VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE.

Elderly light entertainer, Mr Bruce Beardsteen - famous, long ago, for singing about being with his baby, in his car - was inconsolable. Oh man, he roared at a crowd of his culturally retarded supporters, Oh man, this isn't what Rock'n'Roll is meant to be about.  Hillary Trousers is the great Rock'n'Roll chick, right, and just what this country needed.  I mean, she just owns that stage, right? shimmyin' across that space, in her sexy little pants suit, she just owns it,  an' that thing she does, of just pointin' at some random face in the crowd and grinnin',  man,  like a monkey havin' hisself a wank, right?

that's just the coolest, most insincerest thing ever. Pure showbiz. Man, she's hot, that Hillary Trousers, an' as I said in one of my platinum-sellin' odes to dumb workin' people, Tramps like us, Baby  She Was Born T'run, ooh-ooh  ooh-oooooooh, oh-oh-oh-oh. And her ole man, Spunky Bill, man, he plays a cool sax.  Spunky Bill is just so cock'n'roll, I mean Rock, Rock'n'Roll, shit, man, course I do. 

Thass OK, Bruce, cock's fine by me.
Y'wanna suck mine a little bit,
stick a ceegar up yer asshole, mebbe.
Thank you, Mr President Spunky Bill.

It'd be my honour.

Friends, lemme tell ya. 

 I bin singin' about blue collar Americans for fifty years, made me a fuckin' fortune, actually,  those lame, lovesick  shitbrain Woody Guthrie caricatures I sung about, but as fer them dudes havin' the vote, I dunno how smart that is.  I mean, there just ain't no way a knowin' if they'll vote how they're told.
Man, I'm just so fucked-up about Hillary not gettin' in the White House, 

 

an' us all - me, 

 that great Limey bore, Sting, 

 

my good friend, the Nobel laureate, Bob Dylan.  Litter-ah-ture.  A fine, fine thing.
Yeah, yeah, it is a shame there wasn't no books written last year.
 Or poems. 
Or plays.

 

Hey, Bobby, y'wanna suck my dick, 
mebbe in the Oval Office.
 I bet you'd like that.

an' Lady Gaga 

 

- sittin' around  jammin' some cool stuff  and doing a few lines of Bolivian vitamin supplement, only not  SpunkyBill, of course, what with his heart condition.

Mr  Bruce Boss, superstar, liberal and political scientist  then climbed on  top of a piano,

 

 leapt onto the stage, broke his hip and was helicoptered away to a private light entertainers' super  (no poor folks allowed) hospital.  ObamaCare, asked Mr Beard's manager, ObamaCare? Yer shittin' me, right?

My fellow motherfuckers. 
So y'all changed, in just eight years,  from Hope to Dope, from Change to Strange. Y'all gone fer Mexicanism, instead of the normal, decent American way of bombin' niggers abroadism, torturin' their asses in Gitmo - a great, great American institution, the envy of the water-boardin' community - an' shootin' them lazy cocksuckers down on they own streets.


Who'm I pointin at?  Fucked if I know.

Is it some nigger?

 I mean, my fellow motherfuckers, ain't it enough that we let 'em sing about We Shall Overcome;
 

I  mean, what more do they want?  
They don't expect to actually overcome, and be like us white folks, do they? They'd have nothin' to sing about, in them Lord-Amighty-Hear-Me-Lord gospel choirs they all like so much.
No, no, they got it all wrong, them troublemakers; 
 Black Lives Do matter, just not all of 'em.  


Take me, f'rinstance, 
me an' 'Chelle, an our two little wossanames - they girls, right?  daughters? anyone know what their names are? -  it's obvious that our lives matter, but some lazy nigger down on Main Street? Well whaddathey expect but that some KayKayKay patriot in a cop uniform is just gonna shoot 'em dead.  I mean, they're only jumped-up slaves, ain't they, formerly owned by great American bankin' families, to whom we all owe just so doggone much. 
Our magnificcnt lawnforcement gays're are just kinda correctin' some  regrettable historical mistakes. 


Did I say gays, back there?
Lawnforcement gays?  
Well, whatever, we all using the same toilets, now, ain't we?  An' like it says in the Constitution, gender is just a spectrum, right? So if ya feelin' like y'all is a woman, today, even though you ain't, why you now gotta legal right to go in the ladies' shithouse, pull yer pecker out and piss up the wall; yeah, an' any a them straight bitches complain, well we gonna throw them in jail. 
That's inclusive LGBTQism right there; some big trucker wanna go in the ladies restroom an' wave his dick around, why that's his God-given right.
This is one of the major issues in the election.
Y'all gotta vote for important stuff, like this. 

