POETRY CORNER

O What Is That Sound

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear

Down in the valley drumming, drumming?

Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,

The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear

Over the distance brightly, brightly?

Only the sun on their weapons, dear,

As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear,

What are they doing this morning, this morning?

Only their usual manoeuvres, dear.

Or perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there,

Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?

Perhaps a change in their orders, dear.

Why are you kneeling?

O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,

Haven't they reined their horses, their horses?

Why, they are none of them wounded, dear.

None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want, with white hair,

Is it the parson, is it, is it?

No, they are passing his gateway, dear,

Without a visit.

O it must be the farmer who lives so near.

It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?

They have passed the farmyard already, dear,

And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me here!

Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?

No, I promised to love you, dear,

But I must be leaving.

O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,

O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;

Their boots are heavy on the floor

And their eyes are burning.

-- W H Auden

SOUTH AFRICA, PREVIOUS FIXTURES.

WOTSONTELLY. TOILETS MAGUIRE, GRAVEROBBER ROBINSON, ZED-LIST CELEBRITY FUCKWIT, GOBBY LABOUR BINT AND THE TIMES'S COWARDICE CORRESPONDENT, DON MIGUEL PORTILLO.

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THURSDAY 11.35pm in Eng/Scot - 12.05am in Wales/N Ire
Andrew Neil, Diane Abbott and Michael Portillo

ON THE BBC'S DEDICATED JESUS FUCKING WEPT CHANNEL

From the laptop of Andrew Neil

Tonight on This Week:

Thursday 10th June

We've plenty to get excited about on the programme this evening, as World Cup fever reaches Westminster.

Diane's last-minute surge has secured her a place on the ballot for the next Labour leader. We'll be talking about that with the Labour campaigner Tony Robinson, who's got a warning for whoever wins.

The Mirror's Kevin Maguire heads to a London stadium for a football take on the political week in Westminster.

And are England's expectations hopelessly unrealistic, or could we really be seeing a World Cup win for a British team? Calum Best, son of George, will be with us to discuss expectations.

Caroline Flint will be joining Michael on the sofa, but we're inviting ALL the leadership candidates to do a turn in our little studio over the coming weeks, so Diane WILL be back!

We are on live - after Question Time - at 23:35 in England and Scotland - and 00.05 in Wales and Northern Ireland. If that's too late, catch us on BBC Parliament on Friday at 18:00 or later on the BBC iPlayer.

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JESUS FUCKING WEPT.

WOTSONTELLY. BOHEMIAN CRAPSODY?

Maybe, in the end, if he  lives long enough  and doesn't die from smugness fatalis arseholeitis, cheery Jock, Andy Neil, will interview us all;  We are joined on the Daily Politics by Mr Dick The Prick and Mr A Young Anglo-Irish Catholic, for their take on Prime Minister's Questions.

Today, or yesterday, it was Mr Brian May, guitarist with the Rock-Bombast ensemble, Queen, more accurately Dead Queen.

Dr May has a PhD in astro-something and is a regular on BBC's The Sky At Night, with the oldest, angriest fairy in the world, Sir Patrick Moore. As RockGods go May's not so bad.  He has far too much money, of course, his group dusted in the golden fairy glitter brought by the death of its frontman, the distraughtly promiscuous, exhibitionist,  Freddie Mercury and although his playing - on his home-made guitar - is both trademarked  bitter-sweet elegiacal  and manic, full-on stadium rock bluster at virtuoso standard, it doesn't seem to have changed much, these last thirty five years. And nor does he.  Trainers and long curly hair. And bags under the eyes. I have no time at all for Queen's canon and one of my Visions of Hell is of being locked in  a 'seventies bar, with only two songs on the juke box - Bohemian Rhapsody and All Right Now - and them alternately  playing,  loudly, throughout Eternity. But May seems together and thoughtful. No scandal attaches to his name, if he does or did drugs he did  or does them privately, none of Keef Richards'  toxic, bad-example, millionaire junky chic and he seems to have remained with his wife, Wotsername, the actress, rather than grossing-out, nonce-ish, with impressionable teenagers.  Unlike fellow showbiz giants, such as Fab Macca, May seems able to be Off, not forever playing, thumbs-up,  the rock hero, and to engage in other things. Today's isshoo was fox-hunting. May is dead agin it and pissed off at the Tories, for whom he has always voted, seeking to reverse the ban. He was quite straightforward, using dogs to tear apart other creatures isn't by any stretch of the imagination, sport, degrades all concerned, is cruel, sadistic and repellent and should stay banned. Culling badgers instead of inoculating cattle against TB was nearly as bad.  The recent fox attack on children was a  ten billion to one event, foxes don't do this unless frightened by something or cornered, it was the careless disposal of food waste, together with the vicissitudes of the Hunt which drove rural animals into urban settings, leave 'em alone, he said, normal, sensible farmers would rather keep the foxes down themselves  than have the Hoorays galloping all over their land.

May runs a charity, establishing shelters for wild animals orphaned by human cruelty, caring for them until they are fit to be released into their natural environment, Save Me, it's called.  On the odd occasion that I hit a rabbit or a hare, very, very rarely, Watership Down's chilly anthropomorphic horror floods my mind and that's what I think, too - Orphans, frightened, hungry and defenceless. It is not, I know, very manly, but there it is. We are what we are.

I know. May would be better using his money and his energy to damn WarCorp, Gauntanamo, Sri Lanka, China, the live incineration of young widows in the Ancient Civilisation, Aye, right,  of India; the Israelis' Nazi torments in Palestine. Fuck,  you could talk for a month about violated humanity, why worry about foxes.  Well, maybe, like most people, maybe more so, May is aware of his  impotence in the face of global brutality and therefore turns to something at which he might succeed, something in which small acts of kindness, of mutuality,  have a knowable benefit.

On the DP,  May was flanked by the odious, twisting and turning every which way but truthfully Hillary Benn, a grotesque, camp caricature of his Dad, the wretched old phony,  and by some loathsome braying Toryboy, up his own arse at being a junior minister in the coalition of the unwholesome and playing to the huntin' an' fishin' - and probably hangin' an' floggin' - dark hinterlands of RightWing  Filth-O-Graph cruelty.

