EVENSONG. ARE BIRDS FREE FROM THE CHAINS OF THE SKYWAY?

POPPIES.

Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, me lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

And you'd think that they was 'oly, with their kissers all turned down
And a look so bleedin' pious you'd think the angels 'ad come down,
the angels 'ad come down, me lads, the angels 'ad come down
And blessed 'em all, for bein' such a sorry bunch of clowns.
A sorry bunch of clowns me lads, all standin' in a row.
Got-up like tailors' dummies, the lowest of the low.

They do this once a year, me lads, the flags and all the tears
But we live with their rottenness, for years and bloody years.

Was the improvised explosive, done the damage to the lads
And they might have fared right better had they been in armoured cabs,
But they never spent the money, so the lads all 'ad it rough
While Bobby Bleedin' Ainsworth, 'ad is nose stuck in the trough,
'is nose stuck in the trough, me lads, 'is nose stuck in the trough.
'E 'ad 'is fingers in our pockets, an' 'is nose stuck in the trough.

Some is living in an 'ostel, some is livin' on the street
There's some 'as got no ears, no eyes, and some 'as got no feet.
And some 'as got no feet me lads, and some 'as got no feet.
Oh, it's hard to go a-marching, when you hasn't got no feet.

And some 'as melted faces, make the children look away,
Make their wives and girlfriends shudder, though they'd never like to say
That there's worser things than dyin', like comin 'ome this way.
They can do wonders, now, with plastic
Or so the doctors say.

And some is off on jailhouse leave, and can't be here today,
The Judge, y'see, he banged 'im up for ever and a day.
'E banged 'im up for fightin; but that's what soldiers do
And when he's got no war to fight, 'e 'as trouble getting through
Trouble getting' through, me lads, when all the shootin' stops And no-one wants to know 'im, just the prisons and the cops
The prisons and the cops, me lads, stick in a soldier's craw
Cos those what sent 'im killin' is far beyond the law.

If I but stole a fiver, now, from comrade next to me
I'd be on charges, sharpish, there, for everyone to see
They'll never get their collars felt, however much they steal
It's like that Alan Duncan said, a splendid fucking deal.
They write the rules, then break 'em, say they didn't understand.
They're shitting in our faces, up an down the bleedin' land
Shittin' in our faces, just as hard as e'er they can.

Pissin' in our pockets and spitting in our eyes
And travellin' on the gravytrain to the house of bleedin' lies.
An Armistice, all of their own, and no-one got no blame
They just paid a few shillings back and carried on the same.
Carried on the same, me lads, for now and evermore
Stuffed like pigs and drunk with power, while we go off to war.

The members and right honourables know only how to lie
And cheat and steal and fornicate, whilst we march off to die
In some benighted wogland, some jungle, veldt or bush
Or in the hills and mountains of the Hindu bleedin' Kush
The Hindu bleedin' Kush, me lads, you'd think they'd understand
That the killing fields of Afghannystan are No Man's Bleedin' Land.
No Man's Bleedin' Land, me boys, and it was ever thus
They shoot from caves and run away, in the Hindu bleedin Kush.

There's Charlie in 'is medals, heir to the bleedin' throne,
The one what we're out fightin' for, while he's sitting safe at home.
E'll 'ave yer Mrs, like as not, you give 'im 'alf a chance
He just takes what he wants, you see, it only takes a glance
For he is true nobility, the country's pride and joy
Whilst we are noble savages, cannon fodder to deploy.
They'll send us up to fiery death, and out in unsafe trucks
And when we're blown to Kingdom Come, why, no-one gives a fuck.


But when we come in sixes, with coffins draped in flags
They look a bit embarrassed, like, they're just a bunch of slags
Just a bunch of slags, me lads, all standin' ramrod straight
They'll smile and say So sorry, just a simple twist of fate
I would have gone myself, you know, but I'm important here,
We also serve, we lousy pricks, who only stand and wait.

You can put your bleedin' poppies where the Sun don't never shine
For hypocrisy's your only creed, you ain't no friend of mine
You ain't no friend of no-one's, if the truth was only told
To the boys you send to bleed and die and never to grow old.
It wouldn't do for your sons, all to the manner born
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
That's the stuff for me and mine, our bodies ripped and torn.

So you can put your bleedin' poppies where the monkey put his nuts
The only thing we've seen from you is cuts and bleedin' cuts'
And some ain't got no bullets and some ain't got no boots
And some are boys of seventeen, just bleedin' young recruits
Bleeding young recruits, me lads, all blown to smithereens,
They never saw their twenty-first, they never left their teens.

