Tuesday 30 June 2009


Interviewed on the BBCs flagship teatime gossip show, PM, with Eddy Smug, the programme for smug people, in which smug gits from all walks of life talk to Eddy and some of them just listen at home, or send emails, Alan Postie, the new Home Secretary, revealed the depths of his stupidity. And ours.

The new ID card, Eddy, is no longer going to be compulsory, which it never was, anyway, but voluntary, which it isn’t, although it is. And it won’t cost any money, well, not to me, anyway. People worried about compulsory ID cards can relax because if they don’t volunteer for them we’ll just force them to have them, so there it is, nothing to worry about. While I’m here, can I see your papers. Eddy?

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Tory frontbencher, Ken Clarke, was yesterday given a hundred and fifty years in jail for peddling cigarettes to third world children whilst masquerading as an MP.

You are a disgusting, hypocritical old poof, yelled Mr Justice Slag, as Clarke was led away, and as a former health secretary you should know better, let's see what you make of this exercise of free choice, you horrible fat git. The idea that a despicable old rogue like you should be in government is utterly repellent to all decent people and I would be failing in my duty if I did not put you where you can no longer harm children. Go on, fuck off down the stairs, you disgusting bastard.

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Sunday 28 June 2009



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Well, Jonathan, I must say (in deep brown voice) that Mark Thompson is doing a spledid job at the BBC and all this criticism of him is grossly unfair, when I used to fiddle, sorry, submit my expenses at the Telegraph, Lord BlackStockings, now, unfortunately, in the Florida penitentiary, would say to me, Maxie, Baby, we are both great historians, take what you need, it is only the money of poor little nobodies and I must say, Jonathan, that seems to me to be the entirely proper course of action and Mr Thompson is following it determinedly. And giving me lots of work, by George. Michael Jackson? Never heard of him. Probably a stout fellow, lotsa these nigger chappies make good soldiers with the right leadership. Stand at ease.


Well Jonathan, my boy, speaking as Liberal Democrat, Esther and Abi Ofarim's version of You're a Lady, You're the Lady, That I Love, is, for me, Rock 'n' Blues, as good as it gets, Rythm 'n' Roll for the anchovie-eating class, and this nasty little schwartzer goyim is just an anti-semitic terrorist, anybody buying his records is a holocaust-denier. The world is a better, more Orthodox place without the nigger, so good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say. My friend and fellow Zionist, Mr Guido ben Fawkesberg, of the BNP,
understands the problems we have with the untermenschen and has helped raise millions of pizzas to feed our bold troops as they drive their tanks over infants in the name of Jehovah and Wall Street. Oi vay and Have Nagilah, Hav-e Nagil-ah, Hav-e Nag-ilah, c'mon, studio audience, join in, now; what are you, Nazis? In my party we firmly believe in whatever it is and we will stick to that come hail, rain or shit, I mean shine, we are not all Mark Oatens, just some of us. I also agreee wth everybody else on the panel.


Well, first of all, Jonathan I would just like to say that when Lord Douglas Turd and I were each hoovering-up ten million pounds from the ruins of Yugoslavia as agents of the great but sadly not recession-proof NatWest Bank, we had no idea, not the foggiest, that Slobadan Milosowotsit was a war criminal; I mean, working as head of British Intelligence had kept me utterly in the dark about this and no, I will not be paying the money back, why should I ?

Anyway, we don't mention this sort of thing in polite Zombie company; it was dirty work and somebody had to do it and how else would I afford all these clothes and jewels which don't quite disguise my scrawny old cleavage and my sunken, Death's Head eyes? But the question was, Would I sleep Michael Jackson ? Well, he's dead, so he's in with a good chance. And I would just like to reassure listeners and readers that when Mr Cameron becomes Ruler, their security will be safe with me, I can walk through walls. Only not if they have garlic on them.

Thank you, Dame Zombie, and now the thoughts of Yasmin Alibhai Greasy-Chops, speaking, I presume on behalf of all Muslem wimmen, everywhere, even though most of them, indeed, I feel it is safe to say, all of them, have never heard of her. Yasmin. your view on the late nonce, as it were?

My son is a very successful lawyer and I hold dinner parties, mainly of a spicy lamb nature for some very important white people, you know, journalists and such and other worthies and speaking on behalf of Muslem women I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Burka, not unless I was in my own country, but here, anything goes, would you like me to get my tits out ? They are meaty, beefy, big and bouncy?

Thank you, Yasmin, but no thank you..




Well Jonafun, Jacko was not exactly a diamond geezer, wuzze nah ? An' his favoured treatment in the Sarf East did much to alienate the traditional yobboes who come to my concerts an' so I would have ter say, along with the distinguished Yid bint, Julia, that 'is passing won't be too greatly mourned an' it's a case of good riddance to black rubbish, even though, it 'as to be said, that the boy done 'is best to look like one a God's chosen. Apples and pears, trouble an' strife and do keep orf the bleedin' grass, wuncha? I paid me gardener a pony the uvver day to mow that bleedin' lot. I 'ave a new album of traditional material comin' out on Telegraph Records, it's called Racist Tunes and Xenophobic Airs. And Graces.


Ishmaelites never got Michael Jackson, shivering in disgust at the sight of a five-year old fronting a lame rock ensemble, aping his elders and - like Woody Allen films - we banned him from our lives, knew nothing of Off the Wall, Thriller or any of it, despising those who did as freaks. Latterly, the marriages, the children, the civil and criminal cases were hard to avoid, distasteful but looking at the fucked-up five year old, more or less inevitable in some form, forewritten.

