film with her, and so it was with these two.  I simply could not tolerate them at any price,  they made my flesh creep;  in my view, therefore, their popularity and their license were two cheeks of the same, indulgent, unrefined public arse. They were our creatures, we protest too much.

Seventy-three year old Cliff Richard prances and gyrates about, warbling I'll be-e a Bach-elor Boy until my dying day-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-aaaay and we say, Isn't he good for his age?

A younger Cliff with Tory pervy peer, Bob Beastby,
I mean Boothby.

Lord Beastby, with gangster chum, Kray
 and young friend.

No business like snowbusiness.

But shrieks there are from Harris's formerly adoring regiments of fans.  He must remorsify himself, howls a Godless, heathen horde, as though it understood the word remorse, as though it meant smearing oneself with shit.  In fact, it is Harris who is being consistent and in a way, honest.  He pleaded not guilty to those charges, spiritedly maintained his plea, yet was convicted and we must presume that he is guilty; it does not follow, though, that he should apologise for something which he feels he has not done.  I know that his counsel, in mitigation, acknowledged these as opportunistic rather than predatory offences and such was an admission of sorts but she, presumably under instruction from her client, did not express remorse.  If,  at some future point, he does so feel and speak, that will be more valuable than some pantomime knee-jerking,  today; we have seen enough of that from him.

I once worked with a serial nonce.  He was just a nobody, a mousey little man, in his late forties, deferential, timid, even. Woebegone, he could not understand the charges which he faced. She led me on, mr ishmael, she was a filthy little tart. You know what they're like, mr ishmael.  What's a bloke s'posed to do? He was genuinely indignant.  She should be in court, for what she's done to me, leading  me on.  I looked at his file,  the girl was ten. He was a fiddler, not a snuff killer; he needed profound psychiatric help and we, the non-bestial, we needed him to get it, too.  The judge gave him three years.  I don't know but I wouldn't be surprised if he kept on fiddling until his dying day, Sex Offender Register or not. Maybe, as with Rolf,  all  concerned urged remorse upon him but none took the trouble to lead him there.

Attornery General, Dominic Serpent, has been petitioned over a too-lenient Harris sentence. The sentence, however, seems adequate to me,  I thought he'd get five and that the judge was as right as he could be, in the circumstances.  I would rather Harris  had not been jailed at all but instead forfeited most of his money to better purpose and been compelled to perform community expiation, only not with young people. Almost anything you give a man in his eighties is a life sentence and he doesn't deserve that for what he did, nor does his wife.  In our punitive society, the flames of Revenge are daily fed by the likes of Brooks and Dacre and Coulson, stokers in Filth's boiler room;  the only wise counsel for Harris's victims is that of Forgiveness; hatred and the urge to vengeance, although understandable,  are insatiable, are Villainy's ongoing triumph.

Those stagily  outraged by Harris should, for perspective,  have a look at the lonesome death of Jason Swift, 14, gang-raped and worse, murdered for fun by Sidney Cooke and his gang.

Jason Swift. 
Jason is believed to have lived in Islington council's Conewood Street children's home. Sidney Cooke, Leslie Bailey, Robert Oliver, and Lennie Smith, were involved in his sadistic killing.

As I recall, the press, at the time, rejoiced in calling this fourteen year old child a rent boy.

 

In 1982 Margaret Hodge  became Islington council leader.
She became a close friend of Tony Blair, who lived in Islington, a few doors away.
In February 1990 Liz Davies and David Cofie, senior social workers, discovered evidence of sex abuse of children and reported it to a residents' meeting attended by Mrs Hodge.
In May 1990 Mr Cofie and Ms Davies were told by Lyn Cusack, assistant director of social services, to stop interviewing children about the abuse claims.


Sidney was connected to those,  the great and the good,  in the mysteriously disappearing Home Office  files. Make your blood run cold. As these things go, unwholesome as he is, Harris is small beer, perhaps even distraction.

THE THINGS THEY SAY. THE WISDOM OF BLIND BOY BLUNKETT.

Inadvertently tuned to Dimbleby minor in the car, Any Approved Questions, and that revolting piece of shit, Blunkett, was on, burbling  in that pained, simmering angry way of his; fatuous horseshit, how on Earth did he ever get elected to anything, worthless whining git, stupid, stupid, stupid.

 I missed whatever the approved question was, something to do with Cameron's man, Coulson, I guess but Blind Boy was well into his stammering stride .........and there's loads of people, on Twitter and blogging and so on and they don't even have any journalistic qualifications.