See, they're only paper flowers and you're only paper men
And if the call to valour came you'd cut and run again.
But paper flowers, that's the thing, to show you are sincere
And shiny shoes an' overcoats, that's why you're standin' ere.
We're soldiers of the Queen me lads, and not this sorry bunch
Who steal their houses, dodge their tax and steal their bleedin' lunch
They're one step down from parasite, a squalid learning curve
Lets hope before they meet their end, they get what they deserve.

Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

GET REAL, URGES THE NUTTER WITH THE STUTTER

At the EU meeting, a snot-eating, gibbering lunatic and a boy on work experience discuss who should be Napoleon.

Get real, people, said Premier Snot, Tony Blair is the man for the job. And Imelda, too. It is the right thing for Europe's hard-working homeless families and small gone-out-of-business businesses. The right sol-you-shun. It would be good for the climate, good for jobs and good for snot.

Banana Boy: That's him fucked, then. As well as us.


WHAT THE PAPERS SAY.

From the Arsebridger.

BLAIR FUCKED.

Tony Blair's bid for EU presidency sinks

Ex-PM's chances of winning role slide as Sarkozy and Merkel fail to back him.

On other pages

Sir Michael Kneepads White & Dame Polly Mascara reveal how NewLabour has one last chance to get things right

.

YOU CAN'T HIDE YOUR LYING EYES

AND QUITE PROPERLY SO.

No, they can't touch me. Outside the Law, y'see.
And quite properly so.

Former Obedience minister,Tony McNutter, takes his punishment like a man. Pay back a quarter of the money and for appearances sake mutter a few words of apology. Job done.

One of NewLabour's facetiously hard men, McNutter was keen when at the Department of NoWork and FuckAll Pension, to see that benefit cheats, or any other convenient enemies within, were punished to the full extent of the law. Bless.

Below, Mrs McNutter, another catastrophically over-promoted gabshite, someone big, but shit, in Education. I actually think it's him in drag, two jobs, two pensions, two sets of exes and two lots of immunity from criminal prosecution. And quite properly so.

THE BOOK PAGE

While I was reading or skimming this, I learned of a wee drama in a local care facility. It wasn’t bloody or anything or prolonged or even sadistic per se, it was just entirely shocking; it was the sort of thing that normal young people don’t do. Oh I know pissed-up teenagers are revolting and most of them are revolting even sober, stupid, idle, violent; bad parenting and testosterone. But they don’t do this shit. It’s this sort of off-the-wall shit that leaves social workers fucked six ways to Christmas. If one of your own kids did this shit you’d want to drown them and then drown yourselves, the social worker, though, has to get real close but stand back, remember that this little monster is also a damaged child; it’s not his fault, even if you wanna kill him.

It happens all day long this stuff, the victim-perpetrators fetch up in the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go; sometimes they slay their own dragons by killing Baby P, often, they do abuse unto others as it was done unto them and fetch up in some institution, hated, every man’s hand against them, their wounds called Evil, their Sorrow Cruelty, reviled and despised and rejected for what some grown-up made them. And the social workers know all this Merry Go Round of Wickedness stuff, ride it themselves, really, fucked if they do, fucked if they don’t.

Anyway, Brand’s life, by this telling, is a panoply of shocking and disgusting events. What sets him apart from all the others, abused and who self-harm and whose every sexually eccentric action wounds and marks their prey is that he’s a luvvie. In his times of mad excess and degradation he had, surprisingly, an agent, making drama of Brand’s squalid life and he dipped in and out of drama school, was indulged by the impressionist, Rory Bremner’s, production company, Vera; no business like show business; Brand, filmed masturbating another man in a toilet for want of something more creative to do or slashing hinself with broken bottles or imbibing fatal quantities of booze is lionised by luvviedom, sent, eventually, to be filmed retracing Jack Kerouac’s footsteps across America, not, granted, in an E type or astride an Indian for he would surely fall out or off but in a somehow appropriate SUV, for all the world as though he was an homme de lettres, as though Beat was just an early form of Brand’s marketable degeneracy; he and Kerouac, soul brothers, fellow travellers through Life’s cottages, her celebrity re-hab clinics.

