Thursday 30 April 2009


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Mr Hobbit, formerly, wouldncha just know, a BBC2 Newswank producer, was previously a minister at the Department of EcoBullying.

In a Panorama programme last year, the current minister for white supremacy insisted that bottled water was shit and planetarily-hostile, wouldn't do, wasn't necessary in the Great New Presbyteria of Uncle Snot, son of the fucking manse. In my department everyone drinks pure water from the tap, he whined, grinning that Mummy's boy grin - the one which drunken old boot, Patsy, removed, yesterday, from his smirking, rotten kisser.

A little while after his virtuous Panorama spot the beavers in the back of The Eye - the ones who aren't all over the telly like swine flu - revealed that you and I had bought Phil's EcoSoldiers hugely expensive water filters and not a drop of unfiltered water passed their lips, or his. The rest of us he had airily and deceitfully maintained, needed no such precautions.

Up against the wall, hobbit motherfuckers.
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Wednesday 29 April 2009


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"Professor Joseph Olson of Hemline University School of Law, St. Paul, Minnesota, points out some interesting facts concerning the Presidential election:

Number of States won
Democrats: 19, Republicans: 29

Square miles of land won
Democrats: 580,000, Republicans: 2,427,000

Population of counties won
Democrats: 127 million, Republicans: 143 million

Murder rate per 100,000 residents in counties won
Democrats: 13.2, Republicans: 2..1

Professor Olson adds: "In aggregate, the map of the territory Republican won was mostly the land owned by the taxpaying citizens of the country. Democrat territory mostly encompassed those citizens living in government-owned tenements and living off various forms of government welfare..."
Olson believes the United States is now somewhere between the "complacency and apathy" phase of Professor Tyler's definition of democracy, with some forty percent of the nation's population already having reached the "governmental dependency" phase.
If Congress grants amnesty and citizenship to twenty-million criminal invaders called illegal's and they vote, then we can say good-bye to the USA in fewer than five years. "

This, if true, is interesting and provocative. The white man's burden, it seems, has got down from his back, as it were and is kicking his ass up and down Main Street; this, paraphrased, is the essence of the cries of Mr Old Holborn and many in cyberspace - Londonistan!.

A racially fractured nation, rooted in genocide, slavery, ethnic cleansing and white supremacy (niggers have been lynched in recent memory) - all dressed-up as the pursuit of Freedom, cannot really complain if those shut-out from the three-pounds-of-beef with every meal, greedy, stupid, aggressive, redneck zeitgeist revolt into political conformity and elect their very own, useless, oily, sound-biting Uncle Tom.

Although in the UK we do not share Uncle Sam's recent internal history of sanctimonious, flag-waving barbarism, Olsen's stats, nevertheless, would probably transpose neatly to UK electoral demographics. Many are, through employment or housing or benefits, part of a ballooning client demographic, many have allegiance to other states; many, with very good reason, detest and fear the spectre of a gang of coke-sniffing, cost-cutting, over-privileged, right-wing chancers and layabouts; all view state provision of myriad forms of care as being one side of a compact in which they don't complain as long as government continues to transfer to them, via taxation, an increasing share of the profits of non-governmental enterprise; who can blame them?

Many in the blogosphere were confident that Codger McCain would stroll into the White House, the heat of their own conceit blinding them to the obvious. The same cyber-psephologists babble incessantly that because Gordon Brown is such an arsehole, David Cameron must, therefore, become First Lord of the Treasury and Keeper Pursuivant of Her Majesty's Bolivian Nose Powder; there are no musts.

If it is the case that a sufficient number of constituencies are quite sensibly joined at the hip to NewLabour's cynical largesse and that all those so outraged by Blair, Brown and Mandelson and by the general swinishness of the houses of parliament are dispersed, fuming and impotent, then New Cameronia will remain a pipe dream, so to speak.