 

A so-called Labour politician, decrying the citizen journalist, the pamphleteer, the iconoclast. At least they can read and write,  arsehole, and at least they don't work for Rupert Filth. 

If ever we doubt the death of the Labour Party, should ChumbaWumba and Balls and the wretched Miliband fail to convince, we need, to have it confirmed, only study the wit and wisdom of this ugly, nasty, embittered old slag.                        

A HARD RAIN'S A-GONNA FALL.

DUNNO WHY, AIN'T NO SUN UP IN THE SKY, STORMY WEATHER.

These are from the space station, amazing stills of Hurricane Arthur, which is currently threatening the South Eastern United States.

President and First Lady Obama are on standby, ready  to go and feel the pain of the poor folks, once the storm has  passed. On the other hand, they might just twitter something, no point getting Air Force One out unnecessarily.

 

GARDENING NEWS

There was a huge, sprawling, lopsided purple hebe, six or eight feet high, in the centre of this picture. I had looked at it for years, thinking, it spoils the sea view, then thinking, Fuck the seaview, no shortage of them, on an island,  but there is a shortage of hedges and so I left it.  This year, however, most of it was dead, so I have sawn it back to a couple of feet, it may come back but in the meantime the view of the sound, out towards the ocean, is nice.  We had some old friends, staying,  both widowed gardeners from suburbia.  I handed one of them an AEG reciprocating saw, it's for construction timbers, really, but it's very good on trees and hedges.  Here y'are, this is what you need, secateurs aren't any good for this job;  she got right into it.  It's not tools you need, on this scale, it's machinery. I don't know what's happened, maybe it's a matter of him having settled-in now but for a long time it was impossible to take a decent snap of the blog-dog.

Now it's not. He looks as though he belongs here, perhaps more a case that here belongs to him.  He's got everything he needs.

There has been unprecedented growth this year,  these whitebeam, knee-high when we came, seem to have put-on about thirty per cent,  the canopy is high yet the side branches race out, 

threatening to strangle one.

 

 The sycamore border, on the far side also seems to be twice what it was, as does the fennel.

Last year, we planted a thousand daffodils in the lower part of the meadow and hoped that they'll proliferate as have all the other clumps;  there were  a few score in the whole place when we came,  there are now thousands upon thousands, Life, tumbling over itself.  After the new ones  had bloomed we allowed the meadow grasses to grow, the flowers are gorgeous and who knows what's alive in there, feeding and fed-upon. We mowed paths through the meadow to give access to the sections which are daffied-up.

Visitors have commented on the profusion of bees and butterflies, and the   birds are thicker than ever. The nearest trees and hedges are some miles away and you can bet your arse that they will have been  cultivated by incomers. Arboriculture is frowned upon by locals, some locals, gets in the way of the tractors,  there shouldn't be trees in this lane, whined one local delivery driver, rip Hell out of the lorry, they will, just shouldn't be here, trees.  I wanted to grab him by the throat and say to him Do you know what trees do,  you fucking imbecile?  And anyway, I've driven seven-ton lorries round Birmingham where there is solid brick or concrete  an inch on either side of your mirrors, you'd shit yourself.  Instead, I asked him to show me the damage which my hedges and wee trees had caused to his HGV.  There wasn't any but he still went off muttering.  I recounted this to a nurse and she told me a tale of a younger woman she had known, who, in her twenties, when her mother was going into  hospital, had to be moved to another house because she was frightened by the trees,  a handful of scrawny, wizened old things about six feet high.  She couldn't see through them or around them and it frightened her; if my oil deliveryman has that condition he shouldn't be driving.  

 The willow aren't so good, too much dead, dry wood, they are thick with weeds and I haven't been well enough to clear them out, I have a big fuck-off petrol strimmer-brushcutter but not the strength in my neck and shoulders to pull the wretched starter cord.   I hate those fucking things, neuro-surgery due in ten days, hope that works.

 Despite the odd growing season, I think these firs have to go, although mrs ishmael resists the removal of anything, dead or alive,  there's growth at the top, she protests.
I shouldn't grumble, ongoing plastic surgery on my foot and the need to keep off it,  have, for a year,  now, seen me in a wheel chair, a really clever knee-scooter or, while in the garden, on the big Honda mower; mrs ishmael, it is, who has maintained things this past while. 

We eat the peashoots as salad, double-shell the broadbeans and freeze them; potatoes and herbs  I grow in tubs of compost, nobody can grow potatoes here that are not watery, insipid abominations.

