DANCING WITH THE DEVIL, stanislav goes for a knees-up

MY NAME IS DEATH.
THAT'S FUNNY, SO'S MINE.


Is not very good, eh, Mr Keith Vaz, is up own arse and is not to make mistake about. Can’t open fucking trap without oil slick form around for hundred of metres, but he really does take the sandwich when it comes to poor Ms Piggy, resigning to spend more time with hubby and maybe give him J Arthur in front of porno channel. Has done great thing in being woman home seckatry, says Vaz, even though is fucking rubbish and not as good as me, but was first woman and so hear! hear! for Jacqui jolly good fellow is. For a woman.

How Vaz would like if people said, Oh, fuck me, that Keith Nigel Standish Vaz, has done jolly good job, for a wog; is credit to his species, like; not long down from trees is and can stand up and talk bollocks just like best of them, who would have thought wog could do that and not shit all over green bench? Vaz would not care for that and would be in lawyer office in thirty second making writ but Ms Piggy, Oh Fuck me, is great thing for woman to be home seckatry. As though bint is not able to stamp on freedom just as good as bloke.

NewLabour got minister of women, right, but no minister of wogs and is not right, wog get just as bad shit as woman and should have ministry. Woman get treated like nigger and nigger get treated like woman. Pray silence for Her Majesty Seckatry of State for wog and nigger and raghead and pakibastard. An’ I might say, Mr Deputy Spanker, that blokes on this side of ‘Ouse has done much more for wog than bloke on bench opposite who is just party of do-fuck-all, except in other job down the Court and at the JCB factory, Mr Hay-Gue. My learned and right honourable friend the Lord Torturer even get together with constituency wog, oh, at least one time very four year, and actually talk to the buggers. Under this guvament when wog get elected in parliament is chorus of: Look, another wog have join in Labour rank, even if are Tory bastard like Vaz; and we also send plenty of creepy wog in House of Thieves, or aka OtherPlaceULikeBribes‘R’Us; or Some of my best friend is wog or wog has selfsame right to equal pay as woman, only not, obviously equal pay with white geezer, especially Lawyer; but even more wogs and women, ‘swhat we want in the party, only not too many, just look at that David Lammie, wotselike, eh? And Diane Lard, is great big WogMama and first ladywog in commons so must be good, even though is really worthless piece of Tory shit.

Why, even the motherfucker-in-chief of the USA is wog, innit, and he never mention it only about five hundred times a day so is measure of mature Uncle Sam society, innit. Is good shit for president to go about yelling Look at me, my granddaddy was a headshrinking, cannibal motherfucking sonofafuckingbitch, I’m a wog, ain’t that cool, Yee-Haw and Yes, we Coon. Is best get NASA to make intergalactic probe with solid gold plate on side saying, in scientific language, Greetings, Alien Motherfuckers, Does You Have Niggers ? And If So Is One President? If Not, Best Come To Earth, If Is Not Melted By The Time You Get This. Thank You And Have A Nice Eternity. Love From Uncle Sam, Last Great Torturing Hope Of Mankind.