Brown, the horrible fucking bastard, mincing and pouting and gurning,bullying, stuttering his obnoxious, impossibly know-it-all sol-you-shuns, is probably on his last legs; given, however, that unlike the Messiah in the White House, he can be removed at any time by a vote of no confidence but hasn't been, his position is clearly not as weak as we like to think. Despite his unprecedented beggaring of the nation for decades to come, despite the fact that everything else he touches turns, also, to shit, is it not nothing less than miraculous that the fuckwit Cameron has not been able to engineer Brown's removal, is this not what politicians are supposed to be good at, deals, betrayals, black arts ? But today Brown -and, of course the utterly repellent Brummie Hobbit, Woolass - is defeated by Nick Haircut of the preposterous LibDems and Cameron is seen, elbowing-in, grandstanding with Cleggie and Lumley; hardly Churchillian, typically Cameronian, all that was missing was his bike and his chauffered limo, the impudent, jumped-up, worthless airhead.

Barack celebrates, if that's the word, a hundred days of Yes-We-Can shoring-up Mammon, exporting terror and pissing in the faces of the poor whilst white America seethes at it's loss of exclusive access and pre-eminent influence. Before writing off the NewLabour Project we should reconsider the recent US experience. Her Majesty's Official Opposition is so feeble that all NewLabour really needs to do is ditch Snotman and find an Obama figure. Someone like Tony Blair.


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Pone ubi sol non lucet! - Put it where the sun don't shine!

Potes currere sed te occulere non potes - You can run, but you can't hide

Quae nocent, saepe docent - What hurts, often instructs.



Dictator of England, Adolf Brown, with his companion, Mrs Eva Beard at his latest photo opportunity.

Nein, ve vill not haff a referendum on Lisbon; nein, I do not need to be elected; nein, votever I do, is ze right thing to do. For you, parliamentary democracy, ze var is over.

Makes a change from children, hospital patients, old people and anyone else too weak to punch him in his snot-eating face; the dead, equally, in Poland, Iraq, Afghanistan, cannot choose who, soundbiting, raising their own vile stature, bestrides their bones.

je touche le chapeau a M Suisse Bob.

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It's just typical, said Ms Nicola Moustache, Scotland's pretend Health Supremo, in Scotland's pretend parliament, the half-billion pound, leaking monstrosity, Kirsty Wark House. These fucking pigs, she continued, they're all up frae England, shitting on decent Jock's going aboot their business, cross-dressing, wife-beatin' and drinkin' themselves intae an early grave. It's time we had a Scotch army, shoot these wee bastards doon, the noo, d'ye ken.

In Switzerland, the Scotch foreign Secretary, Lady Sir Sean Connery is said to be raising an army of tax-avoiding Jock ex-patriot luvvies (ie Annie Lennox of the Dyke Millionaire Buddhists Association.) Unsheathing his mighty sword, Sir Sean, 82, said I may not be in ma prime but we Scotcsh are tough old buzzardsh and Ah'll shee theshe pigsh off, sho Ah will, if itsh the lasht thing I do.

In Westminster, hereditary Labour aristocrat, Ms Harriet Soursister, dressed for the emergency in her customary giraffe-skin-patterned, man-deterring camouflage, said, now was not the time to worry, that she was in charge; these pigs, wicked as they are, must be treated in a non-gender specific manner, apart from the males who should be hoisted upside down on an A-Frame and have their throats cut, especially that swine,Lord Crabs, the business secretary. Mr Deputy Porker, I protest on a point of order, said the Singing Postman, Alan "Disease" Johnson, I'm in charge, of the pigs, anyway. (cries of Siddown ya cunt!) A statement from the prime minister, Gordon Snot:

Thank you Mr Deputy Porker,I'm in charge, nice to see you, to see you nice. I am pleased to tell the House that I have been in discussions with my good friend and admirer, young President Obamalamadingdong, and he agrees with me that we must give the pigs all the money they need to stay airborne, we simply cannot let them fail. Or fall. It is the right thing to do, cast the Nation's pearls before swine. Trust me. I'm a fucking lunatic.

(Shouts outside the House, chanting, Kill The Pigs! Kill The Pigs!)

I think, Mr Deputy Spanker, said Mr Nick Haircut for the LibDems, they mean us.

Gorbals Mick: Order-order. The Hoose will rise. Honourable and Right Honourable members should all run for your fucking lives.

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Tuesday 28 April 2009


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Da mihi sis bubulae frustrum assae, solana tuberosa in modo gallico fricta, ac quassum lactatum coagulatum crassum - Give me a hamburger, french fries, and a milk shake.