Thassright, Madam Secketarry, a big smile for the faggots.
Yeah, and the dykes, too. 
Right and those recreational-gender-choice freaks.
Y'know, Mr President, back in the day, in Arkansas, me an' Bill, we'd a fried those sick freaks. Now here I am, kissin' their asses, or whatever they got down there, where the Sun don't shine, fucked if I know. 
Chrissakes, I wish I was at home now with Huma, 'stead a playin' housemother and role model to every crazy, fucked-up, psycho degenerate in the country. These fuckers ain't even gay most of 'em, they just want something to bitch about.



One last thing, right, that I'm gonna do - well you're all gonna do, cos it's you suckers is gonna pay for it - what I'm gonna do is reimburse all our friends in the world's best dictatorships for all the money they donated to Hillary Trousers in order to buy the American election; yeah, Saudis, Qataris, Bahrainis, yeah, all them head-choppin',  wimmen-stonin' great democracies like that, 


they all paid Hillary's election expenses.  


This display is brought to you by Global Friends of Hillary

I mean, all them sheikh folks buyin' themselves the White House.  How good is that?  


Wossat? Illegal?
  Ragheads and financial terrorists owning our fine system a check's'n'balances?  
Shit, no that ain't illegal. Well not in  any sense of people being arrested. An' even if it is, legal an' illegal don't mean nothin' to Hillary. She just kinda transcends shit like legal and illegal. Yeah, thassright, cos she got a vagina.

Well, tell y'all the truth, I never did like the  bitch but they had me over a barrel, back then, eight years ago.
To get ridda her  I hadda pay-off  all her election debts, promise to give her the job at State, yeah, where she criminally erased all the emails, done deals with crooks who was bribin' her an Spunky Bill, got our folks killed all over the world. yeah and that Chelsea, too, the daughter, yeah, I know, a hundred thousand  dollars fer a Chelsea speech

 from the UK DailyMail

Revealed: Chelsea Clinton earned an annual salary of $600,000 at NBC News even though she is barely on the air and the show she was working for has been cancelled

• Chelsea Clinton joined NBC in 2011 but her last segment aired in January
• Contract switched from annual to month-to-month because she will not stay with the network if her mother runs for president
• Was originally a special correspondent for Rock Center with Brian Williams but the show went off the air in June 2013
• Also unclear if she will continue making the infrequent taped segments after she gives birth this fall
• News of her salary came the morning after she attended a charity function wearing leather pants, a Chanel necklace and Christian Louboutin heels
• She and her husband bought a $10.5million apartment last spring

 an' the dumb shitfaced cow ain't never done nothin', 

 cooden find the hole in her own ass, 



 yeah and then once I got rid of Hillary I hadda promise to support her campaign this time round. 



Why? Well, my fellow motherfuckers, if a haddena done that then you mighta learned shit about me that it's best you didden a done.  Best for me, anyhow.
Now that she done lost you might do anyways.  I kept my end of the deal, though;  ain't my fault if the people  hate her rotten guts, is it? Sorry, I don't mean hate her rotten guts, I mean imprison her underneath a glass ceiling. 


That ole glass ceiling, that there's the villain of the piece. Hadden oughta be no choice, if a women is runnin' fer office, even a mangy, decrepit, delusional  ole crook like Hillary Trousers, why, everybody should just be forced to vote fer her ass. Otherwise what's the point of democracy?
 But really, just between you and me, that's why she really lost, 
 it's cos she's a  fucking monster. 
An', my fellow motherfuckers, she was good fer Jack Shit  as Secketarry of State, spent all her time hustlin' bribes from sheiks and tyrants and plottin' her campaign to be President Trousers, Secketarry of State my sweet white ass.

Vote fer Seckaterry Trousers, motherfuckers,
she da real thing.

Well it don't bother me none, I'm minted, as they say in Limeyland.  I done such good work for  the country's banks that I ain't never gonna have to work again. Thassright, not one a them financial terrorists going to jail;  many of 'em even coming to work in the White House.  Poor folks? Well them sonsafuckinbitches are always complaining.  Niggers?  They always bitchin', too. Okay?  Now 'sone last thing I gotta do - 'part from showing my fellow tycoon,  Mr Comb-Over, around the White House - and that's to pay back to the sheiks and despots all the money they done give President Trousers.



