Saturday 27 February 2010

SATURDAY CLUB, NORAH JONES, A BIG GIRL NOW

From last year's The Fall album, Ms Jones's reinvention, rediscovery, reimagining of herself a more louche, knowing voice emerges; I prefer the smoky, country/jazz which made her famous but among the widespread manufactured pap which
now constitutes popular music her talent, her dexterity and vivacity are hugely welcome. Hare Krishna, as her old daddy might say.

Thursday 25 February 2010

GOOD FOR FUCK ALL.

STAFFORD HOSPITAL TRUST. HUNDREDS OF PATIENTS MURDERED BY NEGLECT. GUILTY EXECUTIVES SHOWERED WITH PUBLIC MONEY, MINISTERS BLAMELESS.

These fuckers should be hung up from a lamp post and spat at,


instead they are stuffing their faces and shitting in ours. Alan Milburn, former layabout, amazingly became health secretary, resigned to patch up his common-law marriage, cops a hundred grand a year for "advising" firms trying to privatise many aspects of the NHS. Also drawing a full-time salary as a part-time MP.


NewLabour's Health Secretaries have turned the NHS auxiliaries into paupers, the greedy bastard doctors into idle, dirty tyrants, abandoning their patients to shell-shocked, European locums, the managers into millionaires and the hospitals into full-steam ahead extermination camps for the vulnerable.

Frank Dobson, old Labour stooge, willingly pissed about and shafted by Blair, resigned as Health Secretary to contest London Mayoral election with Ken Livingstone. As if.

Blair had, by appealing to his beardy vanity, removed him from cabinet, leaving room for shits like Milburn. Chump. Not fit to run a St John's Ambulance Tent.

Alan Postman, when health secretary, presided over massive spread of hospital acquired infections, see stanislav, Alan Johnson's Disease. I mean, just look at him.

Glasgow John Reid, thug, drunk, bully, liar, sexual predator - see Reid, Dawn Primarolo - Trotskyist, describes himself as one of Labour's Big Men, Aye, right; horrible little shit, pothead; claimed, when Defence Secretary, that Tommy wouldn't face a shot fired in anger in Afghanistan. Was never anywhere long enough to cop any flak, a sort of a peripatetic minister for bruising. Now full-time Chairperson of Glasgow Celtic Sectarian Football Club, a paid consultant to Securicor and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP. Cunt. Utter cunt, One of the worst of a very bad bunch.


Patsy Leatherface Hewitt, former Kinnock Babe, married to a judge, son's a junky; gobby, patronising, useless career shitbag, jointly responsible with the Postman for national epidemic of HAIs, deaths of hundreds, thousands. Couldn't even see to it that the hospitals were as clean as the local chippy. Wouldn't wanna eat round her gaff. Now working full-time for Boots the Chemists, honest, not invent, and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP.


Not very handy Andy Bubbles, incumbent health secretary, good at saying this is unacceptable and accepting it, Oxbridge, Oxbridge and useless, one of Incapability Brown's bunker barrel scrapings, currently working on strategy for personal care for the elderly - other, we presume than killing them off in NHS hospitals staffed by babbling, hatchet-faced, money-grubbing, pinstripe Rotarians. Lord, have mercy, that our twilights be crafted by such as these. Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