Aside from by his millions, maybe billions of braindead fans, Jackson was lionised, encouraged in his vacuity by the most outlandish of Showbusiness, Elizabeth fucking Taylor, the gobsmackingly hideous Minelli and Madonna, posturing freaks themselves, applauding his Nth degree weirdness, his anachronous treble warbling, his pointless, overblown productions, his clothes obsessions, his vile, self-destructive - and surely criminally irresponsible on the part of the practitioners - plastic surgery; each lonesome excess cheered by his fellow, lesser freaks; over-mighty record producers; drug-crazed guitar thrashers, doped-up, anorexic fuckwits, all the glitzy shitmerchants who so pollute our every waking moment, GlobaCorps Consumerist stormtroopers occupying our airwaves, colonising our culture; Jackson, at best a gifted disco dancer, probably helpless and friendless, in so many ways - trash as art, excess, thoughtless consumption, hyperbole, obsessive indulgence, addiction as gratification - personified Ruin.

But he didn't - and does not - do this alone. The twittering classes have much to answer for, then and now. To choose but two, Paul - the hundred best whatevers - Morley has a piece of puff in today's Observer, a reworking of his Newsnight spiel a coupla days back. Morley is ever up his own arse and in great demand by the BBC and the Heritage Media, he is harder to avoid, usually, than Jackson is currently. The vile symbiosis between artiste and critic is realised in all it's syphilitic horror in Paul Morley,
the curiously malfeatured Newsnight regular and national treasure.

"It was immediately clear that the nature and timing of this end had been coming for such a long time. ."

Right, Paul, funny how things become immediately clear after they've happened, innit? Morley has the I Told You So market cornered when it comes to popular so-called culture; if only he could have taken control of Jacko.

Professor Germaine Nausea
is the most repellent bully on the idiot box; unable to lead a life outside a camera lens, Germaine will do aything bar shut the fuck up for five minutes. When George Best died, Germaine rushed into print saying that back in the imaginary 'sixties Georgie was gagging for her but she wouldn't let him, dead footballers can't sue. In the Arsebridger Guardian, yesterday, she brought her pornographer's eye to the life and times of the Beautiful Boy Michael, none would believe that she had tantalised him as she claims to have tantalised poor, wee, Belfast George, the horrible old boot; given, however, the stupidity of the Guardian reader, she must have been tempted.

If only she had guided the Dead One in his career, Oh, by my sacred vulva, how different it all might have been. Yes, probably, with her connections, been able to get the Beautiful boy on Celebrity BigHead Brother. Like her.

Germaine has recently posted nude studies of herself at sixty online, narcissism is her own long suit, how dare some uppity degreeless nigger upstage her.

Germaine, like Jackson, is her own, tragic, lonely construct; fascinating to some but loathed; some achievement to her credit but nowhere near as much as she thinks; now,
like Jacko, casting around for reinvention opportunities, here, almost Jacksonesque,
is one of them.

"His sudden death is a strange kind of victory. He had managed to prevent his ageing and even his growing up. There was no beard upon his chin; his voice was a childish treble. Instead of entering middle age and letting himself be chained to earth, he has floated away like a wisp, annihilated on the brink of a 50-date concert tour that I for one was dreading.."

If only Germaine could be so delivered from herself. It is the " ...that I for one was dreading...." which is so toe-curlingly, flesh-eatingly revolting; poor, mad old cow.

What we see, now, is worse in a way than the Banquet of Grief following the death of the Princess of fucking Wales, which was at least connected to the spasms of the body politic; the Death-feasting around Jackson is absolutely nothing to do with anything; a showbusiness freak OD-ing, so what? But the timing is perfect, a lull afforded, a dam of media-orchestrated sentimentality flung temporarily across the torrent of cynicism flooding around Brown and Obama and Berlusconi and all. In death as in life, poor, mad Whacko Jacko, serving the press, the business, the stockholder, the system; serving his - and our- invisible Masters of Ruin.

Reagan knew it, Blair learned it, Obama is an adept, a superstar; Brown struggles but does his snot-eating, You-Tubing best - there is No Business Like Show Business.


Saturday 27 June 2009



Mr Mark Cunt, DG of the BBC said today that the Corporation did not maintain enough reporters in Hollywood and so he had been forced to send a reluctant Emily Fuckface out to LA by First Class flight in order that she stand around Hollywood locations, frightening people and properly leading the investigation into the death of Mr Michael Fairy, whose like we would never again ...etc etc.

Mr Cunt said that toxicology reports could take up to six weeks to reveal that Mr White Fairy was a totally fucked-up delusional nutter manipulated to death by Showbusiness, whereas if the license fee was increased appropriately not only would he be able to pay himself the several million pounds a year which he deserved but also the BBC would be able to employ that scowling ginger bastard off CSI and produce the toxicology reports in a forty minutes episode.

People simply don't realise what good value I am, concluded Mr Thompson.

Dame Kirsty Wark,

the BBC's grunting, hunchback, transsexual arts presenter, anchorman and nosebleedingly awful, skriking, snooty fishwife said that it was OK for the Stick Insect to go; she, himself had been in New York, only last week, to watch some films for the BBC and in Cannes the week before to watch some other films and anyway in the Newsnight studios they had enjoyed their own Michael Fairy Death Celebrations. Toxicology reports can wait, grunted Mr/Ms Wark, I and my guests, the hundred best Paul Morleys, Professor Germaine Nausea and critic, commentator and slag, Miranda Mouth are party animals so lets boogie on down, the noo, d'ye ken, outwith the reports and at the license payers' expense. Paul Morley, what's the most money you've ever earned from talking shite about Michael Fairy....?