 The entire lower garden, half an acre, was a ploughed field, filled with rubbish,when we came.

Difficult to recall, now, what a shitheap it was.


In the 'sixties the neighbouring farmer had owned the place briefly, ploughed-up the garden  and grew turnips for his cattle; there was  a walled kitchen garden for the clergymen who lived here with six servants and fertilised it for centuries with seaweed, horse, chicken and cattle manure, we add to it, today, as much as we can. 

After we had cleared the rubbish out - loads of barbed wire, glass and rusty corrugated iron - I brought the new farmer in, with his tractor.  He levelled the place and with a digger uprooted the random willow clumps and - after we had installed a seephose beneath - planted them in a more or less straight line, as a wind barrier and a border. He then seeded the whole place with a pasture mix, he did it in a day, charged me ninety quid and forty of that was for the seed.  It would have taken us years. 'Swhat I mean about machinery.

I built six massive compost bins, years ago and they have delivered very well;  we also buy lots of compost from Lidl, maybe fifty, a hundred bags a year, one way and another, sometimes we get horse manure and when I'm up to it I collect, must be tons by now, of soil enricher - rough, woody  compost - from the local tip,where it's free.  All the white junkmail, all the Amazon cardboard goes in along with some of the grass cuttings - can't use them all - and all the kitchen waste and the sawdust from the workshop,  the fallen leaves, the rhubarb leaves.  Even so,  there's never enough.  I wish I could be like Monty Don and just seem to have absolutely unlimited supplies of fine, beautiful, home-produced compost. But I can't. No more than can he;  the PBC lying and misrepresenting, even in its horticultural outposts.  In another couple of years the Pampas grass will screen the compost  bins, even so, I'll have to remake them, only had twelve years from them.  Dunno what Monty'd say, perhaps have one of his theatrical  nervous breakdowns.

 The rhubarb,  this, we figure is ancient, we eat a bit of it,  give away loads of it and compost the trimmings, it has been heavily picked but it can look strikingly large and colourful, architectural, isn't that what they call it, the Montys?

Earlier in the year, I slashed an old willow back by about half but there's no stopping it, when it hits the wall the branches just do a ninety degree turn in another direction,  there are right-angled branches in there that must be forty years old.

I keep the comfrey - and a house full of scented geraniums - in memory of my late brother.  Despite a life spent avoiding paid employment and a professor's knowledge of the Child Poverty Action Group's Welfare Benefits Handbook, Joe toiled hard in his allotment.  Forty years ago he was an organic grower, a student of Lawrence Hills and the Henry Doubleday methods.  In a terribly troubled and angry life, growing spuds and carrots brought him more comfort, I think, than anything else.  Even that wouldn't last though, wouldn't escape his self-destruction; he fiddled the allotment society's accounts, pocketing a few quid and was asked to leave.  He raved about comfrey as a green manure;  we just grow it;  the bees love it.

I made a bench - piously re-cycled, from a scaffold board and a telegraph pole.  I made the mistake of using a spirit level and not my eye, so it looks crooked, even though it's everything else that's out-of true.

I quite like the darkening arch and what used to be bright, sunny, lawned enclosures, are now dark, spooky, woody places. They need a wolf or two, or a bear, a unicorn, maybe,  but you can't always get what you want.

 It's not for everyone, gardening, it requires time, space and stability and often we have none of these, much less a full house.  It came late to me and so haphazard are my efforts that some would say it has yet to arrive,  I prefer, in any event, to think of my doings as projects,  rather than as any innate or cultivated green-fingeredness, many of them are heavy duty work, clipping the hundred metre hedge in the lane, however,  that is a meditation.  I wish, I wish, I wish in vain that I had several more energetic decades to plant woods and see them grow woody.  If you are going to take it up,  this nurturing thing, don't leave it too long for, as we hymn here, occasionally, who knows where the time goes?

EVENSONG. Solomon Burke & Gillian Welch - Valley Of Tears

David Rawlings is neither as accomplished nor as experienced a musician as Richard Thompson, not as lyrical or expressive but Goodness me, he can do that flatpicking Bluegrass stuff like no-one else; edgy, dissonant, yet graceful and comforting. Rawlings plays like Bob Dylan used to sing with the Band - you think he'll run out of bars before he gets all those notes in, but he never fails. I had never heard this song before and would have avoided the late Mr Burke like the plague; Welch and Rawlings, though, invest everything with magic.

MURRAY MINCED.

Oh, Mother.