The people at the top of this are unlikely to be picked up by Maestro Bremner or tutored by the great Svengali, Jonafun Woss but will probably just disappear into one of many cellblocks in HMP UK, surviving as best they can, somebody’s client, somebody’s caseload, somebody’s inmate, Brand at some vapid awards ceremony, they on the Sexual Offenders Register. But Brand has lived a life that KeIth Richard plays at, not for Brand the millionaire, junky chic of a one-trick, popstar playboy; no, Brand has been full-on, hard-core and, like Richard, has succeeded at something that he’s not, actually, terribly good at, but which strikes a wan chord with many.

I have championed his stand-up comedy, not difficult in a world of Petulant Jack Dee and Zany Paul Merton; he is brave and shocking and original, makes you laugh, even though it's not funny, really. That he is his own material is fine on stage but on the printed page his stuff comes to resemble a series of social enquiry reports or case conferences, all written by the subject and it is profoundly depressing. Many venture Outside but not all are so narcissistic, so utterly self-consumed as Brand’s booky-wooky reveals him to be; his need for love is overwhelming, almost as great as his need to disappoint; this book probably satisfies both.

THE DAILY DUNCAN

Well, another chap's done the right thing for us in Selly Oak, yesterday, laid down his life that his betters - me - might enjoy free gardening, jolly decent of him, even though he did take his time about it.

257 DEAD & Countless Maimed

But that's just so far.

LOOK IN EVERY DAY TO SEE HOW MANY MORE TROOPS HAVE DIED FOR ALAN'S WAY OF LIFE. IT'S A MAN'S LIFE IN THE ARMY, THAT'S WHY HE'S NOT IN IT.

But the main news is those bods falling out of the sky on fire but, you know, it's not as though they were serving on a very important select committee as some right honourable members do, Oh, several times a year without any thought for their own safety, now, is it. Have to keep a sense of proportion. Main thing is, those Kelly recommendations'll take years to come in, by which time we will have arranged something altogether more satisfactory, share options or something, in the banks, and bonuses, well, why not, we do deserve them. As that chap said in the Nimrod enquiry, business, that's what we should protect, servicemen are, in the scheme of things, ten a penny but if we want to continue to attract people of my quality into politics we have to make it worth my while.

NIMROD

ROLL OF HONOUR

CRIMEWATCH ITALIA

REPEAT OFFENDERS ON ITALIAN CRIME SPREE


Three prominent members of the New World Mafia enjoy a last few moments of freedom. Listen, says, Napalm Tony, I am a pretty, straight guy; just because all my mates are going to jail doesn't mean I can't be Emperor of Europe. And anyway, my bitch, Imelda, is a brilliant lawyer, she says so herself.

THAT NEW LABOUR MARRIAGE CEREMONY

I, Tessa, take thee, Thieving Lawyer Bastard, to love, honour and negotiate a satisfactory set of career-enhanching living arrangements; to have and to hold, from this day forth, for richer and richer, in sickness and in health until death or the spic cops do us part. Those whom ambition hath joined together let no court proceedings and lengthy sentences of imprisonment put asunder. Unless its for appearance's sake and to allow one of you to carry on robbing the taxpayer and fuckingeth up The Olympic Foolishness. Amen, You may now start your sentenee.

Ageing Blair Crone, Jowell and husband,
David Mills QC and thief.

GRIFFINGATE, THE FURY GROWS

MELANIE JOSHUA PHILLIPS ROSENBERG,
MAD MEL OF THE DAILY FILTH-O-MAIL.

I'd just like to get straight from the start, David, that anyone who disagrees with me is a fucking Nazi, is that clear? Good. And I will bite them. Now, to return to the question, I am so pissed at the BBC leaving me off Question Time With The Nazis that I have not shaved for three days. I mean, I eat Nazis for Passover, I mean breakfast and I should have been there to deal with that horrid little man, Straw. My absence from the panel is tantamount to the re-opening of the concentration camps, in which everybody seems all of a sudden to have lost a granny, well, David, let me reassure the viewers, those ordinary Jewish families sat at home in Manchester and Golders Green, eating anchovy trifle and tuned-in to see me, their prophet, on this programme, that I fucking own the concentration camps and they are off-limits to any other bastard, especially that shiska tramp whore bitch slag, Moir, waddussitmadda if a young Irish boy takes the pork sausage up the Jacksie, so long as he loves his mudda and says his prayers to Jesus, the fink from Nazareth. And he sings, or sang like a fucking angel.