Standing next to Sticky Emily on the Holywood Pavement of Crap was none other than skymadeupnewsandfilth's Kay Burley, below

Yes, welcome to me in Hollywood, and over now to sky's LA Toxicology correspondent Jim Filth, but first this break, stay tuned, or I'll bite your face off.

In the house of commons, the prime minister of England, Mr Gordon Snot, himself a delusional, fucked-up nutter, said that the whole house, Mr Squeaker, would join with him in applauding his decision to change his own doctor. Just in case. And the house would now observe a minute's silence for Mr Presley, whose like we would never...... etc etc. It is the right thing to do.

Friday 26 June 2009


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From skymadeupnewsandfilth’s showbiz correspondent, Jayne Tits

The world of international crime was reeling last night after Tony “Killer” Blair was found dead. Phony Tony, as he was known all over the world, was said to have been worried about his upcoming tour of the Iraq Inquiry, which wasn’t going as he had wanted it and he feared being asked questions.

Fellow terrorist, Mr Marty Kneecaps McGuiness, said He was a great wee man so he was and we in the terrorist community owe him a very great deal, so we do.

He launched more wars that any previous monomaniacal narcissist in parliament, he was the King of Terror, said drunken, depressive, bi-curious impresario, Ali Campbell; Shock and Awe killed more civilians than any other mission since the initiatives of that other great social reformer, Uncle Joe Stalin. He touched people all over the world and many have Tony to thank for them being dead, maimed, burned, orphaned, homeless, refugee; it was a measure of his greatness that age was no barrier to him, he had victims ranging from infants to the very old and infirm, wedding parties and hospitalsthroughout Wogland have Tony to thank for brightening their lives with napalm, high explosive and white phosphorous. He just wiped people out, said one grieving fan, Guido von Fawkes, a local Pizza seller, Guido doesn’t do fanism, said the miniature Kelvin McKenzie, but for his determination to annihilate Palestinian children, Guido gives The Killer his coveted Golden Pizza award.

Plucking his trademark, Prime Minister’s Edition Fender Death-o-Caster in the depths of his fabulous NeverLand home in Downing Street, Killer privately entertained his wife, Imelda Scouse.

My husband was a devout Catholic, said a not-grieving Mrs Slotgob. There wasn't a moment when Tony wasn’t thinking about the kids. And how to kill them. They were fab gear moments, she sobbed, and youse can all read about them in me new book, My Crazy Nights of Bible Reading With The Killer, out soon, priced a hundred quid. Remarriage ? Well, never say never. Only for company. And money, of course.

The Prince of Death’s American manager, George Chimp, said that Merka had lost a true friend, properly bought and paid for in true Texas Style. Tony Bennet was a real fine Merkan and we won’t see his like again. Me and the Merkan people cannot underestimatify the importance of our special friend, here departed, Tony Whosits, and at a few million dollars he was very good value to all our friends in GlobaDeathCorp who made such a killing out of World War Three which wouldn’t have happened without him being such a treacherous assholeing sonofafuckingbitch, only to the Limeys and not to me. I gotta go and play me some golf, snort me some coke, bang me a few whores. God Bless Merka.

Fans in the UK houses of parliament stood and applauded when they heard the news. Thank fuck for that, said the Killer’s greatest fan, Dave Thing, frontman of the BullyBoys, an aspiring band, now we’ll all get a minute’s peace, Mr Speaker. Only not you, you little turd, not if I have anything to do with it.

Pope Nazi the Fourteenth said he would say a special mass for his dear brother, Killer Blair, he vas eine gut boy, but eine bit too chummy mit Hymie. He could haf had it all, he could haf been Pope, but only if he had dumped Frau SlotGob, is vun cruelly ugly bastard, dat bitch. Dominus vobiscum und suffer the little kinder to come unto me und my friends in black. Heil Hitler!

The Killer’s death is being reported on all news media, even the BBC’s Mr Jock Neil and his chums, Diane Lard and Don Miguel the Cowardly, pausing for two seconds silence at the news of Blair’s death.

Those wishing to make a donation to The Killer's favourite charity, Mr Gordon Snot, can send money to him at Downing Street, where he is said to be inconsolable with delight.



By skymadeupnewsandfilth’s crime correspondent, Jayne Tits.

Mired in theft, fraud, malpractice, sleaze, war crimes and incompetence, the cesspool that is the mother of parliaments has managed to divert attention from itself by the breathtaking and uniquely arrogant device of electing one of its own offenders to regulate it.

Mr John Birdbrain, the new Squeaker of the House of Commons has said that now his family’s future was secured he would knock off the thieving. I avoided the capital gains tax in a perfectly legal manner, he told me, that is why I am now paying it back and I have acted with great honour and probity throughout my career as a ponce, a thief, a bully and a liar. Any time I have been caught thieving I have paid the money back, can’t get more honest than that in this place. But now that I have made it big I must do what is expected of me and help make things easier for my co-accused. Order-order.

Mr Dwarf, recently chosen by MPs themselves as the best man to keep their own villainy from the public gaze – only a tiny, tiny handful of members are honest and we must root them out before they give us all a bad name and reduce the contempt in which this place is rightly held – has said that in the interests of trans-pair-ency he will, throughout his tenure as consigliere to six hundred organised criminals, not wear any underpants.