I mean, they paid good money to buy this election and this great country of theirs, I mean ours,  and now they just gonna have to stand in line, like any ordinary State Department war criminal and wait their turn. Or get to the back of the queue fer everythin' like the Brits have to. Fuckin' Brits' who do they think they are?  That's more people, right there, that's more people just not votin' like they bin told. But it seems kinda unAmerican, don't it, them despots and tyrants not gettin' what they paid for?  

 
So what I'm gonna do is pay them back all the money they gave the Clinton Foundation.

 Well, actually what you all gonna do is pay the money back, Wossat?  
Aw, chicken feed, half a billion bucks, maybe a billion. An' anyways, under my administraion the national debt's so Goddamned big you can't even visualise it.  An' there ain't no chance of payin' it off, not ever. Payin' back President Trousers' creditors, though, that  ain't no big deal, an' it is, my fellow motherfuckers, the right thing to do.
Yes, we can


I mean, them swords, they don't come cheap.

Bernie Sanders?  Sure, sure he would've won against President Trump.  But he's a Goddamned nigger-lovin' socialist cocksucker. Anybody's better'n him.
I gotta go now an' play me some golf.
God bless America. 

Rally round the flag, y'all.


 Here, in the best part of England, First Minister Gnasher, of the Scottish Lunatics Party, dressed in one of her many Thatcher suits,  

has been punching her wee fist on the lectern and putting President-Elect Trump on noteece, that the Scoattish people, sitting in their wee hoosies, will be watching him carefully, and that for now  she is prepared to give him the benefit of the doot, he did win the election after all.  Just like the Unionists did, here, in Scoatland, only we dinnae talk about that, because its the wrong kind of democracy. 


 Gnasher on Democracy, 
honest to God, you dunno whether to laugh, cry or puke. 


As First Minister  I'm here to tell you that Donald Trump is the best thing that's happened to Scotland since, well, since me. Me and my three salaries, three pensions, three sets of expenses, my redtop newspaper columns and my economic expertise.  No, no, that's fear mongering;  the price of oil can only go up.  Just as Donald J Trump is now my - and Scotland's outstandin overseas trade ambassador.

The harsh truth for her, however, and for the gabshite hysterical nincompoops in SNP Westminster

It is our wee view, d'ye ken, in the SNP, that Donald Trump should be arrested if he lands in the UK. Aye, fer dissin' me.
 
is that with one stroke of his red-inked protectionist pen - if he can write - Trump could bankrupt Scotland. 



A tourism boycott or a tax-hike on whisky, salmon, tweed and shortbread would see the SNP lined up against the wall, motherfuckers, right  where they belong, fucking Nazis.

President-elect  Trump, as well as having upset the Nazis in the SNP,


 has roused the sleeping giant that is the DogShooters Party, 


all eight of them.  

The ToiletMen's currrent and doomed  leader, 
Mr Susan Fallon;

but not of people who aren't like us,
like people who voted for Trump, which, in my opinion, was an absolute disgrace.  Well, you may say that we have always been a bunch of child molesters, crooks, queerbashers  and copraphiliacs, but that's just some of us. Alright, a majority of us, but majorities don't matter in modern, progessive, liberal politics, how could they, when the majority so often gets things wrong? Time after time, we allow them to vote and they vote the wrong way.

Susan, already demanding a re-run of the Brexit referendum, now insists that America revisit it's presidential contest in order that the democratic will of the people be overturned.


The house will come to order. 
And I am sure that members on all sides will, like myself, be ready for a good laugh.  
And so I call the leader of the ShitEaters Party, 
Mr Susan Farron.



Thank you, Mr Tiny Speaker, and I am sure that I speak for all democrats everywhere when I say that Brexit Means Bollocks. It is quite clear that the people who voted for it may well be a majority but they do not speak for the minority  of proper people who, for instance, as will many members and right honbourabe members, here,  employ comely au pair girls - and indeeed boys -  who work for room and board, nor for some of our vital industries which can only flourish and avoid paying taxes by paying slave wages to Polacks and Estonians.   Not to mention the very many people who have second and third homes in Europe and those of us, that is to say all of us, here,  who see a future career for ourselves in Europe. I mean, Mr Tiny Speaker, what would happen to parliamentary democracy if elected members were unable to retire to some made-up sinecure in Brussels, on a hundred grand a year, tax-free, all expenses paid? There is only one right and proper remedy to this Brexit nonsense and that is for us to ignore the referendum result, just as though it had never happened. Which it never should have.