But the worst, the very worst of it, what is unspeakable and unthinkable and intolerable is that people, relatively unsophisticated, came back from Europe and the Pacific and wandered around their bombed-out homes and communities and for themselves and for the dead voted for something different; emaciated POWs, miraculaously surviving the Nasty Nips' work camps, frightened and traumatised, their mates beheaded and starved, voted for something different. And they built houses and they built factories and they suffered rationing and delay and privation but they banished rickets and for a time, unemployment and hunger. And the schools worked. And there were to be pensions, at sixty and sixty five. And health care, from cradle to grave. The people bootstrapped themselves, from shattered, ruined communities, they built homes and hospitals and futures, when lesser people might have merged into, gone along with an uber-Europe, as had the French and the Dutch and the Danes and the Poles and the rest, these people, scorned by Uncle Sam, drip-fed a little aid , a little materiel, a few rusty ships, these people kept the world free and now they and their children enter hospitals built with their taxes and are murdered; their leaders, standing on the shoulders, but shitting in the faces of the post-war reformers, too busy fellating Russian gangsters in Strasbourg, oil billionaires in Kabul, treat them with contempt, No, they shriek, we must have more, the Kinnocks, the Blairs, we must have more, how else will you attract people of our calibre, unless we have more and more and more.They have now betrayed everything for which people fought and died and went without; all must work harder, for longer and for less, the state must see your papers, embed your papers in your skin, the electronic tattoo of the untermenschen; the state must control your children, your diet, your leisure, your habits, your drink, your drugs; the state can now arrest you for an infinite number of crimes against it, even against other states which you have never visited; can photograph you, though you may not photograph it; can enter your home, though you may not know where it lives or how much you pay for its residences. We live in a Nazi state, our SS shoot us at will, whip our women with batons, corral and batter our children as they fight for their Earth, protect with phalanxes of sharpshooters, behind walls of steel the smirking Earthcriminals, visiting Airstrip One and its ingratiating, stuttering, degenerate, fuckwit leadership; the slow or the feeble are beaten to the ground for their tardiness, their killers promoted, bemedalled. Split-second decision, protecting us from Alky Aida, or AQ, owe them a great debt for their magnificent professionalism in whipping and electrocuting and shooting innocent civilians, Iron Cross First Class, at the very least.

The news of the HospitalCrime should give us all pause. Lots, I know, think that the shouty reaches of cyberspace deal in hyperbole, entertaining but essentially just rhetoric, no business like show business. They are wrong.

That old people go into hospital, die through avoidable neglect, indifference and cruelty and that those paid to ensure the opposite happens receive golden handshakes, peerages and yet more positions of responsibility, this is not hyperbole, this is organised crime, this is not a government at its fag-end, part of the merry-go-round of party politics preached by shitbags like the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson, this is much worse; sharpen your sticks, fill your cupboards, buy some seeds and get tough, this is Ruin.

Wednesday 24 February 2010

DUMB ANIMAL

THE CHANCELLOR ON BULLYING


"And then they poked sharp sticks in. And smoke, too, they tried that. It was like the fires of fucking Hell, in here. And dogs. Little McBrides they were, nasty little bastards But they can't get rid of me that easily. And I'm still here and the McBrides are not so that shows who's who and what's what, even if it doesn't get any of the money back."

The Badger-Keeper, Mr Incapability Brown, said sometimes he had to be cruel to be cruel.

Mr Brown highlighted the long service and "huge loyalty" of his animals, saying many had been with him for nearly 20 years.

"There's a huge loyalty in my animals and I am very sorry for them that they have been put through these allegations because we work together as a team," he said, " I beat them and they do as I say. That's real teamwork."

"I don't say it is not a difficult environment because you are challenged every day to make a decision." switching from first to second person as politicians now do, when they are discussing unpleasant things, as in, well, you just have to go to war, don't you?.

Mr Brown was asked whether, given his denials of bullying, he was prepared to take legal action against Andrew Rawnsley, the smug, gobby hack whose new book has sparked the furore over his alleged treatment of animals at Number 10.

"You could, you could, but you could spend all your time with legal actions," Mr Brown replied, meaning I could.

Asked if animal cruelty would leave a "stain on his character", Mr Brown replied: "I don't think it will, because I have answered the questions and I am saying, look, I do get impatient, sometimes you get angry, sometimes you have to do things that are very, very challenging. But at the end of the day they are only animals and you're the cleverest, no, I mean I'm the cleverest boy in the school. And anyway, stain on my character? You must be fucking joking"

But the thing is that you have got to get things done and you are pushing the animals all the time.