I will start as I mean to go on, said Speaker Skidmarks. Wearing underpants is not me. People writing about me in the Daily Bizarrograph, saying that, as Speaker, I must wear underpants, are out of touch with political reality. We are all slags now; fur coat and no knickers, that’s me, what you see is what you get. That’ll be fifteen hundred guineas, please.

Mr Dwarf’s predecessor, Sir Michael Dunspeakin’ of Glasgow and his wife, Lady Fishwife Dunspeakin’ of the Seamen’s Mission and latterly the House of Commons, both said gurgle, rant , stutter, seethe, by Cheesus, so we will, or Ah’m nae frae Glasgae, so Ah’m nae, youse fuckin orange basturds. Ah wis bagman fer yon Gordon fairy bastard and look how he’s shafted me up the Great Glen , Ah’ll nae be havin’ it so Ah wilnae.

Even though he is not a child-molester, Sir Michael Dunspeakin’ is expected to be elevated to the Lords and to become General Secretary of NATO, like Lord George Arse, who was.

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Dear Editor.

Further to the article above by Ms Tits, might I, through your columns and remaining your obedient servant and everything, pose a query which may be of interest to your other retards, I mean readers.

Why do we permit a certain group of public employees to refer to one another as honourable bastards and right honourable motherfucking sonsafuckingbitches when they aren’t? Honourable or right honourable, that is.

Yours, Professor George Trepanning-Smith
The Westminster Hospital for Officers and Gentlemen and Mrs Thatcher,

Sunday 21 June 2009




skymadeupnewsandfilth’s bullshit correspondent.

Mr Ishmael Smith reports on the week’s hypocrisy highlights.

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Cheeky Chappy Ken is among the front runners. The bloated jazzman, Kenny, former Health Supremo to Madam Thatcher has handsomely enriched himself by flogging fags to third world infants, saying he believes in freedom of choice, a-ha- a-ha ha; throughout his period of drug-dealing to children Kenny has moonlighted as an MP. This alone should put him at the top of the Hyposhit pile but on Listen with Dimbles, the other night, the FatMan chortled that even though he was as acute and investigative and brilliant a mind as any other Oxbridge layabout; he hadn’t, he said loftily, the foggiest idea of what those troublesome clerks at the Commons had done to his receipts –many of which are for pennies. Not me, Guv, giggled the Tubster, not the faintest idea. Running the country down to the last fucking halfpenny of tax? Yes, I’m your man. But my expenses, all so very trivial, really, can’t be arsed to get them right, too clever by half, so fuck off, there’s a good chap.

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He’s all over the place, soundbiting like a demented rapper. Now that I’ve been found out I’m gonna put my expenses online. And if you ask me why I didn’t do this before I was found out – and so many of my brilliantly chosen and promoted Oxbridge Shadow Cabineteers were revealed as thieving fucking gabshites – I simply sat that it is vital to my continued prominence that we pretend to clean up this shithole while keeping it as much the same as before but with us being a but smarter about things, transparency that’s what the British people deserve and if people have done wrong they must be punished but not me or my chums, fuck no. And I simply say Now that I’ve been found out I gonna put my expenses online. And if you ask me why I didn’t do this before I was found out – and so many of my brilliantly chosen and promoted Oxbridge Shadow Cabineteers were revealed as thieving fucking gabshites – I simply say that it is vital to my continued prominence that we pretend to clean up this shithole while keeping it as much the same as before as we possibly can but with us being a but smarter about things, transparency that’s what the British people deserve and if people have done wrong they must be punished but not me or my chums, fuck no. And I simply say………..

Dave is in a class on his own Hypocrisy-wise; it takes a real asshole to ride to work on a bike with a limo following behind.

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Unelected Gordon Snot crossed scimitars this week with another delusional fucking lunatic out there in Nearer Wogland. This man’s a fucking nutter, ranted the UK premier, he wants to run everything himself without any reference to the people, what sort of a dummy does that. I simply say to the hard-working homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses up and down the land that whatever I decree is the right thing and they must do it. I am the right nutter at the right time in the right place. Now is not the time for an Aya-fucking-tollah-nuttah.

i will now invite my pretend friend, Lord Crabs, to lead us in some Community Obedience Chanting:

Whaddaweant? Presbyterianism! when do we want it ? Now. And forever and fucking ever. Ah-fucking-men.

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Thou Shalt Not Kill. (Or I’ll have the boys bury you alive, so I will.)


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Yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp, whine, whine, whine, whine; over-rehearsed, platitudinous, corny, tub-thumping, shameless, self-promotion after over-rehearsed, platitudinous, corny…. etc., etc..

God Al-fucking-Mighty, cry Havoc and let slip the Dogs of Ruin; Esther fucking Rantzen, Jesus fucking Wept.

Saturday 20 June 2009


Some would say Hoagy Carmichael, others Cole Porter; people gripped, still, by the dead hand of the nineteen-sixties might propose Bob Dylan; this trio and many others have sprung from the so-called cultural melting-pot that is American Song and although Dylan, strictly speaking invented, invents his own genre, each can claim to be it’s greatest exponent. With Lenny Bernstein’s swaggering, syncopated, brassy, West Side Story; Aaron Copland’s cowboy studies, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s sentimental cinematic oeuvre, the big bands, rock bands and crooners American popular music is, largely, the Song of Empire.

The McGarridle-Wainright axis, itself, spiteful and jaundiced as any “artistic” family, has realised a handful of good tunes, pater Loudon the Third’s deceptive little rants are often deeply poignant and Ma Kate’s exceptional Talk to Me of Mendocino one of half a dozen great songs to her credit; the brat Rupert has enjoyed huge success with whatever bastard motherloding seam of Barbra Streisand, David Bowie and Tiny Tim it is that he mines.