Against these two worthless ciphers, Benn pro-ban, the other tosser pro a revisiting, as we call these things, Brian May, forever young, really shone, sparkling not for his celebrity but for his spontaneous, honest,  angry compassion for the Others, with whom we share this place, without whom, we are nothing. 

The blogging farmers are up in arms, of course, because, subsidised, supported and infrastructured  by the rest of us, they own the country and detest townies having an opinion on matters agricultural, the fisherfolk are the same, would fish the oceans empty if they could, and then bleat at everybody else;  there are no trees or hedges where I live, apart from my own, those clever farmers grubbed 'em up, so that, behind barbed wire, they  could grow a few extra turnips,  fuck 'em. C'mon the foxes.

May was, on that dismal show, a breath of fresh air.   Catch him if you can.  

CARING FOR THE OLD.

Jesus, they run you ragged, old people. So demanding, Special, expensive food and often. Medications for this, that and the other and none of them are cheap.  Incontinent, flatulent and grumbling.  If looks could kill:  I don't want that there, I want it over here. Help me to the settee. Help me down from the settee. Never a minute to myself. (Thinks: once upon a time, you could get up and down quicker than me)  I need to go to the toilet, take me, please.

And then there's taking him out in the car.  He used to love it but he's not so keen, now, may as well not bother but I just like to get him out of the house and up to the town, meet some people his own age, maybe, have a chat, stimulation, you know. We have driven the length of the Kingdom a score of times, just him and me and he's kept me company but now it's just an imposition on him and even with the roof down on the car, something he used to love, he'd still rather be asleep.  These old blokes, they are a handful. He still enjoys his life but sometimes, when he wakes up, it seems he doesn't know who he is, or anything really, and so I have to hold him tight and say lots of familiar words and phrases, until he's logged-on to himself again.

It's better now that it's summer, he's always loved gardening and now he still manages to dig a hole or two, alongside me, as I'm planting the spuds. So I know he's still in there and we just have to recognise that age limits him a bit, he's ninety-five, after all.  He did his cruciate ligament a  while back but that's mostly healed up, he doesn't have all his teeth, but who does at that age, and he takes heart medication,  His doctor says he's the best ninety-five year old she's ever seen and so, after his last check-up, we gave him a bit of a makeover, a trim;  have to make sure he has thick pyjamas at night because it's still a bit chilly up here, Lord, when the Sun go down. Here's his new look:

ELBY'S EVENSONG, R-O-O-O-O-O-LL ANOTHER ONE, JUST LIKE THE OTHER ONE

THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE.

I AM GOVE, SMELL MY BREATH

Yes, the hospitals, let me finish, burn them down, no, blow them up, that's it, blow them up, no, let me finish, I am very clever, shut up and listen to me. Blow them up, y'see, it's actually the best thing to do with them. If you have hospitals people'll go in 'em, see , when they're ill, and that costs money, and that's money we could be spending on other things, private schools for instance,  for  y children, who are like many of my supporters's children, gifted, in the very rela sense that they have me as theuir father, and another thing,  people expect not just to go in the hospitals but to get treated in 'em, y'see, and get better, and probably come home and want sickness benefit, which we must scrap. Because we 're all in this together. We can save the money the hospitals cost and give it to wealth creating  demolition companies, instead, or as well as, doesn't matter, just as long as we wreck things for ordinary people. Who don't know any better. And the best thing of all is we can blame it on thepartyopposite, who are every bit as bad as us but worse.  Health service, no, absolutely ring fenced, best Tory invention ever.

Now I don't suggest for a moment that we are gonna target the poor and defenceless but that's exactly what we're gonna do, after we talk to them about it, or, not really talk to them, just talk about talking to them about it - as if - and getting them to agree that  them losing their benefit is the best thing since sliced bread, not that they'll be getting much of that down at the very necessary soup kitchens which we are tasking the private sector with establishing.

It's tough times ahead all around and I for one am going to enjoy them hugely, that's what I came to Earth, sorry, into politics for.

What's that? My ears? No, of course I don't breathe through them. Well, not on this planet.

For more news on the terrible,savage and hurtful cuts:

Read the Times. Or the Sun. 

All human lies are there.

THE LONG, SLOW DEATH OF THE LABOUR PARTY.

God bless her, beseiged by stupid, ignorant, redneck fuckpigs at the Filth-O-Graph, Mary Riddell pleads for a reinvigorated Labour party, no man is an island, she quotes, divorced from the cuts made by indolent trust-funded wankers and she's right,  but she's wrong to expect deliverance at the hands of the NewLabour Project-iles, so to speak.

The current Labour leadership election rivals

their Foot-in-Mouth Manifesto of Suicide 

from 1983 and will be far more damaging;

the election of any of this hideous quartet

of maformed misfits, Blinky Balls-Cooper, 

the bewilderingly  gauche, fish-out-of-water

Milliband Brothers  or AndyPandy Burnham,

the Revlon Boy of modern Westminster

- will consign the very idea of Labour Government

to history,

 completing the Project begun by Mandelstein, 

Blair, Brown and Campbell.  It will be a historic

moment but not  one of regret. 

Whichever of them, or whichever combination 

emerges triumphant, if that's the word, 

will spend leadership in dwindling, irrelevant opposition, 

or routed entirely,  beyond  even that meagre compensation.

And serve them right. All of them, party activist or pampered scumbag parliamentarian. Not worth shit.

It remains possible, in these strange times, that some amalgamation of Kennedy-ite LibDems, disgusted by Clegg, and NewNewLabourites might wrest control of parliament but that would not be the Labour party, just a ragbag of disparate, Not-Really-Tories.  

The Labour Party membership should have risen-up over Ecclestonegate, in 1997, when the ghastly dwarf bribed it with a million quid, only to receive an almost immediate refund  and still have his millionaire sport excused from tobacco-advertising legislation,  the Nannystate sidestepped by the Dirty Old Man. Blair, a pretty, straight guy, could not stand any scrutiny and thus blithely  insisted that Formula One was such an important employer that it should continue to advertise fags. Never mind the bung. Let's just move-on.