"We have had a recession and there are many people in jobs, many people who are still in their homes, many businesses that are still going because we had to beat the animals, yes, and kick them, too, we had to intervene and take the action."

The RSPCA has said that it thinks this Badger-baiting is among the worst cases of animal cruelty it has ever seen and Mr Incapability Brown should be banned from keeping animals or being in public office for life.

Tuesday 23 February 2010

DEAD MAN WALKING.

A PRIVILEGED YOUNG BULLY,
PREPARING TO TRASH SOME LOCAL PUBS
FOR FUN.

Getting like Afghanistan, it must be, in the Tory party; the worse it gets the more they are winning, the more casualties they take, the more desperate it proves the enemy to be; they must be cursing this shitbrain dickhead, Cameron, and wishing they'd chosen gritty, working-class oik, man of the people, hanger, flogger and civil rights activist, Dave Wotsisname, was he an airline pilot, like Lord Tebbit of Telecoms, who knows, it doesn't matter, he's fucked anyway, teach him to go tilting at public schoolboys.

But Cameron, Jesus, dog in the manger, suit-and-a-haircut, that's it, promising no referendum and a raft, as they call it, of entirely necessary austerity measures, only not for him or his gang of buffoons; the austerity moves are so entirely necessary that neither he nor his gobby sidekicks can tell us what they are, until they are elected, although we can be sure that they will be designed to punish us for the failures of the financiers, and a jolly good thing, too; traditional Tories are going to be falling all over themselves to vote for that shit.

Cameron, never mind Blair-Lite, rather a thicker, stupider version of the worthless gabshite, Kinnock, leading his braying, A-list pinstripes decisively away from victory.

THESE WE HAVE LOVED, BLIND BOY BLUNKETT. AND HIS LITTLE LAD.

Bullying? No, not in the Labour Party; I've never seen any.


Do you want to hold my cock Mrs, only I used to be 'ome seckatry and I can make you. 'Slike I always say, Mrs, if you've nothing to fear you've something to hide; now, are your 'ands niee and clean.......?

EVENSONG, FRANK ZAPPA, WATERMELON ON EASTERHAY, BARCELONA, 1988.

PRESCOTT, A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS, ON BULLYING.

MORE LATIN WITH JOHN


Bene, cum Latine nescias, nolo manus meas in te maculare



Well, if you don't understand plain Latin, I'm not going to dirty my hands on you.


Monday 22 February 2010

NO RETREAT, BABY, NO SURRENDER

FROM ULSTER TV

VS
Robinson offices search by police

Old banger on suicide watch. A-ha-ha-ha.

Iris Robinson reports 'lies' - DUP

The Democratic Undertakers Party (props: the Paisley family) has hit back at media reports about Iris Robinson, which the party has branded "complete fabrication and defamation,so they are.".

Sunday, 21 February 2010

According to a statement issued by a spokesman, Mr Billy George Orange, having spoken with the Robinson family, Mrs Robinson remains in hospital under an acute psychiatric nurse and under 24-hour suicide watch.

The party claims that is a result of "the unremitting and ruthless lies and attacks against her".


The statement also rubbishes claims Mrs Robinson would make a "Tiger Woods style" public apology in a bid to return to public life, saying there is no element of truth in the claims.

The spokesman continued by warning that those responsible for making defamatory accusations will "face the consequences, so they will".

"Iris publicly admitted her one indiscretion and has paid a high price for it," the statement added." porking yon wee man was her only crime and the money is something that we're quite sophisticated about, so we are, here in Ulster, seeing as how it all comes free from the mainland for us to use as we see fit, so it does."

"The behaviour of the press and media in extending, exaggerating, embellishing and sensationalising her position and engaging in pure fantasy stories about her is a clear attempt to pursue her to the grave and destroy the lives of all her family. Youse'd all think that an ould bag like her wi' a young lad was fantasy enough for most people but no, it's all been embroidered up like a piece of Belfast linen. Which we don't make here no more on account of my colleagues in the Assembly blowing everything up to fuck."