Let alone song, much of twentieth and twenty-first century American culture is the culture of Empire; even now, buggered and broke and shamed, it’s Caesars and Senators brag and strut, in boots loaned them by the Chinks, polished by Tony Blair.

This, though, here, this ensemble, gathered around le Famille McGarrigle harmonies is altogether more humble and respectful, for Hard Times' composer, Stephen Foster is probably America’s first songwriter. An Irish-American, Foster wrote Oh Susannah, I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair, Beautul Dreamer, My Old Kentucky Home and countless others all so woven into the American Tradition as to seem timeless, traditional, authorless.

Foster wrote at a time, not so long ago, of frontiers, immigration, patchwork quilts, wagon trains and log cabins, slave plantations and a land swarming with immigrants who had come voluntarily; of a mighty industrial giant birthing itself; a time before soda- pop and ice cream sundaes gave way to acid and Quaaludes. He died in poverty aged 37, in 1864.

In the States, he is honoured, for sure, in a Constitutional sort of a way. Here, Stephen Foster would be rated way below, say, Mr Gordon Sting, Mr Phil Collins, Mr Eric Clapton or any one of the millionaire tunesters who, pampered and self-indulgent, judiciously stoke the flames of Ruin.


Nestling almost unseen among the coarse, quivering, hate-filled rantings of the Great Purple-faced Heffer, the barrow boy Told-Ya-Sos of Jeff Wot a Marf, wot a Marf, Wot a Norf and’ Sarf Randall and the layers of skriking complaint from assorted mistresses and nieces the Bizarrograph published, surely mistakenly, in its misleader column, 19th. June

this wee gem:

Mown and poisoned into conformity, almost like the one-party state of Snot, Snooty and that other gabshite, the money-launderer.

Wednesday 17 June 2009


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This yappy, jumped-up, obnoxious leprachaun is what's wrong, he should be in the house of commons, the fucking moron, good for fuck all apart from sacking people, fucked-up terminal five and despite his huge business acumen has, like all the other arseholes, failed to foresee or protect his company from the recession, which, even though we are not really in, we are coming out of with flags flying, only not the BA ones, the useless, mouthy little prick.

At least Michael O'Looney of Air Begorrah doesn't come out with any Walshshit about how the workers should miss their mortgage payments to help him maintain a shred of credibility as a manager. No, beJasus, the fuck we will, it's committed we are, so it is, to cheap flights and even cheaper wages and if anyone asks me for a rise it'll be me boot up their arses, so it will. Air Begorrah is dedicated, by the holy fuckin' Jesus, Mary and Joseph, to running the cheapest, most shoestring business operation in the history of Mammon, so we are. Pile 'em high an crash 'em in flames, that's our motto. Walsh ? he's a gabshite, and I wouldn't give him a job as an airstewardess, not that we have any, so we don't.

Immune to criticism, a stranger to humility, Walsh is, like the banking mafia, emblematic of managerial I-know-best Britain, NewLabour plc, just as long as his Goodwin isn't affected, that's the main thing. Let's hope some pissed-off, hard pressed employee punches him very hard in the mouth.

Tuesday 16 June 2009


The Iranian people take a serious view of their British friends being tyrannised by an unelected prime minister and a ruling junta of thieves, degenerates, comedians, shoe-fetishists and drug addicts.

We take grave exception to armed state thugs roaming the streets of the UK and tasering innocent people whose only crime is being high-spirited as a result of the ruling junta having thrown open, all around the clock, the doors of the taverns.

In our country, dissidents are allowed to march and demonstrate at will and without the permission of and without being photographed by the state police; specifically we permit the gathering of citizens in the grounds of the parliament, unlike in the UK where such protest is forbidden, especially when those yellow bastards are visiting.

Finally, we extend the hand of brotherhood to the many homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses up and down the great land of United Kingdom and our support to them as they struggle to throw off the tyranny of the ladyman, McSnot, peace and blessings not be upon his name, the horrible fucking bastard.
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Monday 15 June 2009


I am today, Mr Nearly DunSpeakin’, launching a far-reaching cover-up into the entirely legal and proportionate and may I say, Mr Dunspeakin’, brief, Iraq incursion which has led to millions of deaths but most of them wogs and which, I remind honourable and right honourable members, we all voted for, apart from the Liberal party and nobody gives, Mr Dunspeakin’, a fuck about them, walking about in sandals and paying young men to defecate into their mouths, Mr Dunspeakin’, as they do. And nor, I remind the house, does anyone give a fuck about the wogs, obviously. Or we wouldnae a been firing cruise missiles at half a million quid apiece into their school playgrounds; only not Brother KeithVaz and Brother Trevor Phillips who are, as near as damnit, Mr Dunspeakin’, decent, white Presbyterians. Only still nig-nogs at heart.

The enquiry will find that many were to blame but none are accountable and this is in the finest traditions of this house, alongside the so-called flipping of second homes, the avoidance of capital gains tax and the acting like worthless thieving bastards which so distinguishes my cabinet and the gentlemen-comedians, coke-snorters, arse-bandits, grave robbers, child molesters, shoefetishfreaks and bagladies opposite.