Ecclestonegate showed that the British prime minister, at any rate, in Cameron's latest, chilling, CheapLabour4U phrase, was open for business; he still is. The Labour Party membership should have risen up over Lashmi Mittal bribing Tony and Imelda, for steel, over the Hindujah Brothers bribing Tony and Imelda for passports.

I would never do anything wrong, cor, blimey, Sahib.

Instead, rotten, grassroots, peacocking imbeciles like John Burton, Blair's agent in Sedgefield, in the first steps of a long march to betrayal, hosannahed their personal closeness to power. Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we'll stop the red flag flyin' here.

The list of personal and institutional scandals attaching to Labour in office would run down off the page and onto the floor and are chronicled here and elsewhere in vivid profusion;  they are inexcuseable and in a decent society would have resulted in their perpetrators' imprisonment . Perhaps the worst aspect of NewLabour's serial venality is that they have lowered the bar of acceptable behaviour and this current ragbag of lying arseholes will stop at nothing, will feel smugly justified in doing anything  to maintain the government that nobody voted for.

Once in power, of course,career politicians,whatever

their notional allegiance,swiftly forget their

supporters, witness Mr Suit-and-Haircut,

once their sternest critic, elected with a

mandate to oppose them, now  a squeaking,

can't-believe-his-luck, deputy Tory prime minister. Labour haters, of whom there are justifiably many - both those naturally ill-disposed to any socialist-styled movement,  and others, more bitter, betrayed, latch-on to this creep, this pampered, tongue-tied nitwit, little knowing or too frightened to realise that Clegg and not Cameron is the true Blairlite, Cameron will only betray one wing of his party for Power. Cleggy, like Blair, would betray his mother and father, his children and most certainly his voters. Quad erat demonstrandum - as we say at Westminster School.

This coalition of the unwholesome, ironically,  is Labour's accurate and telling legacy; Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Campbell, between them and supported by the parliamentary Labour party and much of skymadeupnewsandfilth  made Westminster a principle-free zone, virtually a party-free zone. Bluster as he may about new govament, Cameron's wool is dyed in the same rubbishy, nineteenth century capitalism as was Gordon Snot's and Tony Blair's. Not a Rizla paper, whatever they say, between them. NewLabour dumped principle like an elephant with diarrhoea, leaving us all with the Kiss-Me-Quick  politics of career legislators; jobsworth prats, idle, thieving, braying layabouts  and nitwits. Who, no, really, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about what Vince Cable says about anything, over-rehearsed, achingly ponderous, I Know Best, silly old man, spinning himself shitless, devising Reasons Why I Changed My Mind But I Assure You It's Settled Now, At Least I Think So. To whom  does this horrid, creepy old fuckwit think he is talking, his fucking grandchildren?  By what yardstick of incompetence is this clown deemed brilliant? Only by comparison with Gordon the Ruiner can this foxtrotting nitwit be deemed capable even of putting on his own shoes. Brown, in finally destroying the Labour party bequeathed us this Last Of The Summer Wine Codger, Cable;  bravo Gordon, son of the fucking manse.  Vince Cable Is  A Star, says CallHimDave, mockingly; go on Vince, show them your one times Tory table,

Oh, alright, then, prime minister, but I'd rather get on with 

the job than show-off, 'cos, you know, that's the sort of man I am.....one times one tory makes one liberal,

two times one tory makes seven liberals, 

three times one  tory makes twenty-seven...

And I get a bit stuck after that.

Do-ya do-ya do-ya do-ya

Wanna dance?

It is awful, isn't it, that this old fart is presented to us as salvation, albeit  salvation with a horsewhip;  that he is even given houseroom is down to the national revulsion for newLabour. Consider, never having done a day's work, Ed Balls, first as special adviser and then as  parachuted MP and accelerated cabinet minister, devised all of the financial policies implemented by NewLabour, straight from Oxbridge to the levers of power, no apprenticeship, merely a friendship, or worse, with Gordon Snot.

Snotty made possible, well, all manner of shit, really, but principally he legitimised treachery and betrayal, made his currency blackmail and deceit and bullying, double-counting, hissy-fitting, poison-penning, tractor production statistics, the sort of gigantic hypocrisy rarely found outside police states or organised religion, this sanctimonious cocksucker, this overgrown, snot-eating, cowardly schoolbully and his henchmen embellished the damage wrought by Mandelstein, a man who,  given the brown-nosing awe  he is held in by all at Westminster,  must surely have the QueerDirt on everybody, in high places and low; Labour's  intensely relaxed view of people getting filthy rich was,  pre 1997, as anathemic   to his party as is gangbanging on the Sabbath to Brown's  dire, sourfaced Presbyterian brethren, the horrible fucking bastard. It didn't matter that he shat on the Hunger Marchers, all that mattered to Brown was getting power and hanging-on to it. Come Hell or High Water. A tragedy  born of massive personal shortcomings, Brown's,  bad parenting and overweaning ego, destined to doom the party which made him, destined to usher in that which he claimed to loathe but so acutely imitated - a natural ruling class.

Brown's rotten behaviour made possible the continuance on the Labour benches of those who should in decenCy have resigned the whip, those who whispered betrayal at every opportunity, but why should they go when traitor-in-chief, Snotty, showed no sign of leaving but clung-on, briefing against the PM, blackmailing and bullying, undermining. Snotty set the tone.

  The chilly, sour Jesuitical motherfucker, Frank Field, now  working for this unelected  prime minister, should have left the Labour party years ago, anyone in his position with any balls would have done so.  The current Labour Party, if IT had any balls, would throw him out on his scabby arse, as he prepares to legitimise the workhouse on behalf of the Tories. Corbyn, the conscience of Islington, Marshall-Andrews, Q fucking C, the conscience of the Inner Temple; Diane Lard;  these people were against the wars, why didn't they resign and form another party, do something constructive? Useless fucking bastards. Oh, it's  my party, too, why should I leave, best stay and fight for change from the inside. Broad church. All that gutless bollocks. Too late now. Google left wing MPs and who do you get? Yes, Diane fucking Abbott.