"Her story will be told and those who have made defamatory accusations will face the consequences. So they...etc"

Searches

The statement by the DUP comes as offices at Castlereagh Borough Council have been searched by a police team investigating allegations made against Iris Robinson in a recent tv programme.

The PSNI have confirmed they were at the East Belfast building on Saturday night.

A group from the Organised Crime branch is carrying out an enquiry after a documentary alleged Mrs Robinson secured a £50,000 loan from two wealthy developers to help her 19-year-old lover set up a restaurant.

It is claimed she did not declare an interest in the business despite sitting on the council that awarded the tender.

Mrs Robinson quit her three political positions as an MP, MLA and councillor after it emerged she had an affair with Kirk McCambley.

Mr Gerry Nonce and Mr Marty Kneecaps and Mr Peter Cuckold have issued a joint statement to the effect that "the sooner these police matters and issues are under the control of decent criminals like ourselvses the sooner we's'll be able to sweep them quite properly under the carpet, so we will and that can only be in the interests of those wanting peace and equality in this here island and anybody who doesn't want that is a traitor so he is and there's no excuse for violence so there isn't unless it's us whose is doing it, so there isn't. Tony Blair, Ah, Gawd bless the wee fella, made us all millionaires so he did, not that we weren't anyway , what with the drugs and extorion. And in Mrs Robi9nson's case with your man, the young lad, being up front for the fifty grand."

THE THINGS THEY SAY.

FROM THE DAILY TOYNBEE.

Peter Mandelson visits Nottingham

The business secretary said he had been on receiving end of Gordon Brown's temper, but that he had 'taken his medicine like a man'. Photograph: Rui Vieira/PA


Sunday 21 February 2010

THE SUNDAY ESSAY. METAPHOR AND REALITY

Col. von Fawkes of the Israeli propaganda unit, relaxing.
Metaphor & Reality

The bankers’ blogger, Guido Fawkes, probably doesn’t relax like this but he irritated someone and they put this together and there it is, the cyber biter, cyberbit. That’s what happens. Out there. Metaphor or simile - judiciously stoked, they run and run and run.
     The Colonel denies ever launching the rumour of there being pictures extant of Gordon Brown in a nappy, on a rocking horse, daubed in shit, sucking a dummy; any number of frantic, deranged parasexual conditions, positions and costumes were said to be captured on film and used as leverage against the then chancellor as he busily burnt all the money in a furnace below Downing Street. But somebody started it and enough people believed it, wanted to believe it, that Google has one hundred and twenty four million pages of Gordon Brown Rocking Horse Nappy. It doesn’t matter if it’s real, as long as people believe it.                                             
                                                                       