The enquiry will find that the world is indeed a much better place without the late Mr Hussein who, in the best traditions of my party, the Labour Party, was publicly hanged, thus providing much amusement in the Washington Chimpanzee House, even though it isn’t, the world, that is. Mr Dunspeakin’, a better place but far worse. But we will find, Mr Dunspeakin’ that salaries and pensions in this place will be adjusted to allow for the fact that members are no longer able to run a property business on the side, and this would be the right thing for the hard-working homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses up and down the country, if we want the best in parliament we need to pay members salaries commensurate with those received by other organised criminals.

There will need to be a mild rebuke of the Papist Blair and his woman, Imelda, but nothing which would tarnish his reputation as a peace-making man of God - only not, I point out, modestly, a son of the fucking manse - else the whole house of cards might come tumbling down.

If crimes there are then they will be found to have been committed by rogue private soldiers and not by our friend, Major-General Rupert Jockstrap-Golightly or indeed any commissioned member of Her Majesty’s First Rocking Horse Cavalry whom, as members will know, we may well need to deploy at home against the people if our freedoms are to be preserved

Once again the house is indebted to Baron Peter FitzYuri of Hart-le-pool for finding some blackmailable civil servant to chair the cover-up. Guided by my own moral compass, Lord Peter, twice disgraced and exiled has returned to the bosom of the party which spawned him, or he, or he, or he, or he, Mr Dunspeakin’, it.

I have said recently, Mr Dunspeakin’, that I would listen, that I would listen, that I would listen, that I would listen more to what, to what, to what, to what, to what people say, Mr Dunspeakin’ and people are saying they want a full, open and very public enquiry into why we presided over such a catalogue of war crimes, why my right honourable friend, Mr Jack Torture, lied his face off to the UN and why the Papist Blair, immediately upon leaving office, was found to have such banking skills that Messrs GlobaDeath engaged him at five million dollars a year; people, rightly want to know who did and said what and to whom and why and they want it all out in the open. So Mr Dunspeakin’ the enquiry will sit entirely in private, or in camera, as we scholars say and will report only to me exactly what I have told it to; it is only by a full and frank cover-up such as this that we will be able to keep the homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses entirely in the dark and at our mercy and I commend this cover-up to the house.

Cheers! hear-hear! hear-hear! For Gordon’s a jolly good ladyman!Hurrah!



Mr Griffin, haven't you told a pack of lies to the house of commons?


Mr Griffin have you and your bi-curious, dipsomaniac press spokesman, Ali, cobbled together a load of lies to facilitate the invasion of a sovereign wog-nation? the cradle, while we're at it, of civili-bloody-sation?


And I put it to you that over five hundred of you voted for an illegal invasion of a wog country, didn't you?


And I further put it to you, isn't it, look you, that you helped launch said attack on a defenceless wog-population, because without you, the oppressor, George the WogBasher, would not have acted, isn't it ?


Alright then, boyo, and mind you give us a clear answer, now, do you deny that once you had bombed the shit out of the poor wogs in Baghdad you turned your attention to the the inhabitants of Fallujah and poured illegal weapons down on a civilian population, isn't it ?


And then you just yanked the wogs off the fucking street and tortured them in Abu Ghraib, electrodes and dogs and all that shit, surely you can't deny that, didn't you collude with and permit wog-torture and doesn't this prove that you are a racist thug?


And that you were quite happy for Uncle Sam to haul wogs, any wogs, off the street anywhere in the world and fly them off to sunny Cuba to be tortured to fuck, isn't it, because, lets face it, all wogs are terrorists, isn't it, isn't this the policy of your party ?


Well, frankly, Mr Griffin, listeners will be wondering about all this, surely you can't deny that your Defence Minister, Mr Geoff the Cunt Hoon said that Iraqi bitches would thank him for having blown their kids to bits, he said it here on this very programme, I put it to you, isn't it ? Can you deny that it was the policy of your government to deploy illegal weapons in an illegal war and lie your fucking bollocks off to the whole world before fucking off to America and hoovering-up millions of dollars in bribes, isn't it, do we look stupid, Mr Griffin, or what, isn't it ? And your own greedy slapper Mrs, Imelda Griffin, how can she go around pretending to be a human rights lawyer, never mind a fucking judge in the English fucking Court when she persuaded all your colleagues' Mrses and bints that they should all vote to bomb the bleeding wogs? Look you, Mr Griffin, if all this isn't racism then I'm fucked if I know what is. I mean isn't it true that you don't even count the dead wogs in Iraq, you don't even count the dead civilians, isn't that about as racist as Hitler, your hero, Mr Griffin, look you ? Come on, own up Mr Griffin, you and your party are nothing but racist, warmongering filth, isn't it ?

I think, if you don't mind my saying so, you have the wrong filthy, racist scum, here.



In an epic of tedium lasting, seemingly, all night long, Sunday 14th June, BBC 4, Paul Weller, the sage of Woking, talked lovingly of his hair, his clothes and himself.

Featuring his shouty songs, his shouty mates and his shouty Dad/Manager, Weller senior - a ghastly mongrel cross between Ronnie Kray and Malcolm McLaren - the ModFather relates the aritistic struggle of an Estuary Narcissuss, revealing how, after years of producing boring shouty drivel, he has now reached a high plateau of critical acceptance by immature, shouty cockneys. And become the knitwear industry's Man of the Millenium.

The whole, uncritical fanzine is rendered worthwile by a five second clip of Lord Windbag, in his rock 'n' roll days, grandstanding in front of a bunch of pasty, fuckwit musos,"united" "against" "Thatcher" in the democratic pursuit of increased album sales. I'd just like to say, quips Kinnock, that Red Wedge is not the name of my hairstyle. Bless.