Measure of success for nineteen of sixties grammarschool totalitarianiste nouvelle wanker from babyboom is how many minority can patronise in one day, Some of my best friend is gaybastard, only not me, fuck that, that AIDS is bad shit, but only themselves to blame and when I say gay friends I mean friends who is gay and not that we is all gay friends because I am definitely not gay; some of my best friend is Hymie CockChop, only not Israeli Zionist bastard; some of my best friend is Raghead only not stone mad Jihadi bastard hiding under bed of democracy with Semtex and Scimitar and, best of all, I number quite a few women as best friends, although not all at once, obvious, and not fat bad mad bastard Andrea Dworking, feminist nutter, or scary, man-eating Fag Ash Lil behemoth, granny Germaine, only is not granny, really, due to lethal toxicity of shrivelled-up, sperm-proof, desert sand womb. Disable people, love disable people to fucking bits and treat them just as equal, definitely, only cripples, or backward and I hate it when they park their cars where they please; I mean, I like to think I’m a pragmatist and what with all the global warming those crippled fuckers should stay at home and not waste petrol driving down Tesco and frightening my children, Tarquin and Alicia. And that way busy people like myself and my partner would more choices have of places to park and choice at end of the day is bottom line and what it’s all about. I love and sincerely fucking embrace all these minorities as long as they is just the same as me and not acting in a minoritorious fucking fashion. We want all them minorities to leave their Goddamned minorityness at the door, who the fuck do they all think they is, coming in here and breast-feeding, some of them, fucking disgusting and unnatural; some of them eating with their fucking fingers, praying, fuck me, some a them bastards wanna pray all fucking day long, beads and fucking mats and everything, down on their fucking knees like Micks, babbling and fucking moaning, Y’know one time get in taxi at Redditch and bloody driver is sat there moaning and fucking groaning and stanislav thought Must get behind wheel himself and get driver off to Princess of Wales fucking hospital for heart attack sure as shit, this bloke is moan like arterio-sclerosis has got him tight by the brown Mohammedan bollocks and would have been one less taxi driver in Redditch, a Birmingham burglar’s overspill housing project, because hospital has Alan Johnson’s Disease Special Award for Offing of fucking Patients, but look closely and driver is going Allah is the this and Allah is the that, has got fare in cab but is too busy praying to Allah to say 'Allo Chief Where To? Should stay at home or go in mosque an do fucking praying and not sit in Joe Baxi and give fare the heebie fucking jeebie; fucking Jesus wept, these fucking minority religions go on like was a real proper religion, some a my best friends is Ragheads, teachers and writers, like, but not shouty Imam or Halal fucking butcher, fuck me, no, and they all has done much to enliven our culture what with Balti House and……..the other Balti House, love that Ravi Shankar music, really love it, or is he a Buddhist? But is not as though they was decent Christian people, with a proper God and Vicars and everything. And they do have forced-up marriages and wipe their arses with their fingers. Fuck me, filthy fucking bastards, those foreigners. And them fucking Jews, they’re not much better, y’know what they do to the little boys, Fuck me, what’s all that shit about, I mean some a my best friends are Jews but chop the little boys’ cocks off, that’s right out of order, that is; I like gefelte fish and salt beef and that holocaust was bad shit and everything but even so, chopping a lad’s cock off is not what I call inte-fucking-grational and if you ask me home secretary Blind Boy Blunkett should open up a few of them camps, just as a warning, and it’s no wonder, what with that and all the money-lending that they get up people’s noses, only not mine, some a my best friends are Isaacs its just that why is the TV all run by gay Jews ?

Back on Radio Four, Vaz, the Oily cunt, was ……reflecting the diversity of our vibrant NewLabour community and that is why when a representative of just over fifty per cent of our diverse and vibrant community, a woman, gets to have a proper job we must always comment upon it. Only under NewLabour could a SplitArse be home secretary. And aren’t I a terribly splendid fellow for saying so? That’ll be five hundred guineas, please.

Even by the standards of New Labour – Blunkett, Reid, Milburn, Tony and Imelda, Mandelson, Prescott etc., etc., the Catalogue of Disgrace and the Chronicle of Ruin cascade off the page and down the road, like a tide of Filth - Keith Vaz is one of the foulest people in the country; he is useful, though, in that his unfuckingbelieveable crassness, his simpering, over-rehearsed lawyerisms, his repellent air of magisterial Wisdom and his glistening, oily, self-regard reveal, at a glance or in a phrase, how complete has been the hi-jacking of the Labour movement by good for fuck all thieving career slags pimps knobjockeys wasters and shiteaters; Vaz, we should not forget, stood first as a Tory and in praising the wretched, good-riddanced Schmidt, yesterday, spoke ludicrously like an eighteenth century Squire, praising the spunk of one of his beaters. If we would find the soul of the labour movement which brought many of the freedoms now trampled by government, look in Keith’s pinstripe pockets. Speaking for plumber federation me and my members accept Equal Opps legislation long ago, and Race Relations Act, is all no big deal, except for Keith Vaz, chairman of home affair select committee; if society is better under New Labour is surely no fucking need to mention that Schmidt is bint, eh, is fucking cookery teacher, after all, innit.