To turn now to my party's position on the so-called US election, it is quite clear that people voted, quite deliberately  for the wrong candidate........

order-order
 
The honourable member was very entertaining but I fear that our relationship with the United States may not bear his views on recent events and I must draw his remarks to a close. Before the silly fucker gets us nuked.
 


Since forever these commentaries have been hostile to the wretched Clintons whose venality eclipses that of lesser power couples,  Tony'n'Imelda; Neil'n'Glenys, Dave'n'Sam;  the dwarf, Sarkozi, and his warbling tart  and now we have Mr and Mrs Askey, laundering corporate tax accounts in the Downing Street Zanussi. Lord knows what fresh, poisonous dynasties are forming, even now, in the sewers;  there's that cunt, Viscount Straw of Bremain, Kinnock's embecile, gabshite spawn and his Euro-doxy.  God help me,  I have been arguing all my life  that the terms career and public service are mutually exclusive but it makes no never mind; the cumuppance of Villainy, be it Labour's cock-waving  house nigger, Fatty Prescott or cock-waving fascist, Blind Boy Blunkett, their infamy is cast by MediaMinster as Tragedy. That aphorism of Enoch Powell's, about all political careers ending in tragedy, that's what we get, endlessly, instead of journalism.  And even that is wholly untrue - look at , just for instance, the drunk, Lord John Reid, making a fortune selling the contents of his mninisterial address book; look at drug dealer,  Ken Clarke, a day-job for life in MediaMinster and a big career selling fags to third world children.  Yeah, Tragedy, Enoch talking out of his over-learned classicist's arse. The coward, Cameron, slinks off having failed at everything he attempted - short of gay marriage and the destruction of Libya - as though he were Henry V, quitting the field, duty done. Tragedy.  And so it is with the billionaire racketeers, the  Clintons and their crooked sorry-arsed Democrat party.  My dog, Harris, could've told them that Bernie Sanders would've kicked Trump's arse into another dimension. Right, Crime as Tragedy, that's the default setting at the PBC. 

And nation shall speak shite unto nation.

 
Well, we told you Hillary was going to win because that's what we wanted to happen, what should have happened.. 

Maitliss, Neil, unknown ageing bimbo and Radio 2's Vine .

Fuck me Jesus, in any proper organissation this band of  worthless cunts'd be out on their diseased arses.

 
I hope we managed to buy Emily Stringbean some new bondage gear while she was junketing in New York, telling us what was really going on.

Yes, Newsnight, the grown-up news channel.

It isn't just the staggerinmg, crass incompetence, though,   when it comes to Madam Trousers.  I can think of only one recent celebrity who has so unfailingly and instantaneously repelled me, set my teeth on edge and made my skin crawl - and this is just at the sight and sound of her, devoid of any consideration of her vile record of sexism,  racism, incompetence, corruption, war-mongering and murder.  That person is him, below, with his admirer, Esther Crow, scourge of paedophiles, just not those who are her lovers and friends.



Long before I knew the stories of Savile's beasting, long before that he made me shudder, like Oily Keith Vaz does, you only gotta see him, don't you, to smell his rottenness, Vaz;  I was always revolted by Savile and I have always been revolted by Hillary Clinton. 
Badness just announces itself.
 I am delighted that for all her whore-money, for all her cronies in global MediaMinster she got her scabby arse kicked by a stuttering, redneck half-wit.   
All it needs now  is for something unforeseen and unspinnable to drive a stake through her rotten heart.

I guess we must be grateful to Trump,  for his victory will see-off not only the nightmare Clintons but also the grotesque hausfrau,  Merkel, and the ridiculous, cock-waving Hollande. Seeing Frankie boasting about how he and his fellows would deal firmly with Brexit  Britain I reflected that if it hadn't been for Britain, in the early 'forties,  he and his cowardly confreres collabeurative would now be speaking German and then I thought, fuck it, to all intents and purposes they are, anyway, down there in Vichy France Nouvelle.

If Mrs Askey does call a general election  I would guess that UKIP would annihilate what was once the Labour party, that an emboldened electorate would reshape MediaMinster, as it has never been reshaped.  And unlike the chattering, verminous  denizens of MediaMinster I did say that Trump would win.   What I didn't anticipate was quite how humiliated would be the Bankers' TeaBoy, Obama. No president has ever been so partisan in a US election, none so utterly rejected, that's his legacy, too;  the empty, vain, useless speechifier, trumped by a buffoon. Oh, happy day.