Daily Telegraph readers will be disappointed that Lord Billy Bragg, pictured next to Mayor Ken, features only barely in this Saga of Mod and thankfully without his atonal tinny guitar of Socialist Reform, the cunt.

Tearing himself away from his hairdryer, the mature Weller confesses that he now realises that politicians are all just in it for themselves. There is, as we often reflect, no business like showbusiness.

Old Paul is much loved by the schedulers at the Beeb and The Weller rockumentary will be repeated endlessly. It is well worth avoiding.

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Sunday 7 June 2009



By Ishmael Smith and the ghost of Rudyard Kipling

Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot, me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot.
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.

The Prince of Fucking Wales, me lads,
The Prince of fucking Wales
Don't go messing wiv His Highness
The Prince of fucking Wales
For his patience often fails, me lads, his patience often fails.
If his toothpaste ain't squeezed right, me lads, his patience often fails.
And some men was born to fight and die, to poverty and strife
But he was born to fuck about with someone else's wife.

And it's President Obama,
He's the man who'll save the day
He'll take all of your bonny lads
And send them all away
He'll send them all away, me lads, he'll send them all away
To spill their guts in Fuzzistan
For ever and a day.
Forever and a day, me lads, forever and a day,
We'll send our lads to fight his wars, forever and a day.
For we're Uncle Sam's best stooges
And it always was the same
We stood alone in 'thirty-nine until he finally came.
And if the little yellow bastards hadn't sunk his bathtime toys
We'd all be speaking German now,
Blonde-headed little boys.
It was Tommy then, who kept you safe
And the Few young men in Blue
While Uncle Sam made up his mind
About what he should do,
About what he should do, me lads, about what he should do
And now he stands and lectures us, the Froggy bastard, too

But what of bleeding Tommy, his legs all blown away?
His guns don't shoot, his boots don't fit.
It's never Tommy's day,
It's never Tommy's day, me lads, it's never Tommy's day
And Secketary Ainsworth, he's a man what runs away,
A man what runs away me lads, your life is in his hands
While he blusters in the commons, there, in Never-Never land.

And they won't come to your funeral
Where the lonesome bugles play
But they'll stand there at the Cenotaph on a cold Remembrance Day
And wearing stolen poppies that they was too mean to buy
The right honourables' compassion is just a bloody lie
For none of 'em would come to stand, with you or me or Wayne,
For they're all too bleedin' precious to die abroad, in vain.
They're all too bleeding precious, lads, to fight, like you and me
It's quite a job of work to do, bein' an MP,
Bein' an MP, me lads, being an MP,
It's a protected occupation, is bein' an MP.
There's Cleggie and his wankers
And Cameron and his thieves
And Gordons useless bastards
Troughing like you'd not believe
Troughing like you'd not believe, me lads,
They know not guilt or shame
And every bleedin' Wednesday, they're abusing Tommy's name.

So let's raise a glass to Gordon, for Gordon is the man
To show us all the way to go, out there in no-man's land;
You won't find him in your dug-out, firing, down on bended knee
He'll be at home in safety, writing books on bravery
Books on bravery, me lads, books on bravery
He'll be hiding in his bunker, writing books on bravery.

So let us raise three boos, me lads,
For this Ruin of a man
Defy him once, defy him thrice, defy him all we can.
For he squandered all the money , he burnt it, by degrees
And his only plan in life is to bring others to their knees
others to their knees, me lad, others to their knees
That's how his father raised him
To bring others to their knees.

And as we stand here and remember,
Let us make a vow, good men,
And never let this bastard be prime minister again.
For waste and desperation come a-trailing in his wake
And Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make,
All that he can make, me lads, all that he can make;
For Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make.
Let him put his moral compass
Where the Sun don't ever shine,
And don't believe a word he tells you
For he's spinning you a line.

Let us put this motherfucker, lads, up against the wall
Let us start with him but never rest until we've stood them all,
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin
And they'd all be better dead
For they've taken Hope and Charity and stood them on their head
Stood them on their heads, me lads, stood them on their heads
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin and they'd all be better dead.

Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.


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Huw Welshman here, at the BBC Six o Clock News with the news that one of our colleagues, Mr Nick Robinson, has been rushed to hospital. Fiona Tits, outside Barts hospital has the details. Fiona, are you the one whose Dad was a variety turn, singing about Hippos and stuff like that, in a wheelchair and a beard? No ? Must be here for your tits then. What can you tell us about Nick? Is it serious?

Huw, it's just that he's got his head stuck up his arse again.

Oh, is that all? Seems to make a bit of a habit of that, isn't it, look you, doesn't normally have to go into hospital, boyo.....

But this time, Huw, it's a bit more serious. Here's what Doctor Ali Baba Gupta-Turban said earlier.

Oh my goodness gracious, nice lady with big tits from the BBC, I can be confirming that a man is in care and having treatment for a common complaint among those suffering from politics, Cor, blimey; the poor unfortunate sufferer's loaf of bread is stuck up his Aristotle, Lord luv a duck and Godstrewth, my son, would I lie to you,what with the very large eye spectacles, must be fucking ex-ca-ruciating, stone the bleeding crows and Well, I never. In most cases this condition is resolved by the patient's head just popping out of his arse with a little bit of cheery encouragement from his china plates, my Goodness gracious and Stroll on, shouting C'mon Robbo, get yer head outa yer arse, mate, in time for him to have a good pony and trap, Lord luv a duck, which, speaking, my good lady, as a doctor, is something which is more or less inevitable in life, having a Tom Tit; if there is one thing most certain in the life of a medical practitioner it is getting patients' Eartha Kitt all over your hands and the BMA supporting you even if you are drug-crazed mass murdering maniac, Cor blimey, would you Adam and Eve it...a physician's life seems sometimes like a pile of Douglas Hurds.