Da mihi sis crustum Etruscum cum omnibus in eo - I'll have a pizza with everything on it

Brevis esse latoro obscurus fio - When I try to be brief, I speak gobbledegook

Ego ilius nullius inutilis optiumus cupidus - I am a useless, fat, greedy bastard.

Simply learn with John. A few phrases a day and soon you might be coked out of your brains and in charge of London, like brilliant Classics scholar Bo-Jo, or wearing a wig and bullying people down the Old Bailey.

Don't miss tomorrow's opportunity to Learn With John.




People are understandably worried about Swine Flu. I would lust like to reassure them that here at the NHS we hope to have it rolled-out by the weekend to all hospitals, health centres and ambulance services and by next weekend we should see it in all schools and old persons' homes. There is no need for you to worry, there will be plenty to go around; all nice and warm and germy. Trust me. Before NewLabour I used to be a postman.
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Ishmaelites have been complaining for decades about the custom which has developed amongst parliamentarians in which, during the four-yearly festival of competitive promising, they plead and cajole and prostrate themselves before grimy nobodies –as Mr Matthew Dreary of The Times calls us - the electorate, promising them that they will work day and night to deliver their new by-pass, their hip replacement operation, new jobs, new schools, whatever pops into the head of a grimy nobody at hustings time the candidate will work his or her bollocks off to deliver it, this is a serious responsibility I am asking you all to entrust me with. And that is why as soon as I am elected I will go and find as many other jobs as my parliamentary position makes available to me and I will call this moonlighting Keeping A Foot In The Real World. I will, in effec, be neglecting my primary duty, the one I begged to be allowed to do, and trousering all this money on your behalf.

The Tories are the worst offenders, many of them are lawyers who only turn up at the House when nothing more lucrative beckons in the House, Gove and BoJo are clear examples of senior politicians working primarily and most rewardingly for press barons, Gove for Murdoch and the Mayor of London tiresomely gosh-gollying for the Bizarro Twins at the Telegraph, both, of course, in any proper democracy, would be thrown in jail and banned from holding public office.

But NewLabour benches are awash with directors of all sorts of dodgy enterprises, nuclear energy, PharmaCorp, bookmakers, whatever pays for the totty or the rentboys. Laughing Boy Hague, for some reason, despite having the responsibility of being shadow foreign secretary to the boy Milliband, spends much of his time being handsomely rewarded for entertaining the sort of business folk who, inexplicably, like to get close to gobby political failures such as he.

It is interesting, therefore, that Gordon the Ruiner plans to publish, or hopes to publish, details of honourables’ and right honourables’ parallel careers.

He might start with the Scotch Question. Scotland, the best part of England, sends many MPs to Westminster, where they promptly get drunk for decades, only showing their faces at foregone conclusion re-election time or on Jock Newsnight, squabbling like ferrets in a sack. One Jock MP, however, has a portfolio of other jobs which would make the eyes water. It is not the dwarf thug, John Reid, chairman of the Catholic Footballers Sectarian Movement and former shirt-sleeved home secretary, although, coining it at Celtic FC and in aspects of the so-called security industry he is rarely seen at his parliamentary job. The constituency of Bannf and Buchan has elected an MP who never visits Westminster because he moonlights as prime minister of Scotland, surely, one would have thought, a full-time job in it’s own right.

Fat and getting fatter Alec Salmond, as well as his ministerial duties, is the MSP for Gordon, a Holyrood constituency; it is nigh on impossible to see how one fat little bloke like Salmond can do justice to all three posts – Scottish MSP and first minister are clearly acceptable but an MP’s role is surely not merely titular, and if it were, would it attract the same salary and expenses and pension entitlement which our diminutive premier reluctantly enjoys ?

Given that Salmond also works for Mr Donald Trump, the great Hibernian social engineer, can it be right that he continues to draw three salaries and pensions from the UK taxpayer?

Salmond’s former career was as an economist in a Scottish bank; so distinguished was he that, like all politicians, he could not see the nose-on-your-face inevitability of the collapse of RBS but even one as myopically self-satisfied as the wee lardball cannot fail but see the unemployment which his banking chums and his own lack of foresight and his long-standing public sector cuts are spreading across Scotland. The decent thing to do would be to give up one of his so-called jobs and let somebody else do it, but then were Decency alive in Scotland, Salmond would be in Barlinnie, as would the Alexander Siblings, Lord Jim Wallace and most of Scotland’s lawyers, judges and cops.