That sums it up neatly, for the People's Party, a showy, pushy cheap entertainer,  who sends her spawn to private school, Labour's Left Wing.

You have to hand it to them, the people of The Project, they have secured the longed-for destruction of an ailing workers' movement, and its replacement with an indivisible, political careerist elite,  ruthlessly bent on self-advancement-but-with-a-conscience, reflecting, perhaps, it's remaining media supporters. Maybe that was always Mandelson's mission, a black-op against the only democratic movement which might hinder the smooth gangsterism of he and his ilk. Whoever is the eminence gris or the prime suspect, the Labour party sold itself to Money, Power, Celebrity and War. And now, serve them right, the envelope stuffers, the doorknockers and shopstewards, now,  the Labour Party is dead, long live the New World Order.

WOTSONTELLY. NUTTER NIXON, THE PARANOID PRESIDENT.

NIXON IN THE DEN, BBC4.

No short-haired, yellow-bellied son of Tricky Dicky gonna Mother Hubbard soft-soap me with just a pocketful of hope, money for dope, money for rope. John Winston Lennon. From a popular 'seventies ballad of political intrigue.

Even those familiar with the rise and fall of Tricky Dicky will benefit from this succinct and cogent  analysis of his  melodramatic and  unhappy presidency.

Written and presented by Cambridge don and would-be luvvy, David Reynolds, it veers constantly towards the arch and histrionic but manages to maintain course.

Despite his humble origins, Nixon was always a horrible bastard, conniving and ambitious in the worst way, he made his name persecuting liberals in the McCarthy Witchhunts which so dignified post-war American public discourse, was fucked-over by rich, spoiled, pretty boy, Kennedy, in the 1960 presidential election, returning, triumphant, in 1968.

On the world stage he garnered probably justified praise for his visit to the Chink Empire, now, ironically, Uncle Sam's lender of last resort, won a second term, despite the opposition of hippy and yippy and trippy youth, inelegantly extracted US WarCorp from Indo China and presided over an economy unremarkable by our fevered standards. But his paranoid, bullying, backstabbing dishonesty eventually did for him and despite having thrown all his aides to the wolves, despite all his Right Thing For The Country equivocation, he had to go, leaving the White House in one of those Marine Corp helicopters they used to throw VietCong suspects from, Nixon cut a shabby figure, pissed and unrepentant.

His presidency had   a strange quirky parallel with the premiership of our own,  unlamented Tony Blair, peacemaker emeritus, in that as Blair was upstaged by a brooding and unpleasant Gordon Brown, Nixon was outmanouvred-for-glory by the stunted, grunting piggy, Henry Kissinger, later Thatcher acolyte and  confidante and go-fer of Lord Conrad Black, now of Florida State Prison, then proprietor of the Daily Filth-O-Graph; a horrid little turd, Kissinger but typical of the lowlifes with whom poor, barmy Nixon surrounded himself.

I don't know that  Nixon was much worse than any of his successors, although I have a soft spot for Jimmy Carter. In many ways he was probably better than most of them,  the odious Clintons, the race-card poseur, Obama, the bought and paid for Reagan and his mad witch, Nancy, and the unspeakable Bushes.  Jesus, what a crew of grotesques. But Nixon  got caught. This brief story of how and why he got caught is well worth looking-out for. On the various BBC platforms. Or is it portals?

THAT CANADIAN SHIT.

I AM  GOVE, TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER.

I see no reason whatsoever, in my capacity as Murdoch Schools Secretary, none whatsoever, that we do not immediately start teaching our children Inuit, I mean, why should they, as a result of Labour incompetence, be denied the opportunity of learning the seventy-three words for snow, which their Eskimo peers enjoy. And I have today written to all the igloos inviting those suitably qualified to tender for the teaching of Inuit, up to and including degree standard, and beyond,  to all our schoolchildren, immediately  If it's good enough for the Canadians, I say, it's good enough for us.

What's that? My Head, Extraterrestrial? No,it's always been this shape.

Next week: snowshoe lessons for the underprivileged.

THE UNHAPPY AMERICAN. .

This Shit In The Gulf business is proving hard to take. Merkins are having trouble voicing their anxious resentment over the oil seepage but most of them, mind,  sound as though they'd have trouble voicing their name and address.

There is an incoherent and endless whine, Dopplering from the Gulf of Mexico, all around the world;  I swear I heard it down on my Scottish shore, this evening. It went whine-whine-whine-whine-whine, good ole boys, whine-whine-whine-whine-whine, peepul iz hurtin', whine-whne-whine-whine-whine, theyz hurtin' reel bad.

Even PROTUS  is joining in the chorus of dissent, even though it's actually  against himself.  He done already said YesWeCan and here we all iz, up to our asses in this filthy fuckin' shit  and businesses is closin' and livelihoods is bein' lost and alls he can say is Well, MaybeWeCanButProblyWeCain't, what kinda shit is that? I knows folks whats been fishing here in the Gulf for, Oh, mebbe three or four years, now, and now thay cain't, unfuckingAmerkin, that's what it is. I ain't no racist, Sir, but fuck me sideways til Thanksgivin' I allus said we shouldn't have no nigger bastard in the White House, didn I allus say that Thaddeus, Thaddeus here's my neighbour an' he's a good ole boy, jes like me, didn I allus say that, about them nigras, ain't that why they call the motherfuckin' place the Goddamned White House? What's the pointa having them monkeys livin' in there and swingin' offa them chandeliers and shittin' all over the Oval Office,  they got monkey children, too, them Obamas, I done seen 'em, on the TeeVee. Disfuckinsgustin 'swhat it is.