Interviewed by Radio Orkney, Scotland's nutter-emperor-elect, Mr Alex Lard, denied that Scot, Andy FitzMcMurray, had been knocked-out of the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament. 

Just more scaremongering, he snorted; it may well appear from the scoreline that he lost but I have taken legal advice which says that quite clearly he won.  

It's like the pound, the English chancellor, George Slug, says that we can't have it but I have taken legal advice that says we can. 

 

Now, who would you trust more, 

the truth of the matter, or me? 

You know, not to put too fine a point on it, everybody, from my fellow-president, Mr Fitzbama, from the   European president downwards to the BBC, is telling lies about Andy McFitzMurray; it's clear to everyone that he won and those who say he didn't are simply bending the facts of the scoreline to suit their own ends, scaremongering, as I say, simply what we in the Salmond National Party have come to expect over the last three-hundred years.  Look, I have the photograph proving my victory over Mr Cameron.

 

 No, no, it's not last year.  I have a team of independent photographic analysts, internationally renowned, who say that this was today.

It's odd, is it not, when you hear that 28 signatories to a treaty say that the treaty means what it says it means, when, in fact, I have taken legal advice which proves beyond contradiction that treaties mean whatever I say they mean.  Oil prices?  More scaremongering, pure and simple,  relentless negativity; the fact of the matter is that in a market economy prices will not vary, that is to misunderstand the nature of the free market, something with which I, as a former economist, am completely familiar.  No, look, the market dictates that if a hugely respected international statesman,  such as I,

if I say that Scotland's future finances depend on a stable and rising oil price per barrel then the market will see to it that that's what happens, why would it not? Why would it not act entirely in Scotland's interests?  I have a panel of unbiased freemarketeer experts, all of whom have been promised ambassadorships for themselves,  low taxes for their companies and McPeerages who have all quite independently and with great integrity arrived at figures which support my figures, whatever they happen to be at any given moment in time and I have taken independent advice from  eminent pre-ambassadorial lawyers who all agree with me that black is actually, whatever Westminster says, white.

 

 And if the oil price should tank, well, Scotland'll grow rich on selling these wee biccies;  the world'll fall over itself to buy these wee beauties. Why?  Because they're made in Scotland and everybody in the world loves Scotland and that's why all they poor countries in Europe who pay VAT on food and the bairnses claithes, that's why they'll say that we, in Scotland, as new entrants, dinnae havetae pay yon tax; they Croats and Romas and what have you, they live in a horsedrawn economy so they'll be pleased to pay more taxes so's that we rich fuckers here dinnae havetae. It's obvious.

(Readers may think that this representation of NatLogic is fanciful, but believe me, it isnae,  here, in the best part of England, we hear shit like this all day long.)

Winston Salmond.
Gi'e us the tools an' we'll break the job.

And it's the exact same thing with the border.  There simply won't be one, och, there may well be hundreds of thousands of immigrants being welcomed to an independent and wealthy Salmondland, I mean Scotland, but to suggest that many of them will just walk over the border to England and hitch a lift down to their cousins in Londonistan, that's just the usual negativity which has characterised the No campaign. There is simply no need for a border between two countries which have different policies on immigration, defence, law enforcement and taxation, these things can be settled with  a spot of goodwill and everybody doing as I say. It's not as though, post-independence,  Scotland is going to be a foreign country or anything. 

So I would simply say to London that it should see sense and agree with me that Andy McFitzMurrayson of that ilk won a  resounding vitory in the Wimbledon Men's Final. Even though he didn't.

GLASTONBURY, ENTERTAINMENT'S CESSPIT.

Blondie, Dolly Parton, Tom Jones, fuck me, Jesus;

 sooner or later every dodgy, decrepit, has-been Butlins Redcoat in the country will find themselves on the stage at Glastonbury, stooged-for by that stupid, gobby old farmer, worshipped by its zombie singalong audience. This one below, though, this was really, truly fucking special. The grooming, as mrs woar frames it, of a nation.

 Y'know, mates, - an' yer such a great crowd, I just wanted to tell you that, sincerely, from the bottoma m'heart - there was this good bloke,  called Joseph of Aramathea, and he came here, rather like m'self, outa the goodness of his heart, to Glastonbury Tor, only he was on walkabout, from Palestine or somewhere, and he planted  his didgeridoo in the ground and it grew into something truly wonderful,  rather like my story about the two little girls, I mean  two little boys, it just kinda entered the national songbook, that one, Margaret Thatcher loved it, yeah, right, I know she 'ad a kangaroo loose in the top paddock, wasn't quite  bonzer in the brain department, old Maggie, but that song, kinda made me a national treasure it did, with some people.