Salmond's greedy narcissism is rich territory for Brown but to raise it would be to step outside the thieves’ compact which, rather than a Bill of Rights, governs us so ruinously. Mewl and bleat as they may for the cameras, they all have more in common with each other than they do with us. Many, grateful to see the back of JockLabour would still cavil at Salmond's grandiose, unfundable projects and the ghastly bigotry of the tribesmen he leads but none within the charmed circle of political celebrity would question his right to milk the system for every last taxpayer penny, that, after all, is why they are all there.

Monday 27 April 2009


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From Rosa Kleb in the Daily Bizarrograph

Mr Brown was filmed in his desert lounge suit and Domestos grin, speaking to US troops Up the Khyber Pass. First of all hombres, he said in the New England drawl he learned in the GayLobster winebar at Martha’s Vineyard, I’d like to ask you, mano a mano, how you are getting on with our British friends, I mean our, I mean your, I mean my, yes, that’s it, my British friends, soldiers, really, how are we all getting on with my army ? They’re not up to much, I know, but we keep the best ones on duty at home, guarding Her Majesty, Queen Brenda, and in case the natives get restless and we have to beat the ungrateful fuckers with sticks. Have they paid back all the bullets they borrowed from you because they say theirs don’t work? Y’know Field Marshal Ainsworth gives them the best of stuff and all they do is fucking moan; a few of them get killed by over-friendly fire and I get the Thames Valley Coroners’ Association biting my arse off, like it was my fault.

I have had cordial talks, said Mr Brown, with the Paki Prime Minister, Mr Ali Baba Bhutto and with President GoatMeat Balti. They were both agreed that since I was doing such a good job, I should continue to run the world and that they would stop sending innocent Paki people to England for the police to go to all the trouble of arresting only to find that they can’t frame them for anything and have to let them go again. These two great leaders also said that in their version of democracy anybody signing a petition to have them removed would get their fucking heads chopped-off, smartish.

I also went to the tomb of the unknown Bhutto who died in tragic circumstances leaving the country and all its nukes to her husband, the famous criminal, Mr Ali Baba Chapatti-Bhutto, who, as we have seen, is now prime minister and who had her killed in the first place and who wouldn’t, mouthy cow, banging on all day long about it being her destiny to be prime minister and her son, Ranjit, or is it Sanjit, I don’t know, they all look the same to me. And smell ? Fuck me, it’s dreadful, they all smell of ghee and goatshit.

I said to President Khazi of Afghanistan that he was living in a colander of terror which leaked all over the High Streets of London and could he lend me a few billion rupees, in a good cause, after all, many of his cousins and sons and brothers depended on me for their residence in the Old Country and he had shitloads of it anyway, what with Uncle Sam stuffing his mouth with dollars and the Talimen giving him a rake-off from the drug business, fuck me, he's rolling in it, and him a only a Paki, and here's me, prime minister of england and not a fucking pot to piss in. Anyway, I was mindful of my so-called deputy, no, not Lord Crabs, Ms Harriet Soursister, and so I asked him if he was serious about this law that he'd passed, saying rape within marriage was the Will of Allah or some such bollocks. He reassured me that he had the right sol-you-shun and that the whole thing was under review and would a cheque be alright, only not drawn on a British bank, obviously, as i already own them and they're fucked, worthless, good for fuck all.

All in all it was a good day's work, met some handsome young men, showed the wogs who's boss and borrowed some more money to burn in the Downing Street boiler. There wasn't time to pop next door and visit the Nabobs and Maharajahs and of course our friends the Hindujahs, who are having their own form of election in which presently the Throw The Widow On The Funeral Pyre Party and the Let The Cow Shit in The Lounge Party are neck and neck, biggest democracy in the world, y'know, seven hundred million of the barefoot, face-painting, starving to death but launching space probes and millions dying of leprosy, cattle-worshipping loonies.

I wouldn't bother letting that lot have elections, but that's just me.