But anyway, David, my boy, the deal is this, the beard stays on until I get my own QT, devoted entirely to me and maybe that gay Rabbi, Julia Cheeseburger, but definitely not that simpering old pansy, Lionel BlueCock, what should we be having, a Question Time of gay fucking Rabbis, Oi Vay and fuck that shit. Did I mention my husband-partner is a hotshit lawyer and'll sue your ass if I don't get my own show? My son is a lawyer, too, or is that Yasmin Alibahai Kebab. the greasy old soundbiting Voice of Allah. Maybe it's that skriking bitch, Clare Pox, off the moral maze whose son's a lawyer, wouldn't be surprised, although that sour old bitch's probably barren and never dined off the pork suasage, anyway, just munches carpet, down there at the Institute of Ideas. (sings) Is-rael, Is-rael uber alles...

Thank you Melanie Phillips ben Rosenberg and now The Archbishop of York, the very reverend and stupid Dr John Semolina,


what's your position on the Nick Griffin affair?

Bless you my son and may the Lord watch over your goings out and your comings in to the House of Lords. You know, as I sat on the train to come to this lovely studio and do the Lord's work, I nibbled at an antelope sandwich and sipped at a small mealie beer and reflected on my days sitting in the evenings, by the kraal, as the womenfolk cleaned the house, carried water from the well, ground maize, tended the children and the cattle and did every fucking thing that we men were too idle to do and I wondered why God had sent me to this shithole to minister to a countryful of fuckwits. At least my old mate, Desmond Tutu, got himself a Nobel Prize for his holy mumbo-jumbo, down there in the Dark Conmtinent, what have I got, an inner-city Achbishopric, York, who the fuck has ever heard of York, the only thing they make there is fucking Kit-Kats, have a break, have a fucking Kit-Kat, not exactly the Sermon on the fucking Mount, is it. I tell you, my son, being a senior churchman is not a bed of fucking roses. Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not and neither do they spin, which is more than I can say. Gay bishops? Put 'em in the fucking pot and simmer for two hours.

Yes, Archbishop, but what about the question, should Mr Griffin be burned at the stake? Well, as you know, David and brothers-and-sisters-in-Christ-or-Whoever-at-home, the nigger pimp, Mugabe, has quite tried my patience, so much so that as a gesture of solidarity with my friends in Zimbabwe I have not changed my underpants for three years and that will remain my position until Brother Mugabe is put up against the wall and Praise the Lord, shot full of fucking holes, Hallelujah and Saints be praised. Everytime worshippers in York Minster see me robed in gold and green at the High Altar, serving sinners with the Holy Ghost and a swig of Buckfast tonic wine, they can reflect that in order to bring about the Lord's Will vis a vis that old black bastard, I, John of York, am wearing underpants more vividly marked and heavily soiled than the Turin fucking Shroud. The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn't he fucking just. And so the least I can do is serve his ends by making a dirty but holy protest, clad ye in filth and dried-up bits of excrement in the name of the Lord, as we used to learn back in the Bone-In-The-Nose Theological School in Darkest Africa. As for Brother Griffin, well you know those fucking Jews run everything, always have, and they killed our Lord, nailed him right up there, for all to see and all they can do is walk about Crucifixion-Denying and buggering-up the economy, all these banks are all owned by Hymie. you know, so, frankly, David, my enemy's enemy is my friend; if a few inner-city dwelling coons get rolled up in the New Holocaust, well, it'll all be part of God's plan, just like everything. It's true that many of my brother bishops are thinking of joining hands with Pope Nazi on account of all the dyke priests and the gay bishops being permitted by Brother Rowan to take on holy orders and bugger one another alll round the vicarage and these are tough times for Mother Church but I think we can welcome into our embrace a properly-constituted Nazi Party, just like in the olden days.(sings) In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle, the Lion sleeps tonight, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, Wimoweh...

Thank you, Archbishop, and now
the colourful and controversial - but now our best friend -
Colonel Muhamma Gadaffi, Emperor of Libya
and owner outright of the former prime minister
Tony al Blair.

,
His Excellency, Col. Gaddafi,

Does His Excellency have any views on the British Nazi, - cheers, waving of rolled-up copies of the Guardian - sorry National Party?

Well, it is great to be on the BBC, in my country we have Question Time, too, and if some smart ass comes out with the wrong answer, like they might say Libyan Intelligence when they mean the CIA or maybe, Yvonne Fletcher, when they mean running dog capitalist lackey and member of the secret terror police, then it's Whoosh!, and down comes the scimitar of justice and off comes the

head, eh, it's the only thing these ragheads understand. And the women, we don't stand for any of that fucking about, look at a decent man the wrong way and they get bathed in the petals of Allah's Mercy......