Anyway, the home of Liberty and Waterboarding is shitting itself over this e-co-logical disaster  and especially over the sang-froid of Mr Tony,  the BP chief executive; seems he should be rolling around in the shit, flailing himself with a rolled-up Stars and Stripes and not just trying to stop the flow. Seems that here is someone that the Obamessiah can take a swing at, despite, five minutes ago, him saying that anyone with a bucket and spade can come and dig for oil off America's shores. Energy security he called it.  What it means, my fellow motherfuckers. is us, God's chosen people, the last great hope of humanity (no, he really does say all this shit) here, where change has come, in the form of my black ass, us being independent of them other motherfuckers, who we will extend a hand of freedom to, just as long as they do what I tell 'em  the fuck to do, Merka's energy needs come first and foremost in my administration of change. And that's why we gonna dig up the ocean floor and fill Merka's cars with cheap yankee gas, Yessiree, yee-haw.  Only trouble is now he's running around like a headless fucking chicken saying the exact opposite. Just like you'd expect.

It is a revolting sight, those birds, all choking in oil and God knows what happening in the ocean, the dispersant, some say, worse than the oil, itself, but, you know, Sharpshooters USA must blast millions of birds from the sky every year, firing Family Edition RPGs or .50 cal machine guns up at them varmints;  Mr Red Braces on Wall Street must have made far more people unemployed and homeless than has the oil slick and Emil Jasper Beauregarde the Third, down there on the Bayou, should kiss his own ass in gratitude that he wasn't living in Iraq, under  constant bombardment from uranium-depleted munitions,  those great Uncle Sam messages to the future, the ones which bring cancers and widespread birth defects - now, fuck me, there's an ecologocal disaster; mind you, was Saddam Hussein himself snuck into the Twin Towers and planted them explosives, so's them buildings'd just fall plumb down outa the sky in they own footprints;  once the planes had crashed into 'em, that is, and even when they didn't, know what I'm sayin', Jim? The only thing we coulda done was go in there and steal all that motherfuckin' oil offof 'em - that's what democracy's all about.

And that's not to mention all the gangraping and drive-by shootins  and fun an' games in the  Abu Ghraib penitentiary which the Merkin peepul've kindly exported to Eye-rack. Why some ayrab . just walkin out there on the street, got an even chance a gettin his head blowed off, just for the Hell of it, by some of our fine mercenary boys operatin' out there, and even by the Oh-fishul KKK Regiment a the US Air Cavalry, pouring some a that sweet hot death down on their nigger heads, shit, ain't democracy just the best thing ever. Apart from

the Free Market as understood by them LImey fucks at Bee fuckin Pee.

These whining rednecks have been very happy, like all their patriot motherfucking neighbours,  to use as much, more, oil than anybody else on the planet, they have wanted more of it and they have wanted it cheaper; they have been delighted to work for the  oil companies, one of which they now lambaste, the Southern States have been Oil States  for over a century and now,  fuck me, Jesus, brothers and sisters, the oil done bit them in the ass, they're all sounding like a branch meeting of the Scottish Green Party and the lamebrain, airhead president is getting his ass kicked, entirely without justification, for not emoting enough, as though he should be down their on the shore, a Bible in one hand. a sixgun in the other, rebuking the waves and loosing off at the Oilmen . Oh, what a sight for sore eyes, Obama getting roughed-up, the useless gobby prick.

(The Bhopal disaster in India, in passing, was at the hands of the majority US-owned Union Carbide chemicals company; twenty five thousand have died and today, a quarter of a century on, a couple of bit players have been jailed,  there has been no public outcry in the United States over this company's behaviour, but then Indians are the next worse thing to niggers, ain't they.)

Merkins might reflect that the shit they are dealing with in the Gulf is just a fraction of the shit that they export all over the world, comercially and militarily, in the pursuit of their own dumb happiness. But they won't. Is Clint Eastwood, they must be asking themselves, too old to run for the White House?

THE PRIME OF MISS FRANK FIELD.

Fuck me, Jesus, these poor fuckers, what are they like, eh, good job Mr Cameron's put me in charge, at last.

Frank Field MP, (Lab/Lib/Tory)

She's back, tut-tutting, in her sour, I-Know-Best, Jesuitical fashion:  the Poor, money's no good to them, not like it is to rich people, like my new boss, the current, unelected prime minister. Oh, but Frank Field is the only man to tell it like it is. Aye, right, him and Vince Cable. And Nick Clegg.

What I hate about these slimeball parliamentarians  is the monstrous hugeness of their egos, this fucking worm, Field,  like Abbott, and Corbyn and fuck me, look out, here comes a thieving bastard Queen's Counsel Bob Marshall-Andrews,  is that they languish, parliament after parliament, having been elected on a Labour ticket, lowerlipping and poisonpenning, Oh, I'm Old Labour, me, lacking the balls, the character, much less the political intelligence to split away and form another party, they hang around, neither use nor ornament, year after pampered, parasitical year, awaiting an opportunity, as has been granted Field, to stab both constituent and party in the back, reaching for what he's wanted all along, a place on the ermine-edged ToiletBench of State, nasty, creepy bastard.

An anti-war party might have flourished, become a beacon for those sickened by Blair-Brownism, but not sick enough to cross the Duncan-Smith/Howard/ CallHimDave floor. Hoey, that wrinkled old prune and ghastly whinging Ulster fishwife, passed-over for promotion, conflating her ineptitude with principle. bitching and griping ever since, she's another, like Field beloved of the mad, old, expatriot, rabblerousing Filth-O-Graphers, generally detesting the poor, the different and the fairer sex in equal measure but making an exception for Kate. And Frankie.

Never mind coalition, he should be deselected; what's the new word, recalled; it won't apply to the likes of Filthy Frank, man of principle, decent one-nation Tory, all along.

BLUEGRASS MATINS

AUTOPSY NEWS.

Israel uber alles.

Those plucky Israeli commandoes. Looks like they only just managed to kill those turrists.

None of these shots were fired from more than twenty centimetres away, less than eight inches.