But you are going to be asking me Why did the chicken cross the frog and toad, innit and the answer is not to have his head stuck up his own Khyber, in this case, by Gosh, his head is not playing the white man, so to speak, and is remaining firmly up his Merry Old Soul, innit.....I must say we have some expertise in this insertions problem, we are getting lots of GingerBeers in here in A&E and you would be amazed, if not altogether delighted, by what they find to put up one another's Jacksies, innalf takin' a bleedin' liberty, these iron hoofs, with the health service, Cor, strike me pink, only not in a pink sense, and so our most distinguished team of bumsters has decided on a most decidedly ground-breaking approach to poor Mr Robinson...

Can you tell our viewers.....

Well, Ms Tits, I would be breaching patient confidentiality but basically, since Mr Toenails' Four Poster is so far up his bottle that we cannot realistically pull it out what we shall be doing is putting a probe with a hook on it through Mr Robertson's General Wavell, attaching it to his loaf of dread and pulling him out, as it were, through his own belly button. This, of course, Stone the bleedin' crows, will have the effect of turning him inside out and back again but since this is what he does for a living anyway he should not be too distressed by the experience, although, My goodness gracious me, the same cannot be said for onlookers, either in the hospital or of the BBC ShitNews channel where the esteemed Mr Robinson normally performs this feat for himself, turning himself inside out on a regular basis. I mean, if you had been there with the Prime Minister, Mr RamJam Snot and heard such almighty bollocks from him you would have called him a bare-faced fish fryer and no jolly mistake, my goodness me, but Mr Toenails, well, as you see, when told a pack of pork pies, just stuck his smirking loaf up his own Aristotle. Would you like to taste something very spicy, BBC lady, you know we Hindis can go at it for days at a time, just be asking Mr Sting, the most engaging Geordie tunester, did I tell you my uncle wrote the Kama Sutra, Oh my goodness, yes, dashed fine chap he was, but a bit of a dirty bastard

That was Doctor Gupta-Turban talking to me earlier, Huw.

Don't you believe a word of it, Fiona, Welshman have the biggest leeks in the world and I'll keep a welcome in your hillsides anytime.

In other news, the Queen of Wales,
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Mrs Glenys Windbag, has joined the government in order to top up on the expenses she claimed whilst an MEP, Our Glen being famous for turning up at the Euro parliament with a taxi waiting outside, so's she could dash in, look you, sign the attendance register, cop the dosh and whizz-off to the airport and back to Wales for a spot of Lava Bread with Mr Windbag, the horrible ginger cunt. Anyway they can both turn up at BribesRus, now, and claim two sets of exes and stuff their stupid, greedy honking faces in the subsidised bars and restaurants; what's she supposed to be doing, Europe isn't it, look you? She'll be able to pop over all the time and see the brats, eh, fuck me, the whole bastard family of ginger morons is on the public purse. Glenys Kinnock, the whining mouthy witch, past a fucking joke, this lot. Fucking youngest daughter works in the Snot Office, too. Our most eminent European, that's how that tosser Woodward described the horrible old bag, God fucking help us, eh, thieving old baggage, our most eminent European, how do these fuckers sleep at night?

Kinnock you know, it was, look you, who promoted SnotMan and Cardinal Death in the first place, the cunt, and Mandelstein; Kinnock has a bit of the shirt-lifter about him and who could blame him, look you, the smirking prat; our Scotch viewers may already know this but His Grace The Lord Kinnock was getting a forty grand a year bribe from the Electronic Fuck-up the Election Company, the ones who made such a bollocks of the Jock Election, the one the Tribesmen won, he's another cunt, that Salmond, fuck me viewers, you dunno how hard it is for me, isn't it, look you, having to report on all these arseholes, sometimes I wish I'd taken that job as Bonnie Tyler's roadie. All very well this three-grand-a-week for reading out this tripe but it's a heartache, nothing but a heartache, gets you when it's too late, look you, isn't it, gets you when you're dow-ah-how-ownn.
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And finally, a human interest story, always best to end with a little humanity, isn't it, otherwise what with all this fucking grotesque news, look you, the viewers'd just turn the telly the fuck off and we'd all be up shit creek without a bastard paddle, and it'd be back to Bleinauaffesstiniogogogogoch for me, like the surface of the fucking Moon, there; Christ, what a fucking shithole.

Anyway, one of the three witches who recently left what they call the fucking cabinet, Caroline Flintminge, the minister for bags under the eyes and stumpy legs and a voice like a fucking migraine on a cold morning, is still angry, the stupid minger; I am pissed right off, look you, she said to the News of The World, having worked for the Snot Project UK my family life has turned to shit. I have two mixed-race children by a man who I had thrown out of the country because he was a wog and I can't do a fucking thing with them.

Just to re-cap on the headlines for you then, the BBC's political editor, Nick Toenails is undergoing surgery to get his head out of his arse, Snot Street is scraping the barrel for thieves and wasters so grateful for a job that they'll eat shit and Caroline Flint is a mad, vindictive bitch, good for fuck all, there, look you, isn't it, and wants putting Up against the wall, motherfucker.

And now for the news where you are, and if that's Wales then Christ fucking help you; you think it's fucking bad here, wait till they start telling you about Rhhhhoodddrrrrii fucking Morgan and the badger fuckers in Welsh New Labour, make your fucking nose bleed, it will.
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