You mean stones....?



Yes, stones, nasty sharp ones, it's the only thing these bitches understand. But Bismillah, we are here to smoke a little kif, fuck a few pretty boys and talk about Sheikh Griffin, just like when HM Govt comes round my gaff. Does he wanna buy some oil, Sheikh Griffim, has he got any money, or does he know anybody with any money ? If he does then I can't see a problem really, I mean, he hasn't set half the world alight, like my good friend, Tony, and my good friend, Jack, and my good friend, Gordon el Snot, if we permit those riff-raff in the Tent of the Almighty, peace and blessings be upon his name, then why not this bloated little loony?

You think it's ok, do you, for Mr Griffin to be preaching hate?

Well, why not, everybody else does?

Thank you, President Gadaffi, and finally Murdoch columnist and former Tory MP, Lord Matthew Parris of

Hampstead Heath.

Matthew, what's your view?

Well of course I agree with everyone else on the panel, that's why we are all here and when it come to Freedom of Speech I'd just like to affirm that Mr Murdoch is all in favour of it, as long as it's the right kind and not the wrong kind, so you see there's not really that much difference between skymadeupnewandfilth and the BBC, now, is there.

I think we in positions of influence have to strike a balance between allowing people to say whatever they want, which would be wrong, in my opinion - as I say in my autobiography, everybody outside of Westminster is a nobody - and allowing them to debate these things within limits which we set for them, which is the right thing and very much what Mr Murdoch wants to happen. I, for instance, have never said Gordon Brown is gay and wouldn't dream of doing so, unless of course, he looked as though he might win the next election, which he won't. Mrs Thatcher, bless, was ever so fond of that kind old Nazi gentleman, Mr General Pinochet de los disappearances, and of Professor Heinrik von Kissinger who famously experimented on a whole population with his famous Agent Orange and of course of the Bruders de Klerk, ApartheidTownshipsRus, of South Africa who had similarly bold community ideas to Mr Griffin; we Tories have always been in the forefront when it comes to Nazis and there is absolutely no reason why Mr Griffin doesn't continue to work for us, saying the things that we are too frightened to say. Sieg Heil and Kiss Me Quick. Buy the Times, I'm in it!

As ever, my thanks to the panel, to the nodding nitwits in the studio and to the BBC for a lifetime's worth of highlypaid pomposity on my part. Tune in next week for more shit.

PEACE, MAN, AND WEED. ONE NIGHT IN THE ASHRAM.

The 1960s made superstars of the most unlikely; John Lennon, the luckiest Liverpudlian in history, bar Ringo Starr, befriended young Donovan Leitch and took him to India to visit the Maharishi and both brought their formidable intellectual powers to the question of world peace. Lennon, for instance, sat in a bag in expensive hotels, we can but imagine how much worse things might now be without Johnny's intervention, the fucking arsehole. With delusions of staggering grandeur, Leitch was a clunking, third-rate, nasally facsimile of Bob Dylan, Lennon of Elvis Presley; improbably fortunate in his partnership with Paul McCartney, both Beatles blessed by their involvement with George Martin, the wife abusing, cowardly, bullying smackhead, Lennon, was thwarted in his endeavours to bring global peace by someone shooting him eight-times dead, never mind though, although John died for Peace, his soulmate, Yoko, the orgasming octogenarian of the Later programme, continues to delight with her artistic genius and young Donovan remains cemented into his flower power, hippy-trippy, Hare Krishna vision. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be a babyboomer.

EVENSONG. A STRANGE AFFAIR

DRUNKEN GLASWEGIAN RACIST SLAMS BNP

I'm a bit pissed this week, but it doesn't matter,
you're all cunts. "Over to our very own chocolate Hob-Nob
and Custard Cream." Honest, that's what he said.

No, really, I used to be a socialist. A left-wing one.

Just look at where they made me wear this fucking Poppy. Stuck on my fucking shirt, like I was a fucking homeless person.
I used to be in charge of things.

EVENSONG

JON SOX TELLS IT LIKE IT IS

THE DAILY DUNCAN

A regular, skymadeupnewsandfilth feature in which we record the number of British service personnel killed in order that democracy, as represented by Mr Duncan, be maintained,




256 DEAD & Countless Maimed

But that's just so far.