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Prime Minister Brown is said to be hoping to co-ordinate the global response to swine fever. War on Pigs, is what I shall be urging on my fellow despots at the Pork Twenty meeting which I shall be convening in London with the help of our wonderful magnificently professional homicidal police force, said an upbeat premier, clunking his famous Claw of Doom on the rostrum at Downing Street. Yes, I am appalled by the images of masked MetNazis thrashing women with sticks and punching them in the face, truly appalled, even if a little bit excited, but what we should remember at a time like this, when everything is going down the pan only not really as long as I stay in charge, is that when all is said and done, at the end of the day, hard working homeless British families will realise that images are not really real, images of that poor bloke dying are just images, he didn’t really die, it’s just an image, as the IPCC cover-up will reveal.

And as for the pigs, well if you see one you must not approach him, or her, you can tell the males by the corkscrew cocks they have, quite remarkable, but instead you must contact Mr Benn at DEFRA or whatever its called and he will send you a form to fill in and tell you how much the fine will be if you get it wrong. I have spoken on the telephone to Senor Pancho Tortillo, my Mexican opposite number, and he is happy, as is President Obamalama, for me to lead the fight against Swine Fever, just as I have so successfully brought about the global recession. The first thing we must do is count the pigs three times and then throw them all on the fire, just as we so successfully did with all the nation’s money; if any pigs are left over we must establish the market value and then sell them for a quarter of that, as we did with the nation’s gold and if any pigs still remain then honourable and right honourable members and myself must shit in their faces, just as, for twelve years, we have been doing with the nation. It is the right thing to do. Kill all the pigs. At least, for a change, we’ll get no arguments from our valued Muslim brethren. War on Pigs, has to sound better to them than War on Ragheads, doesn’t it.

Rather a shame in a way, isn’t it, that my top terror expert, Sergeant Bob Thick, had to resign from the Met because he revealed details of a plan to arrest a dozen innocent men. Fuck me, as they say up on the Reservation in Scotland, ye couldnae make it up. Keystone fucking cops, envy of the world. Sergeant Thick of the Yard, top secret lists of innocent people. Still,fuck the war on terror, all in the past now, said Mr Brown, picking his nose, best to concentrate on eliminating the world's pig population. War on pigs. Now is not the time for a novice.

Asked if his goons had plans to kill or thrash any more citizens Mr Brown replied that this was a matter for Obedience minister, Frau Schmidt, in whom he had a great deal of not very much confidence. But look, hard-working homeless families and small gone-out-of-businesses will quite properly expect me to focus all my attention on the pig crisis, and this is exactly what I shall be doing from the moment I get up at 4.00 am each day. It is the right thing to do. D'ye wanna buy a car ? My friend, Lord Crabs, can you get you two grand off, only obviously not the three or four grand off which you could get for yourself, anyway; so, with measures like that in place to stimulate the economy I may very well get re-elected, which will be a first.




A spokesman for Mr Brown said that the late Mr Dogfood was a national treasure but that as prime minister he obviously had no intention of attending the funerals of Messrs Tommy Atkins, who weren't; fuck me, no, no fucking chance.
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Sunday 26 April 2009


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No, I want five pianos, two uprights, one electric and two concert grands and I
want one a them a fraction out of tune and I want the drums set up in the
bathroom and I want those drum breaks to sound like Stukas strafing Warsaw and
I want eight guitarists and twelve percussionists and all you guitarists, I want
half of you to play the chords in this position here, with the fingers like so
and I want the other half to play in that position and I want the horn section
playing out in the garage and the sax player standing on his head and I want
twenty people stood just here playing castanets and I want the three black
chicks singing da-doo-ron-ron-ron over and fucking over until their fucking
noses bleed and here’s the string parts I wrote for six fiddles and three
cellos and four basses and if anybody plays it wrong I’m gonna shoot them with
this crossbow, right between the fucking eyes and I want God to send thunder and
lightning, so get a microphone up on the roof....…Ah one-two-three-four duh-duh-duh
duh-duh-duh duh duh-duh-duh duh-duh-duh duh-duh-duh duh-duh-duh duh, I met him
on a Monday and my heart stood still, da-doo-ron-ron-ron, da doo ron ron……

To Know Know Know Him Is To Love Love Love Him
Be My Baby
Da Doo Ron Ron
You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'
Then He Kissed Me
Baby I Love You
Walking in the Rain
He's a Rebel
Not Too Young to Get Married
(Today I Met) The Boy I'm Gonna Marry
Wait 'Til My Bobby Gets Home
Pretty Little Angel Eyes
I Love How You Love Me
Every Breath I Take
Under the Moon of Love
He's Sure the Boy I Love
Spanish Harlem
Unchained Melody
River Deep, Mountain High

Phil Spector was the man. Better to have a gun and not need one than need one
and not have one,is what he used to say.Play it loud, play it in mono, he
said that, too....