Artists, connoisseurs, entertainers? 
 One has known for simply ages that they are all creepy fucking bastards.  But what can one do?

And this here  is me and Queen Brenda, we 'ad a kind of a mutual admiration sorta thing going on, even if I do say so m'self. Bit of an illusionist 'erself, is Brenda. Gotta be, really, in her game.

If he doesn't top himself first, which, if he has any sense, he will, he'll be off to one of Brenda's nicks, come Friday, an old man, and he'll never come out.  And for the rest of his days in prison he'll be, at best, mocked and humiliated daily by filth, riff-raff and bullyboys.  The prisoners  won't be nice to him, either.  His Mrs'll be,  I dunno, it doesn't bear thinking about.

What does bear thinking about, though is how sick I - and I presume most normal, decent people - are of hearing how nobody ever suspected, whooda believed it, Rolf Harris, of all people; well, I never;  hindsight is all very well.........

I was saying to mr bungalow bill that until 1968 and dating from the time of Shakespeare, the Lord Chancellor and local Watch Commitees kept a tight rein, mindful of its members' proclivities, on showbusiness; productions, scripts  and activities had to be licensed, kept an eye on. They knew, in the sixteenth century,  that there is no business like showbusiness, an observation from which we are now immeasurably distant.  We are,  rather,  approaching a point where, for many, there is no business but showbusiness.

Be it the national legislature or be it the Jeremy Kyle Show,  the inept narcissist and  the degenerate lout perform for us on a dizzily accelerating carousel of crap.

Consider what passes for comedy.  Consider people like Graham Norton
 

 and Ricky Gervaise; 

physical and social mutants, 
both their acts consist of  them sticking their fingers up their own arses and inviting us to smell them.  Bravo! Comic genius;  celebrity snot-eaters is what they are. Riding, initially, a wave of  nervous audience incredulity - did he really say that? I can't believe he really said that thing,  the thing he said  -  their smut and cruelty is now a necessary fixture in the lives of many whose day is complete only with a visit to Cruelty TeeVee.  That people do actually watch Norton and his cavalcade of publicity-hungry grotesques always takes my breath away, gives me a HasMyHeartStopped? moment; sometimes the horrid little fuck fleetingly occupies the teevee screen during  my  manic, button-jabbing search for something to watch,  a second or two of his arched body, his ludicrous apparel, his distorted, pantomime dame face,  eyebrows raised, mouthing lewdness. A decent Lord Chancellor'd hang him from the city walls.

Humour is, of course, an odd beast, in the ear of the beholder    and little of it works on me.  I sat stone-faced through most of Monty Python and I thought Morecambe and Wise a couple of really successful Northern Jewish businessmen, could always imagine them having diarised script meetings, audience projections, earnest rehearsals,  what I could never imagine was them actually just spontaneously laughing;  same with the equally overrated Big'n'Small Ronnies,  just taking care of business.  But there was no harm in those old acts, they weren't gratuitously, cruelly vile, as is, to huge acclaim, Gervaise and his fawners.

Wee Ronnie, incidentally, usually so focused on old persons' dietary needs, 
 

dropped a bollock when interviewed briefly about his fellow star, Harris; 

 terribly upsetting, he sighed, all luvvie,
 terribly upsetting, his upset clearly  felt for Harris and showbusiness and not for their victims.

And whilst the country has joyously given license to the abhorrent, secret, cruel fingers have prised apart the limbs of innocence, filled her mouth with secret, ancient spit, her moist  places with  secret, ancient  sperm.

Those of us who joined in the destruction of deference,  who cheered John Mortimer's courtroom liberation of Lady Chatterley  have much to comfort us - and much cause for disquiet; freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose and it is the cultural freedom fighters, the faux liberationists who have overseen, particularly at the BBC, the triumph of the nonce.  Two old corporation hags have been gobbing-off, today, about Harris;  the unshutupable, cadaverous Rantzen, yet again
 
Well, like everyone else in showbusiness, I am utterly shocked, I mean, Rolf Harris, who would have thouight it, him so good with children and all.  Did I say showbusiness, I meant, of course, child protection.  And care for the randy elderly. Like myself.