The nine victims

(from the Guardian)

Cengiz Alquyz, 42

Four gunshot wounds: back of head, right side of face, back, left leg

Ibrahim Bilgen, 60

Four gunshot wounds: right chest, back, right hip, right temple

Cegdet Kiliclar, 38

One gunshot wound: middle of forehead

Furkan Dogan, 19

Five gunshot wounds: nose, back, back of head, left leg, left ankle

Sahri Yaldiz

Four gunshot wounds: left chest, left leg, right leg twice

Aliheyder Bengi, 39

Six gunshot wounds: left chest, belly, right arm, right leg, left hand twice

Cetin Topcuoglu, 54

Three gunshot wounds: back of head, left side, right belly

Cengiz Songur, 47

One gunshot wound: front of neck

Necdet Yildirim, 32

Two gunshot wounds: right shoulder, left back

The single, forehead, wound was caused by a cartridge, filled with pellets, entering the brain.

THOSE TORY NEWBOYS.

Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Golightly Jockstrap, former C-in-C of the Queens Highland Nancyboys and RedStripeTrouser Pursuivant-in-Waiting to the late QueenMother has made his maiden speech in the house of commons.

Stand to attention, you 'orrible 'onerable member.

Since leaving the forces, Colonel Bob Stewart has made a living popping-up on Skymadeupnewsandfilth whenever they need some military type to fill five minutes about a military matter  -  Colonel Rupert, you visited Bosnia-Ashdown-Herzagovina, what's your take on these muslim bastards - and which anyone down the pub could do just as well. Or better. But Colonel Gob is now in charge of a constituency and By God, he'll make the buggers march. Red-faced and stuttering like a broken Bren gun, Colonel  Bob  enthralled the commons but not very much with his tales of the Battle of Balaclava and how the nation would soon learn to march on half-rations. A former CO of the infamous Cheshire Torturing Bastards Regiment, Colonel Rupert is no stranger to being a bastard and although none of the Cheshire constituencies would wear him he won the sixth safest Tory seat in the country,  the London borough of Beckenham.  Although winning, in these circumstances, is hardly the word.

Coming from a family of Rupert Golightly Jockstraps, the mad bastard told a rapt, sleeping commons, I know how to give these LibDem Johnnies what-for, cold steel, that's what they need, and I'm just the man to give it 'em. 

Does my arse look big in this lounge suit? Always think a chap looks his best in battle dress, or combat fatigues. Not enough batmen to go around, that's the trouble with this country, a good flogging off a decent batman, that's what a chap needs. Hurts at first, of course, but you soon get used to it, until it becomes as natural as buggery.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE EVENING STANDARD MAGAZINE. THE CELEBRITY PAGES

We are instructed to celebrate much that is unwholesome but Gerry 'n' Cilla, the famous ventriloquism act,  are in a league of their own.

Wonderful parents, they modestly claim, they left their infant daughter alone, in charge of two younger infants, in a strange room, in a strange apartment in a strange, foreign  city with a transient population. They then securely locked her in or didn't lock her in, depending on when they tell the story and which they think sounds best. They then went professionally and responsibly drinking with some professional and responsible co-drinkers, all of whom were agreed that leaving infants alone in these circumstances was a very responsible thing to do. They were in line of sight of the apartment in which the children were locked, or not locked, it's just that no-one else's vision works that way; to most people, well, everyone apart from Gerry 'n' Cilla, the apartment is not in line of sight of their drinking, sorry tapas and drinks table, and even if it were, one would only see the back of the apartment and not the front, where the door was.

Some time later, when the child was missing, Gerry 'n' Cilla delayed contacting the police until they had appointed a UK PR team and contacted family and friends in the UK and until after their reponsible, professional co-drinkers had rampaged all over the crime scene. Throughout their own interviews with the police they refused to answer some forty questions and have, with the help of skilled and hugely expensive media professionals - paid for by charitable donation -  been able to shift the blame for their own conduct onto the Poruguese police;  thay have also, from charitable donations, paid off their mortgage. In these days of Ruin theirs is probably a justified celebrity.

Gerry'n' Cilla pose for snappers.
No such thing as bad publicity.

The Text: Three minutes with Mr and Mrs McCann

How are you? All things considered, we are doing OK. When your child is missing, time is not a healer.  The pain and anxiety remain but we are feelings srong and as determined as ever to find our little girl.

What are your summer plans? It will be nice to spend some time at home but we will go and visit family and friends too, while we have the chance.

How are the twins? They are just brilliant. They are coming up to the end of their firts year in school and have settled really well.  They are incredibly happy, funny and confident children and we are very proud of them.

The McCanns, Gerry 'n' Cilla, 

among fellow celebrities. Bless.

The McCann Charity is still open for business, 

should readers wish to donate.

HT mr a young anglo-irish catholic.

MORE ON SHOOTER HEFFER.

Although far too cowardly to own-up to it, rabble-rouser and SchoolFatBoy, Simon Heffer, was the author of the infamous Liverpool editorial in the Spectator, a political wankmag for rightwing nutters, and left Boris Johnson, his editor, to take the flak. A darling of hangers 'n' floggers, Fatboy has often said he would pull the gallows traplever on a condemned man, and probably woman, too. Just as long, Simes, as they were, like Liverpool, wrongly convicted, eh?

HT mr a young anglot-irish catholic.

This, below,  from blog ak13 sets out the position: Eyes wide shut

Stereotypes of Scousers have hurt more than just pride, says Andrew Coombes.