The other day Phil Spector took a lot of people's childhoods to jail.


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The talking heads, heads of this or chiefs of that, fuckwits, anyway, from the merchant banks and the think tanks persist in seeing the current situation as being remediable, get back to normalable, just as long as someone but obviously not them, bless, eats starvation rations, shivers a lot and endures a decade or so of unemployment and being bollocked by whichever impudent, repulsive, pampered, well-heeled reincarnation of Lord Tebbit of Telecoms - maybe the obnoxious ignoramus cocksucker Mr Sugar - urges them to get on their bikes and scour the country looking for potato-picking career opportunities. Just let the poor and the unconnected suffer, that's what they're for, and after they've done their penance things'll get back to normal, only they won't; how can they, Austerity is as Austerity does. They are already making the TV programmes, the vile slappers, Trinny and Wotsit, shouldered aside for some opportunistic Recession chic, make-do-and-mend for the dispossessed.

The malformed, maladroit stuttering monster, Gordon Brown, with his clunking, metronoming claw of Doom and his bogus over-articulation of madcap, folie de grandeur Sol-You-Shuns, has done away with both parts of boom and bust but to suggest that he has accomplished this single-handedly is infantile. A coalition of financiers, megalomaniacs, opportunist whore politicians, worthless, non-oppositional opposition parties, media slags on all sides and complicit honours-hungry union barons has jointly beggared the nation.

Consider the scale and the nature of the cataclysm and reflect for a moment that, acting for us, we have, on the one hand, a former Marxist solicitor, an innumerate, witless dunderhead, and his manipulative mentor, a snot-eating, nail-biting, non-driving, bad-tempered, maladjusted, bullying, cowardly, eternal student and on the other an over-privileged Oxbridge pair of coke-snorting, fancy-dress, sound-biting arseholes, good for absolutely fuck all. Jesus wept. This quartet, jointly, could not add-up the change in their own pockets and yet here they stand, snorting and braying of trillions, gazillions as if any of them had the foggiest idea of what to do for the best, save shouting at us, lecturing us on what's best as though they did not, every last useless bastard of them, for ten years, applaud the Iron, snot-eating Chancellor, the Man With No Nails, as though these damned thieving nincompoops were in any way different from one another.

There is no back to normal, the normal they speak of was aberrant, a Fools' Paradise. We have seen the best of days, a combination of post-war welfareism and grammar schools and techs., of apprenticeships and trades and skills and decent manual labour, of competent universities; of invention and productivity and North Sea Oil, of expanding global markets for proper goods and not just make-believe money, it's instruments, it's pinstripe hustlers; of wit and art and music and satire and, pre-Thatcher and pre-Blair,a collective impetus to do not the selfish thing but the societal, the familial, the neighbourly, the good; now the land is and will be increasingly a place of no-go areas, the City garrisoned by Russian gangsters in gated communities, feted by UK-native spivs for their megalarceny in Mother Russia, sticky-fingered, criminal capitalists emerging from the KGB to steal from their comrade citizens as well as just torture them, the city's real people battered by brutish Keystone cops, photographed, tasered, killed; it's children homicidal, drugged, drunk, malparented, raised, seamlessly, by Snotman and his crew, from poverty into debt. We, the lucky ones, have seen the best of days, they will not return. This is not a crisis fixable by David fucking Cameron.

We will be overtaken in innovation and industry by yellow and brown peoples, far away; as the lunatic consumption of trash goods, of trash holidays, of trash culture and exaggeratedly indispensable trash media recedes down Poverty's alleyways people will wonder what the fuck it was all about and find new fun, instead, in frugality and survival.