These things take off. As stanislav, a young polish plumber, this writer launched the delightful confection, among others, that Ms Jacqui Smith’s previous career had been as a cookery teacher in Burglarsville High School, Redditch, and it runs to this day, the most inept and mediocre home secretary in history is, in the minds of many, always a jumped-up cookery teacher - and isn’t it the case that, what with the hubbyporn and the bathplug and squatting in sister’s broom cupboard, Schmidt acted in just the way you’d expect of a greedy, belligerent cookery teacher propelled into wholly unsuitably high office? The reality, in Schmidt’s case, has outrun the metaphor. Jacqui Smith; you couldn’t make her up, her taxpayer-salaried husband-assistant writing, under a nom de plume, to the local paper, praising the local MP, pretending she wasn’t his Mrs, that he was just a regular guy, spontaneously commending his elected representative. Since I was paying him, not the Labour party, that - the crass, cynical, illicit propagandising - for me, was the graver SchmidtSin, and in a proper country he’d go to jail.
     People may have believed the cookery teacher spoof, they may equally have believed my satirical suggestion that “Sir” Michael White, surely the most obnoxious Guardian hack ever, carried kneepads, the more conveniently that he might fellate Labour government ministers. Michael Kneepads White, Toilets Maguire, Ruth Man Kelly, the PBC’s grunting, hunchback, transsexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, Jack Torture, The Nutter With The Stutter, the individuals who inspired these caricatures brought them to life. I hope that someday, twenty years hence, someone accosts the forgotten Jacqui Schmidt with the words “wasn’t you that cookery teacher, fucked up as ome seckatry?”
 The way these caricatures ran and ran was not evidence of widespread cyber-gullibility but of a wish to label, announce, proclaim, define by suffix, prefix or substitution that something was very rotten in what von Fawkes usefully described as the media-political nexus. These terminologies provided a lingua franca shorthand of Dissent. And they run and run, McRuin, McBroon, Snotty, Mandelbum; one, Hoon, an utter fucking waster, has seen his name become an alternate form of Cunt.
     But however much we vilified his partners in crime, Brown remained the grand, nose-picking enigma, imagined frenziedly masturbating as he fled from crises and responsibilities, disappearing like McCavity. Questions were asked, claims made, theses written predicating that Gordon Brown was a bondage freak, a nonce, mentally ill. Fawkes’s “prime mentalist” (a coinage that enraged those hustling a crust in NutScape or whatever they call the mental illness charity business while delighting many less correct souls) was an infantilised snot-eater, medicated, disordered, bad-tempered and violent, stuttering, gibbering and gulping, ascribed the usual characteristics of politicians everywhere - greedy, untrustworthy, larcenous, hypocritical, inebriated and degenerate, good,  as we say, for fuck-all; the face of the modern career politician,  for sure, but something else, too, something beyond.
 Even the French or Russian Revolutions, as far as I know, offer no equivalent to the sheer volume of heartfelt hatred which our cyber-literate dissenters have blogged, texted and twittered about Gordon Brown. Few parallels exist to the raging cataracts of criticism so luxuriantly, explicitly descriptive of his imagined private sexual identity; “gurning, pouting, shit-eating, cock-sucking, one-eyed, arse-bandit” doesn’t begin to do justice to the rich catalogue of names which Brown has been called. What is it about this man that attracts such speculation?
    That the cruellest lampooning of Brown resides almost solely in terms of sexual perversion voices a tenor of insult unique to him; the revulsion which people feel for and express about him would lay low any normal young parent, such as he risibly claims to be, yet nothing dents his Messianic belief in his exclusive, even Divine right to lead us all into Ruin. Any normal person, so castigated, would say the fuck with this shit and go and do something else, but my experience of people like Brown is that they keep secrets even from themselves and most of the time he doesn’t even know how inexplicably loathed and detested he is; he gladhands with his fellow Euroleaders and, we must assume, thinks that to those who matter, he matters. Brown’s is a deep and strange madness and  I venture that no understanding of what makes Brown tick - or tic - no comprehension of the scale of his folie de grandeur is possible this side of autopsy.
     Why is this? What is it about Brown that he can mince around the capitals of the world, ludicrous and jeerworthy, as though he heralded, or was, the Second Coming, while at home he is hated in strange, suspicious and frightening bogeyman ways? No prime minister in living memory has been so traduced. Alien visitors would surely contend that no one so ferociously and consistently abused from all sides could reasonably be entrusted with serious responsibility; that he should, in charity and decency and mercy, be taken to a place of soundproofed safety. Instead, Piers The Smirking Prat waltzes Brown across a grim, self-exculpatory floor and back again, grinning, to a national tumult of derision and catcall.
     Overseas readers may be unaware that in Ruinous UK, Daytime TV is partially dominated by ghastly barrages of self-revelation and irresponsibility from John Prescott’s Underclass, their shortcomings as couples, parents and siblings being ruthlessly condemned by worthless prick presenters; it is cheap and revolting  television, its depths commanded by a vicious, snarling boy reporter called Jeremy Kyle; Brown’s DeadBaby shit and his Oh-Fuck-Me-I-Was-Injured-But-Carried-On-Courageously rubbish was crafted by him and Piers to excite such an audience, in the vain wish that, identifying with his vacuous soap opera grievance, it might vote for him. Vote for Snotty, He Even Left His Breeding Ruinously Late. He’s A Tosser Like You. A member of Ruin’s rank and vile.
 Allegations and complaints have been made, historically, of incompetence, greed, venality, drunkenness, extremism, unsuitability. No one in modern British politics has ever been so reviled as Gordon Brown, and this national beasting of the prime minister is not consequent upon the financial Ruin which he has so assiduously nurtured over a decade and seen recently triumphant; no, he was detested, viscerally, long before his talents delivered rotten fruit, certainly in my case, and I know in others, too. It goes back to his emergence as Smarmy John Smith’s Shadow Bogus-Tractor-Statistics Spokesman and heir apparent. Brown has always looked like a wrongun, a freak, a bully, a frantic wanker; a creepy fucking  bastard.
     