Andrew Coombes

28/10/2004

The furore that followed the Spectator's 16 October leader, where the magazine suggested that the outpouring of grief on Merseyside for the murder of Ken Bigley was disproportionate, fuelled Liverpool's already deep mistrust of the press. Editor Boris Johnson made a trip to Liverpool to apologise for the leader column, stuttering and stammering his way past each caller that phoned up BBC Radio Merseyside to publicly excoriate him. The reaction that the Spectator piece provoked in Liverpool was very much like that of a cornered animal, lashing out in an attempt to defend itself. Not surprising, given that Liverpudlians are perhaps the only UK residents that still endure not just comedic ridicule, but utter contempt from other areas of the UK. This contempt is apparent in the Spectator's leader, particularly in its view of the 1989 Hillsborough football stadium disaster. It is worth examining the Spectator's editorial in detail here. "The deaths of more than 50 Liverpool football supporters at Hillsborough in 1989 was undeniably a greater tragedy than the single death, however horrible, of Mr Bigley; but that is no excuse for Liverpool's failure to acknowledge, even to this day, the part played by drunken fans at the back of the ground who mindlessly tried to fight their way into the crowd that Saturday afternoon." The leader goes on to say: "The police became a convenient scapegoat, and the Sun newspaper a whipping-boy for daring, albeit in a tasteless fashion, to hint at the wider causes of the incident." Taking these paragraphs apart, there are a number of errors and more than a few instances where journalistic rigour has been subsumed to mistrust of Liverpudlians. It is necessary to put the Spectator's comments up against the true facts. 96 Liverpool fans died at Hillsborough on 15 April 1989, following a crush at the Leppings Lane terrace. The failure by the police on the day to ensure safe entry to the terraces contributed directly to the disaster. On entry into the ground, fans were steered into the central pens directly behind the goalmouth. Meanwhile, the outer pens on the Leppings Lane terrace did not fill up to the same extent as the central pens. When Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield ordered that an access gate (Gate C) be opened to let in the fans – due to the failure of the turnstiles in processing the fans on arrival – police failed to divert incoming fans into the side pens on the terrace. Instead, they sent them into the two already crowded central pens. A huge crush occurred in the central pens, killing 95 fans on the day – Tony Bland died a few months later after never regaining consciousness, taking the death toll to 96. From the immediate moment of the crush, the myth making began – in favour of the police against the victims. Indeed, Chief Superintendent Duckenfield told a shocked Graham Kelly of the FA that fans had forced entry onto the Leppings Lane terrace. "Within hours this information was circulating around the world as the key cause of the Disaster, with the word 'stampede' embellishing the story", notes Phil Scraton, Ann Jemphrey and Sheila Coleman in their exhaustive investigation of Hillsborough, No Last Rights. Tellingly, this initial lie came be the central plank of the mainstream media's Hillsborough coverage. The Interim Taylor Report concluded that the failure of the police to inhibit access to the crowded central pens, once Gate C had been opened, caused the disaster. It stated that the central pens had not been monitored sufficiently, leading to heavy crowd density. In short, the police failed to recognise the immediate consequences of their decision to open Gate C, following the difficulty of processing a large amount of Liverpool fans through a comparatively small number of turnstiles, many of which had malfunctioned. At no point in Taylor's interim report was blame laid at the door of Liverpool supporters at Hillsborough. One should not expect to continually recount the above facts 15 years after the tragedy, but Hillsborough was no ordinary disaster. Time after time, the stereotypical view of 'Scousers' has over-ridden a true representation of what really caused the tragedy. The Taylor Report is available from most public libraries, so the Spectator's failure to speak authoritatively on the cause of the disaster is inexcusable. The fans were innocent, while South Yorkshire Police's operational order failed. The Spectator's defence of the Sun's reporting of Hillsborough is a further pointer to how the Spectator views the disaster. The Sun's infamous piece 'The Truth' was, in fact, one of the most mendacious pieces of journalism ever committed to print. In this piece, the Sun did not merely 'hint' – as the Spectator states – at the wider causes of the incident. Amongst other damaging statements, it falsely reported that drunken Liverpool fans raided the pockets of the dead and injured, and urinated on police officers that were attempting to give the kiss of life. The idea that this kind of behaviour would occur at a tragedy of this magnitude is unthinkable. Yet the Sun reported this as fact, a 'smear' without any shred of substantiation. Raiding the pockets of the dead? Liverpool fans were actually looking for identification on the victims, and families of the bereaved reported no thefts from the dead to the Hillsborough Family Support Group. Urinating on police officers and the dead? Phil Hammond of the Hillsborough Family Support Group told John Pilger: "We got all the clothes back; they hadn't been washed; none of them smelt of urine". The Sun took a litany of pejorative assumptions about the behaviour of Liverpudlians and published a piece that had a devastating effect on survivors, and the families of the bereaved, as they tried to cope in the immediate aftermath of the disaster. Over fifteen years on, the Spectator has chosen to place fiction before fact, even after the Sun apologised – albeit belligerently – for 'The Truth' story in July 2004. A prestigious intellectual publication has shown professional sympathy for a newspaper that lied. The Spectator's reference to an 'unfortunate' sense of victimhood among Liverpudlians is deeply offensive to those who lost loved ones at Hillsborough. 15 years after the disaster, no one has been prosecuted for the failure to ensure public safety on 15th April 1989. The Hillsborough Justice Campaign's fight continues to have a new inquest opened that rejects the highly contentious 3.15pm cut-off point – all evidence after this cut-off time was not deemed admissible by the coroner at the original inquests, despite the fact that several witness statements state that many fans who died were still alive after 3.15pm. Yet the brave refusal to give up on justice is, instead, portrayed as an excuse to wallow in self-pity. The Spectator's view that Liverpool has a 'deeply unattractive' psyche is by no means unique. Jonathan Margolis wrote for the Sunday Times in 1993: "The tragedy is . . . that Liverpool is stuck in a groove, refusing to listen to criticism, clinging to past charms and triumphs, desperate not be seen as provincial but managing to appear just that by cutting itself off from the world. When the world is against you, how gratifying it must feel to know that you really do walk alone." It would be so easy to shrug one's shoulders and say that a free press has an inalienable right to publish comment that is uneasy or difficult to swallow. However, in a clear case of power without responsibility, ill-researched scattershot broadsides have been allowed to pass as constructive comment in the case of Hillsborough. The negative mythic assumptions concerning the disaster and its aftermath have been so well choreographed as to deny the Hillsborough families a full and proper hearing in the inquests and judicial review. A true example of the power of the press in shaping negative attitudes towards the disaster is the callous remark by Lord Justice Stuart-Smith at the Judicial Scrutiny into Hillsborough on 6 October 1997, shortly after the new Labour government had taken power. On meeting the families for the first time, Smith breezily remarked to one bereaved father: "Have you got a few of your people or are they like the Liverpool fans, who turn up at the last minute?" The common-sense, yet incorrect, view of Hillsborough that repeatedly passed as 'journalism' predicated how the judicial process was steered, leading to an abdication of impartiality by the judiciary and, in turn, an abrogation of justice for the families. The Spectator's view that Liverpool has a 'flawed psychological state' is an insult to the families that continue to seek redress for the failures of Hillsborough. On speaking to Anne Williams, a mother who lost her son Kevin in the disaster and who now calls to have a new inquest opened, one does not sense any self-pity but a sense of righteous anger and, above all, devotion to her son's memory. These qualities are in stark contrast to the snobbish and arrogant posturing of the Spectator, which, in seeking to address the emotional outpouring after Ken Bigley's sad death, has only increased the hurt and suffering of innocent families across Merseyside. Boris Johnson may feel privately that the fact he had to apologise to Liverpool for the column proved its very point – that Liverpool is a tribal city with a deep sense of injustice. However, when distortion of the facts in cases such as Hillsborough occurs, it is to be applauded that communities take a pro-active stance against the libelous excesses of the press. Just as the Sun's sales never recovered on Merseyside after 'The Truth', so the Spectator will lose out, circulation wise. That, however, is not the point. It is an outrage that the piece ran in the first place, and one can only wonder what other inconsistencies are in its pages.