It is not as though we will have endured powdered egg and meat rations in order to defeat fascism; no, our sacrifice, our fall from relative Plenty into durance vile is necessitated by the disordered,remorseless ambition of a handful of wicked messengers, Brown and Blair and Mandelson, their attendant, parasitic legions - in what other age, under what other regime might Draper and Milburn and Whelan and Balls and Hewitt have so flourished, become so enriched ? - and by the failure, the complete capitulation of parliamentary opposition. This is not crisis, requiring only a steely-eyed, unemployable former drunken vandal and his chums in order for it to be wished away; this is collapse and decay and ruination so complete that it doesn't matter which gang of scoundrels, slags, thieves and incompetents emerges after the next election, holding the international begging bowl.

The idea, therefore, of a glorious if penurious Tory renaissance, wrung from the failures of New Labour is not only optimistic - as though people, after all this shit are going to be enthused by such an obvious phony as Cameron - but also quite impertinent, as though those same people, chastened by their failure in voting thrice for Tony and Imelda, are going to masochistically applaud the wealthy Cameron slashing their jobs and pensions and services- why is it, incidentally, that it's wrong to steal private pensions but not public ones, what odd morality is at work here, why are bankers' pensions, terms and conditions legally binding, inviolate but those of nurses aren't ? - did not Cameron lead the applause for Blair when he stood or was pushed. Did not the visionary Cameron and his chums endorse the bloody pursuit of formidable, if non-existent, weapons of mass destruction, all aimed at making Cyprus toast in forty-five minutes? Was the inveterate dope fiend not, like so many, infatuated by the grinning young bisexual warmonger ? Does he come not a trifle late to the Feast ? Who, after his complicity in all that which brought us here, the fuck does he think he is ?

Shit certainly needs doing and undoing in the very unlikely event of Cameron becoming prime minister. Trident should be scrapped, ID cards should be scrapped, PFIs should be renegotiated, the Euro referendum should be held, failed IT projects should be compensated for; doctors, lawyers, accountants, police officers and politicians should no longer be permitted to police and regulate themselves; QUANGOS should largely be disbanded, torture should be outlawed and ministers or anyone else condoning it should be jailed. Cameron the great reformer, of course, will do none of these things; instead, driven by the looming PakiWars and by the need to balance the books after thirteen years of Labour misrule he will keep us all under constant surveillance, he will throw money at the Keystone Cops, as they valiantly protect Government from the People and move us swiftly into the protective arms of his chums in GlobaCorp.

Cameron's Five Year Plan, Cameron's tractor production statistics are probably irrelevant. There is no accurate way of judging the psephological mood of the country, especially not at a time like this. The Westminsterites would certainly give it to Cameron, as would the couple of hundred thousand - often it seems like just the same itinerant few hundred - who live and breathe blog but this is a tiny nit-picking obsessive minority.

It can be argued that given his catastrophic incompetence and wickedness Brown has no chance of winning an election and has therefore rigged and booby-trapped the Treasury for his usurpers. It was, though, surprising that George W Chimp, having with the help of his Dad's friends stolen his first US election, then comfortably won the second, not as surprising as the culprits' passports fluttering to earth from the Twin Towers, nor as surprising as those three buildings all just falling neatly into their own footprints, but still quite surprising. Blair's first two terms were Gate-riven, F1-Gate, Mittal-Gate, Mandelson-Gate, Good-Day-to-Bury-Bad-News-Gate, Imelda-Gate, Hinduja-Gate, WMD-Gate, Saddam-Gate, Kelly-Gate and so on and yet he still romped home for a truncated third term. It is entirely possible that Brown might refute all the lonesome obsessives so currently convinced of his imminent ejection, particularly if the electorate suspected an incoming Cameronian dismantling of the public sector. Once a vandal.

But all is moot. It is not the case that Brown is the question and Cameron the answer. Here, at the hands of Power in all it's forms, we are in Ruin. If the tank-thinkers are right, then it is greater even than the Badger man admits, although he admits to little, if anything. But there is no Buggins' Turn remedy. Fuck Cameron, he's as bad as Brown, probably, in office, worse, that's normally what happens; fuck the part-timer, Laughing Boy Hague and fuck the useless, twittering Osblow. There comes a time, doesn't there, a time beyond crisis, when Ruin does its work. This is ours. It is the political caste which has thus delivered us, a pox on them all; cry Havoc! let slip the dogs of resistance.

Saturday 25 April 2009