LOOK IN EVERY DAY TO SEE HOW MANY MORE TROOPS HAVE DIED FOR ALAN'S WAY OF LIFE. IT'S A MAN'S LIFE IN THE ARMY, THAT'S WHY HE'S NOT IN IT.

Well, I must simply say, grins cheeky chappy, Alan, that it had gone a bit quiet on the Afghan front, up the Khyber Pass, but another sound fellow has fallen today, an MP, I understand, only not the important type, like myself, has made the ultimate sacrifice which of course we should all be prepared to make, if only some of us weren't so jolly important.

Take me, for instance, I'm so important that not only can I not do gardening but I can't pay for someone else to do it and have to mug the jolly old taxpayer for the cost of same. It is a splendid system and well worth brave men dying for although it would be rather more helpful if they could manage a decent show, say ten or twenty dead at a time, so that David Cameron could make a rather better fist of it at PMQs, if you know what I mean, giggle.

RACIST STRAW ON QUESTION TIME. A NATIONAL DISGRACE.

Tonight, on the BBC's sinking current affairs flagship, Question Time, with one of this man's descendants,

Rchard Dimblebeebeecee,

political arsewipes like Obedience Minister

,

Jack Torture, seen her with his succubus, will champion the cause of the corrupt, degenerate, war-mongering house of commons over that of some loony who insists that history never happened.

Straw, author of such civil rights triumphs as this

and senior member of a government responsible for legitimising an invasion which has killed, maimed and tortured vast numbers of entirely innocent wogs and niggers will simper that Everybody Knows I'm Not A Racist, despite the blitzkrieg on the wogs which, I am minded to say, phoney simpering cunt that I am, is all in their best interests. And anyway, no-one knows how many wogs have been slaughtered in Iraq because we don't even bother to count them, untermenshen, you see, wogs; not worth counting, who cares, I obviously don't. Bit don't anybody call me racist; murdering wogs is not the same as being racist, like Mr Griffin is, fuck me, no But I'd like, David, to talk about Mr Griffin's far more serious racism, a racism which might yet result in me losing my seat and this, I am minded to say, is what really concerns the voters. It doesn't really matter to me mind, because, like Tony, I will go straight on the board of DeathCorp and into the upper house, they can't touch me, the people. Just as well, really.

Did I mention that accountancy, unlike mass murder and torture is not my long suit, and that's why I made some very genuine, innocent errors in claiming tens of thousands of pounds in expenses. But, thanks to Mr Griffin, we can talk about something else.

INEXPERT OPINION

INCOMPETENT TOSSER


"THREE TWOS ARE NINE,
FOUR TWOS ARE TWELVE. .."

SNOT-EATING, DOPED-UP LUNATIC.
.

"WELL, ACTUALLY, THREE TWOS
ARE TWENTY-SEVEN,
FOUR TWOS ARE EIGHTY-ONE."

A STRATOCASTER MADE OF SOLID BRONZE.

RUBY WAX JOINS NEWSNIGHT

NEWSNIGHT'S NEW FOREIGN AFFAIRS BINT,
RUBY WAX, TALKS TO MR ABDULLAH ABDULLAH ABDULLAH

JUST LIKE IN UK, THE PEOPLE OF AF-HA-ISTAH ARE FED UP WITH THIS SHIT, THEY WANT A LEADER WHO HAS BEEN ELECTED. HEROIN? NO THANK YOU, I HAD SOME EARLIER

LOOK, RUBY, MR KARZI IS KEEPING TERRORISTS OFF OUR STREETS SO IT IS THE RIGHT THING THAT OUR SOLDIERS DIE SO HE CAN RIG ANOTHER ELECTION AND HOPEFULLY WIN IT THIS TIME, THE USELESS FUCKING PAKI. THE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD CAN TRUST ME TO DO WHAT'S RIGHT

.AFGHANISTAN, THAT SHIT STILL GOING DOWN? JEEZ, DON'T THEM NIGGERS KNOW WHO I AM? ANYBODY GOT ANY SMOKES FOR THE PRESIDENT?

.

NASTY NIP IN THE AIR

CAPTION CONTEST

YOKO ONO, 75, STRUTS HER STUFF
ON A SPECIAL, HELP THE AGED, EDITION OF
LATER WITH THAT LITTLE ARSEHOLE, BBC2

OH, SEXY SADIE,
YOU BROKE THE RULES.