 and  Joan Bakewell; 

amoral both, the former a cheesy, innuendoising consumer champion turned impertinent and dangerous child protection expert;  the latter a jumped-up, ponderous and irrelevant  culture vulture,  the very essence of early BBC Two-ness.  Rantzen, anyway,  rehearsed her clapped-out surprise, shock, horror bollocks and the ghastly old Bakewell tart wittered on about how she used to kick naughty men surreptitiously in the shins,  so, she implied, why didn't these foolish children do the same, strategies is what we developed, she crowed fatuously and in a moment a thousand poncey, meaningless arts shows, a thousand meaningless ishoos and a thousand meaningless articles -  her life's work - dissolved into meaningless goo. I had always loathed Bakewell  and her thinking man's dolly bird schtick,  her response to Harris - turning it to the glory of her own strong-minded independence -  crystallised exactly why.  Strategies, just not strategies for child protection.     What was the point of pseudo womens libbers like these two trollops,  if they couldn't or wouldn't spot an obvious danger to children, like Rolf Harris? Or Jimmy Savile?  Or Stuart Hall?  Or Max Clifford? All of whom they must have at the very least encountered. 
A decent Lord Chancellor'd  cut off their hair and hang Rantzen and Bakewell from the city walls;  traitors and collaborators with Filth.

George Steiner wrote that the Holocaust happened because the Berlin intelligentsia was too busy listening to the quartet in the salon to hear the cry in the street.  It's stretching things a bit to describe either of these two worthless old biddies as members of an intelligentsia but you know what I mean, pampered by a dirty old man directorate at the BBC, cossetted and hosannahed whilst rabidly phoney and diverted by self-serving trivia from ruinous monsterism kicking-down Decency's doors.

And there's all the producers, directors, camermen, make-up artists, all that lot, serving the stars, .must be thousands of them who will,  regarding Harris and Savile and Hall and doubtless many more, have taken the line of least resistance,  Oh, fuck me, dearie, I can't speak-out, think what it would do to my career.

There needs to be a Nuremberg moment for the BBC. Directors General must be jailed , stripped of their pensions, massive over payments to multi-layered parasitism must be clawed back from the shitty likes of Mark Thompson and Fatso Patten,  from Jonafun Woss and the chortling cancer that is Terry Wogan.  The corporation has failed on almost every front, the odd arts or science programme emerges which is often, in itself, worth the  tax but I could forego them happily, if it meant that we no longer enriched the vilest among us and encouraged the gullible to paddle about on the shores of an ocean of filth.

The nonce and the beast,  they need prevention by scrutiny, instead, they receive encouragement by celebration. It would have been so much better for everyone, especially for Harris, himself, if people had refused to be dazzled by his meagre, overblown talents, hit him a swift punch in the gob and fucked him back off to Australia, but the business of show constantly needs new entrants and lots of its shareholders will have earned a fortune from Harris.
That Michael Grade, a decent Lord Chancellor'd hang him from outside the London Palladium.

 I don't suppose that we could live quietly, modestly and respectfully, as do people like the Amish but unless we move some way in that direction, unless we abandon the elevation of wicked and greedy nonentity then none of our children are safe, even from ourselves.  It was we, with our need to be diverted, who created Savile and Hall and Harris and Clifford;  they are as much our creatures as are we theirs.  

Meantime, we can i-watch  the glory that is Glastonbury, we have the THIEFA world cup and PsychoMommasboy Murray may win Wimbledon.  For us, for the fans. The Pistorious Nutter trial continues to enchant  and the feeble-minded popinjay, David Beckham dopeygrins and stammers his way around skymadeupnewsandfilth, doin' good, fer kids, an' fings like that. Maybe, if we're lucky,  there'll be a war for us to watch and punditise upon,  there is no shortage of potential wars.  And even if there's not a war, there's Mr Salmond's Commonwealth Games, in Glasgow, here, in the best part of England

mr sg was talking about George Orwell, the other day, about his description of totalitarianism posing as benevolence and how that could be  applied to whatever it is that today masquerades as the Labour party. Less polemical, more imaginative  than Orwell was Aldous  Huxley; as we consider the number of platforms, portals, whatever they are, 'phones and tablets and Kindles, when we consider the  inescapability of entertainment technology and of the insatiable appetite for its content, when we consider the parallel, digitised, simureality which so many inhabit,  then Orwell's question, Are you going to the Feelies tonight? seems naive;  we are already there. And the Rolf Harris Show is just one more titbit of content, product, manufactured and served-up.  Nobody, I suspect, really gives a fuck. There'll be another nonce along in a minute. Put your hands together and give it up for him.  Or her.