THE BBC'S POLITICAL EDITOR, MR NICK TOENAILS
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....
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,
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....
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,
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.
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.
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.
7 comments:
At Daisy's mention of Brown as a casualty of anti-psychotic medication, a thought, probably one that Daisy has already had, presents itself with unwelcome clarity - Brown is very close indeed to a full-blown psychotic episode of transformational potency.
The gap between a statement unshakably high principle and its complete and utter contradiction issuing from Brown's lips is now a matter of days on one hand and decreasing noticeably by the week.
Brown's moment of revelatory epilepsy draws near - that tick was always a bit of a giveaway, should have realised its significance sooner, the man's not wired up properly.
That alone is not his fault, and would ordinarily be a cause for sympathy, but Brown has spared no effort to earn the contempt he is now rightly owed.
He can't be put to the sword soon enough for my liking.
It is an awful personal tragedy; I blame his parents, always have but I think he has gone way beyond the range of any empathy or compassion I might feel; he, Blair, Mandelson and Campbell are guilty of the gravest crimes, beside which this expenses stuff is small beer; in the absence of their prosecution the nation cannot even start to renew itself.
I kinda think it's nice that care in the community extends to Downing Street but enough's efuckingnough - time to execute the cunt.
PS - I love how Labour politicians tell me that it's expenses why I didn't vote for them - hokely dokely - I was wondering why..
I think, Mr DTP, it's called Cuntzpah, isn't it.
.. Cuntzpah ..
Nice =) All that 'Am Ah Boverrd' stuff - maybe not Tony, maybe not, but guilty? That's something for a jury to decide.
.. tell me that it's expenses why I didn't vote for them ..
Even in defeat, Labour still manage to infuriate, the bastards.
The only explanation they won't be considering is the correct one - namely that they're all clueless shitheads, the worst government in living memory, a bunch of corrupt, cack-handed incompetents who've finally, and at long last, been found out.
No doubt a Labour defeat at the next general election will be seen in this is that (bogus) context, the word recognise will be used with such repetition as to lose all meaning, and some pasty-faced neo-Blairite dweeb will be given the chance to impress his ugly-minded contrariness upon a weary public.
Given the alternatives, this is actually something to look forward to!
Funniest thing I've read in ages!
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