In France Marie le Pen, like Trump, will romp home and some anti-immigration grouping will send Merkel packing. Andrew Neill, the PBC's ubiquitous, insufferable Mr Politics, would consult his postcards and disagree with me, but he'd be wrong, now as then.

One of the things which angered me most about the past little while is that I am that old, human-rights, egalitarian, leftish liberal, whose clothes were stolen by the verminous Clintons, Kinnocks and Blairs and used as camouflage for global larceny, torture and massacre.  Those who quail at the prospect of President Donald J  Chump should console themselves, as do I, with the thought that to get to the Left you sometimes have to turn Right for a while.

 

TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS

She cried a little in the car,Yum-Yum, on the way to the vet's but responded to my many GoodGirls said, even so, she wasn't happy; not a car cat, her only trips had been to the vet and she didn't like me, anyway; she was mrs ishmael's cat, inasmuch as she was anyone's.

She and her brother, Co-Co, had just arrived one day, in the byre, their mother having been the second generation of feral cat to occupy that space,  they were beautiful, like all new-born kittens, she ginger with a hooped tail, he dark grey with a white  chest.

It has just become a fact of life, these past ten years, that we clean and renew their bedding, feed them, catch and drag them to the vets as and when and heat the byre on cold nights.  There's an old Rayburn in there but I haven't been well enough to sort it out and so there have been a series of electric radiators plugged-in, through the winter months;  crazy, but what can you do; anthropomorphy murders Reason.

When Buster passed away we tried briefly to domesticate the pair of them, have them indoors, and while I think Yum-Yum  wanted to, her brother certainly didn't and he howled like a banshee if they were separated.  I tried, one night, bringing him in to the kitchen but he ran around the walls and across the ceiling, like a demented cartoon cat.

We had compromised this last year by having  a cat-flap fitted in the new, £600 back conservatory door and before I knew it there were beds and litter trays and feeding apparatus everywhere, and I couldn't even get to my saw, never mind use it;  the whole place, packed with good quality, cased power tools, since my shed blew down in a gale, was impenetrable.  I may as well just have had  a wooden hammer with a loose head and a Quality Street tin of rusty screws.

I am however, relentlessly patient and where many blokes I have known would put, as they say, their foot down, big-time and evict the semi-feral animals, I just grumbled from time to time, well, probably more than from time to time but certainly not all the time. I'd never make a farmer, I squirm at the thought of poisoning wood beetles and since I stopped eating meat, a couple of years back, I have grown worse, if worse is the word, I dunno.

Yum-Yum, anyway, was diagnosed a year ago with something horrible in her mouth, after some antibiotics she picked-up for a while but had been almost imperceptibly going down hill for a few months; she still walked the garden, along the walls; she loved basking in the sunshine, she would still greet us imperiously when we arrived in the car and I had taken to buying her the very best cat food I could find, tiny little tins of what must have been the feline equivalent of Beluga caviar, at about a pound a gramme, which was varied with stocks of haddock and kippers from the freezer, dating from when we still ate fish.  I never begrudge those expenses, I may have mentioned previously an experience I had as a kid, working in a hotel;  the old battleaxe housekeeper, Margaret, every other lunch time, would buy from the bar a small brandy to take out; it was for her ailing cat, and I suspect a sip for herself, too.  You may mock, young ishmael, she reproved me, but them no point in 'avin' 'em, me duck, not if you'm no' gonna look after 'em.  I have never forgotten Margaret and her cat brandy.  And my old friend, Hodcroft, the poet; we had a meeting scheduled one night, some pretend board meeting of a pretend charity;  Hodcroft sent his apologies, which I, true to my then form, mocked;  he had to stay home with his beloved cat, Sampson, who was dying.  Sampson was one of those expensive -Ese cats, Siamese, Burmese, I dunno, who dominated Hodcroft, then a confirmed bachelor, completely, but he was right, of course he was, to comfort his companion animal as she died.  I have never forgotten that, either, my crassness. 

Yum-Yum's recent cosseting, therefore,  owes much to people she never knew.

I speak as though her care was all my doing but it wasn't, it was mrs ishmael who worried and tended and fed both the cats.  I think all I did was not be the sort of man I may have been if I hadn't met Hodcroft and Margaret and mrs ishmael and all those gracious enough to comment and guide here, down all these years.