This egalitarianisme noire, opulently present in the likes of Vaz, in which the prominent and the pushy celebrate themselves by drawing attention to the Otherness of others is emblematic, too, however, of the Supreme Presbyterian, Brother Snot. Someone, Mrs Woman On A Raft, I think, said that Brown simply did not understand the words which stumbled, stuttering, repeating themselves in a maelstrom of incoherence and stupidity from his gulping gob, punctuated by his clunking claw of doom, rearranging his papers according to whichever obsessive compulsive disorder drives his poor mad mind, and we, here, in stanislavia, have always maintained that any attempted rational précis of the Brown philosophy would fall at the first hurdle for it is entirely, defiantly irrational, a bombast of archaic totem, clumsily rendered cliché and faked-up tractor production stats; the whole fraudulent, stinky confection set in a jelly of secrecy, secrets – Am I gay ? Aha! That’s for me to know and you to find out. But I am you. Well, then, whadareyaaskinmefor? - he keeps from himself; ridiculous and absurd, inwardly a bubbling cauldron of blackmail and bullying, intrigue and revenge and outwardly a dishevelled ruin of misplaced, displaced sexuality, of maladroitness, of lumbering, nail-bitten inelegance, he dresses like he was wearing his Reverend Dad’s clothes, his an infinitely protracted adolescence in which To Be Seen Doing Good is all that matters to him, even if only he, squinting, can see it. Like many of his age he is wrong-headedly in love, in some affaire necromantic, with Dead Kennedy; the equally father-dominated JFK wanted to do good, too, only not to the Vietnamese, or to his Mrs and those who have stolen the good name of we, the workers, and dragged it through blood and shit and graft like nothing more than standing in the media-burnished glow of yet another obnoxious, poor little rich boy playing at the politics his Nazi Daddy bought him. Holidaying with rich white trash in Cape Cod annually, Brown has returned, inspired, to lecture the poor at home, lift them from poverty into debt.

Lifting a million children out of poverty and into debt, Mr Speaker; throwing a few stingy pounds at pensioners shivering to death, scourging the disabled back to work, forcing mothers onto the job so-called market, leaving their kids to be brought-up and buggered by strangers; Brown’s political raison d’etre is to identify groups of Others and patronise them, chide them, harangue them, read them sermons and take their money from them and in so doing bestride and dominate a society in which, in truth, he is more Other than most; a bad-tempered, snot-eating freak, posing as Moses, parting the Red Sea, coming down from the Mountain, megalomaniac Sol-you-shuns carved in tablets of stone, the horrible fucking bastard.

Unsatisfying would it be, were he to go now, his tracks, his snot-trail, would be forever covered by a blizzard of headlines from the second vilest group of bastards in the country - Brown, A Victim Of The Expenses Scandal, John Lewis, A Fridge Too Far; Hell Hath No Fury Like A Chipmunk Scorned and so on and he would be missing, absent, out of the frame, sitting in his counting house counting-out his kids’ pocket money, a penny at a time, begrudging Mrs Beard-Snot her housekeeping, when all his miraculous Right Things To Do turned to shit. The best thing is that he stays, and suffers and is roundly humiliated in a general elcetion, losing even his own Fife seat. There is none among this shower of merit, Cameron and Clegg and the singing postman the evidence of Ruin and not its remedy.

Much is said on telly and radio; is Rotten Parliament, or what ? Is Crooked Parliament, Thieves’ Parliament ? Is Parliament of Scumbag, or Nonce, or Parliament of Amazing Copraman, Oaten. Is Parliament of Peace-Loving Warmonger? Is all, of course, is biggest collection of congenital villain and nonce and arsehole outside of HMP Grendon Underwood - which is where heavy-duty criminal bloke get treated who can’t tell right from wrong, no, really, place is full up of cunt like Douglas Hogg and Elliot Morley, sociopath and psychopath, bloke like Lord Arseface Robinson of Dunblane. Previous prime minister has all been arsehole, screeching, hate-filled Mother Superior lunatic like Thatcher; creepy-crawly, organ-basher and treacherous hypocrite like Grocerman Heath the Teeth; paranoid pussy-whipped depressive like Wilson; useless idle bastard fuckwit like Sunny Jim but New Labour, through Brown, Blair and Mandelstein have transcended all of that shit not only in useless good for fuck all incompetence but in bare-faced thieving, in repression and surveillance, in hypocrisy, neglect and in the blitzing, the torture, the maiming, in the blood of the innocents, this, Blair’s NewLabour, the obnoxious, cadaverous fairy Mandelstein as navigator, when what he needs is a good hard punch in the mouth and Chief Officer Snot as engineer, when what he needs is profound and long-lasting psychiatric care; this, New Bicycling Tory Party, puffed-up,braying, empty-headed, coke-snorting Old Etonian bullyboys; this, Cleggie’s Co-operative of Sandal-wearing FoxTrotting Nitwit Bisexual Volunteers; this, the truculent, inebriated, wife-beating Jock Tribesmen and the misbegotten sour-faced Ulster UndertakerBastards Party; this, the shrill Taffy wankers, as if anybody gives a fuck about Welsh independence, least of all the Welsh, this, stuffed to the cross-party gunwales with self-serving filth like Keith Vaz and his dancing partner; this, thanks to The Third Way, The Project, the class of 97, is the Parliament from Hell.