US DYKE OFFENDS BRENDA.

Waytago, bitch;  Happy Birthday,Your Majesty.

The US Secretary of State, Hillary Rodham Trousers, yesterday wished the Queen a happy birthday – eight days early.

But rather than signalling a breakdown in the "special relationship", it was, an American Embassy spokesman insisted, "a simple error." President Trousers is a very simple sort of lesbian, said US Ambassador Mr Truman K Ledbetter the Third. Just a dumbbitch dyke, the Prsident hadda give her sumpn to get her off his ass. No, sirree, she definitely didn't mean no harm when she said that her husband, Spunky Bill, could drop-by the Palace and Lewinsky the Crown Jewels, she can't, anyway, continued Ambassador Crudeater, commit President Spunky Bill to anything, they hate each others fuckin' guts.

But rather than signalling a breakdown in the "special relationship", it was, Mr Turdburger insisted, "a simple error".

 "The statement was sent out by Washington in error and we just assumed they had got it right and relayed the message."

The ambassador confirmed Mrs Clinton was aware of the gaffe but denied the Department was embarrassed by it. "This message was intended for release on 11 June, and the early release was a simple error," he said, adding that it was customary for the Ambassador to send a personal message on the Queen's official birthday in any case. It's me's the ambassador here, in Limeyland, and not that carpetmunchin' freak, said Ambassaddor Craptrapper, and I say what goes on here, me an' the CIA.

In the statement, Mrs Clinton wished the Queen a happy birthday, adding: "On this celebratory occasion, we pay tribute to the Queen's life and legacy and honour the special relationship between our two nations. Just so long as it works for us but not for you"

She was also careful to talk up the "special relationship", saying it "continues to provide a solid foundation as the United States and Britain work side by side to meet the challenges of the 21st century, from supporting the refocused mission in Afghanistan to promoting the global economic recovery to working for peace in the Middle East. ie the Israelis"

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE PRESS ASSOCIATION, UNLAWFUL KILLINGS, AN EXPERT SPEAKS OUT

LORD BLAIR OF BUENOS ARES

(UKPA) – 17 hours ago

The Government should consider asking relatives, neighbours and workmates whether people are fit to hold a gun licence, the former head of Scotland Yard has said.

Sir Ian Blair said policy-makers could spread the net of people consulted on the suitability of those who want to own lethal weapons.

The retired senior officer said seeking the approval of doctors, firearms officers and magistrates is "rather limited". His comments came as it emerged that Derrick Bird was a licensed shotgun owner with a previous criminal conviction.

If it had have been my officers they would have shot him dead with fifteen rounds to his dago head  and it would have been promotions all around. And he would have been the wrong bloke. But never mind, eh, grinned his Lordship. I have my pension and some retirement opportunities and a peerage. Which is more than many have. Especially that Juan Charles de Menendes.

THE HEFFERSPHERE. WHAT'S WRONG WITH TAXI DRIVERS?

The Heffersphere is alive with class warfare; how dare a taxi-driver own a firearm, why,  the bounder doesn't even have an estate;  greyhounds and whippets, they're good enough for the likes of him, aping his betters. They don't need them and shouldn't have them, blusters the truculent piggy, Simon,

Sneering Simon

not unless they own or have shooting rights over a jolly old estate - the "have shooting rights over an estate" is there to include the purple-faced arsehole, Simes, himself,  who won't have an estate but will toady to the owner of one .  He was only a taxi driver, Bird, lament nearly all and sundry in the Heffersphere,  and shootin' and huntin' and bondage and buggery are for the better orders, Tally Ho.

Why, pray, does Jeremy Klaxon have a stable of supercars which will travel at three times the national limit,  who needs a Vee- or a DoubleYou- Twelve? Supercars and high-speed production cars  can  and do  kill people every year.  Ah, but cars don't kill people, people kill people, the rich shout aloud,  or do we mean guns, guns don't kill people, people kill people, is that what we mean? Isn't what we mean that the rich neeed to have societal differentials, beyond the one of not paying proper taxes, like everybody else, the rich need to be further above the law, even,  than Mr David Laws, the secretive, gay, tragic midget,  who, according to Mr Fraser Nelson, whoring journalist emeritis, didn't need the money he stole and  therefore wasn't guilty of anything and therefore should not have been punished, poor lamb, especially when he is the only person in our sixty million who can run the Treasury, right under Mr Osborne's nose, as it were.

Heffer and his mates bitterly resent the fact that the proles can carry guns, too.  The rights and wrongs of citizens bearing arms don't enter PiggyBoy's leaden cogitations, it is just his own distinct separateness which he would underscore by a move to restrict gun  ownership to his own, idle, non productive, perverse caste; as though anyone glimpsing his likeness or hearing his flatulent ruminations on the BBC would be in any doubt that Simon Heffer is in a class almost entirely of his own