Today's care, however, rightly fell to me.  I soothed her in the car and I carried her into the vet's antispetic little room. I had expected her to show signs of distress but either her illness had made her indifferent to her surroundings or my attempts at trancing her out had borne some fruit.  I learned some self-hypnosis from mrs ishmael, who, as well as papering the walls with degrees is a qualified hypnotherapist, and I learned some Zen just from being. Maybe it's just age but somehow I have learned how to share and spread a calm centre.

In any event, today's  was quite the nicest and best of those experiences.  I stroked Yum-Yum for five minutes -  something  she had never let me do - while the sedative worked, GoodGirling  her constantly and then just a few seconds after the intravenous injection she very quietly just stopped living.

We will not, though, by her gentle passing, be completely spared Sorrow and Guilt.

Yum-Yum and Co-Co were like one animal, often curled-up together, tails entwined and although he would go roaming most days they were always reunited by bed-time. It's dusk, now, and he hasn't been since since lunch-time but I expect to hear him shouting soon. 

I obtained a sedative for him from the vet, to be sprinkled on his food, for a while, to calm his anxiety; but his loss will not, like ours, be alleviated by Yum-Yum's gentle death;  these two have been together every day of their lives and his loss, therefore, will only mirror that which we must all face, most of us, one way or another.

I'll go and look for him, try to ease his worried mind.

Some chance.

NEWS REVIEW

....AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED.

No, look, honestly, I might not know very much, although, on reflection, I don't know anything, fuck all, really. But look, honestly, what I do know is how to lose elections. And not just elections. Whole countries. It was me lost Scotland. And not nearly lost it.

Lost it altogether. Completely.  Lost it so badly we'll never ever get it back again. And that is why I'm just the man to advise on who should lead this great party, the party I love, the party I was born into, 

the party which I have worked so hard to destroy and turn into  the Tory party. 

Austerity, privatisation and more Austerity, that's what I've always supported. Smash the unions, especially the railway unions. In fact, any unions.  There shouldn't be any unions. It's not as though they've done anYbody any good. Well, not me, anyway. 

Yes, and TTIP or whatever it is, the right  enshrined by law of foreigners to strip the welfare state. 

That's what we need. 

And that's what the country needs.

 Now and forever. 

Or until we get the job done.

Whatever it is.

 I don't kinow very much about jobs.

More a positions man, me. 
And roles.

 And the man I endorse with my endorsement is Owen Who.  Jeremy Corbyn, you see, he can only attract members into the party - not that we want actual members - because he promises things which are consistent with a party for working people.  

Mr Who, on the other hand, our next leader and the next prime minister of England, he promises people the exact same things as Jeremy but everybody knows that he doesn't mean it. 

 That's what I call putting integrity back into this great party. 

DEATH OF A PRELATE.

Aye, us an' everyone else in the IRA're gutted, so we are, by the death of His Holiness the Bishop of Derry. Aye, fair play to him, he made monkeys, so he did, of them Paras, wavin' his wee hanky like he did, over yon dyin' teenager. 

 

Did wonders, so he did, for the cause of killing for peace. An' as for him bein' a part of a child-molesting organisation, sure, so's me 'n' Gerry, isn't that right?

An' we  in the IRA are all profound and committed Christians, so w'are, believin' devoutly  in the Lord Jesus Christ's teachings, just not that one about thou shalt do no murder. Or that one about thou shalt not do no  kneecapin' people.  Or buryin'  people alive.  Or nail bombin' people. Aye, an' torturin' people. An' sellin' them heroin. 

Apart from that, we in the IRA Cawnflick Resalooshun Movement are just pure, one hunnerd and ten per cent Christians, so w'are. Aye an' we'll all be prayin' for the soul of yon Bishop Edward Daly.


A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, so it is.

The thought of Marty Kneecaps praying, eh ?
Jesus fucking wept.



THOUGHT FOR THE DAY.



“Our American political classes, being themselves complicit in the well-financed banditry at large in the world, come and go talking of Hilary Clinton’s astrologer and the sins of children’s television, about the wickedness of the National Arts Endowment and Bill Clinton’s Penis. Their insouciance unnerves me. The barbarism implicit in the restless energies of big-time, global capitalism requires some sort of check or balance, if not by a spiritual doctrine or impulse, then by a lively interest in (or practice of) democratic government. The collapse of communism at the end of the Cold War removed from the world’s political stage the last pretense of a principled opposition to the rule of money, and the pages of history suggest that oligarchies unhindered by conscience or common sense seldom take much interest in the cause of civil liberty.” 

LEWIS LAPHAM.
Waiting for the Barbarians, 1997.