He is awkward, seems hardly able to walk in a straight line, jerks and spasms and twitches, stutters and splutters and gulps, and that thing, the jaw thing, the dry-wank jaw drop, the obsessive squaring of the papers, the nail-bitten Claw of Doom flagellating, with manic purpose, the despatch box or lectern, the blitzkrieg of phony statistics, the wrong-time-wrong-place Death’s Head grimace; these, individually, or even in small handfuls, do not themselves illustrate  lunacy, a rank and putrid soul far gone in rottenness, but all together, in this ballooning, shifty carcass, I think they do. He looks as though his sins were fighting their way out into daylight, as though, inside his wretched, obnoxious, wriggling skin, sound Mayhem’s alarm bells.

The skymadeupnewsandfilthpress of Murdoch and McKenzie and Toilets Maguire is ever quick to invent paedophiles requiring vigilanteism, whilst advertising, on other pages, granny fucking phonelines, teeny fellatrixes, flourescent barbed wire dildoes, semen-hungry asian babes and Jesus knows what other family-newspaper-values activities for, presumably, the determinedly masturbating family. Show them a story, however, of PaedoSheriff&Advocate, a properly bent Scottish firm of lawyers and fuck me, most will run a mile. The Herald and the Scotsman busy, daily, analysing the minutiae of Scottishness under Salmond's blustering Tribesmen or JockLabour's shifty thugs are both too self-important to expose Establishment noncing. You could light up the night sky with a bonfire made from editorials in the Glasgow Herald or the Scotsman damning Noncery, generally, and yet a scandal so gross, so vile, a cover-up so brazen, so intricate; a catalogue of offence so foul that it should bring down the governments North and South goes unremarked in the press, here, in smart successful Scotland, home of the Enlightenment.

The piety of Victorian Britain, of course, concealed a putrid trade in child prostitution, whether for the presumed sport of deflowering, as they called their rapes, a young virgin or from a wish to engage in the brutality to which Power ultimately becomes slave, the trade in children for abuse was rife. Now, however, we expect better, we expect the powerful to protect the weak. You must be hollowly fucking joking.

We should remember that despite pleas from the families of the massacred children, for their release, the papers on the Dunblane atrocity have been sealed for seventy-five years. That's seventy five years, who, pray, is that protecting, if not the great and the good? The web howls and screeches with conspiracy theories about Dunblane, as it does in relation to three Jock Law Lords' conviction of Mr al Magrahi for the Lockerbie bombing, the closest observers of Lockerbie, including bereaved father, Jim Swire, insisting steadfastly that Mr al Magrahi was framed by Jock Jurisprudence. The best in the world, they say, up here.

We have always promoted here the work of Scotland Against Crooked Lawyers, google them if you have a strong stomach and normal blood pressure, unlike many they have no agenda but justice and their back pages will offer a flavour of Scotland's unique rottenness, of the place from which Ghastly Gordon Brown derives his only phony legitimacy.

We depart here from our customary lofty laments and peruse, instead, the altogether more pragmatic remarks of Mrs Woman On A Raft, from the other day. They relate to historical events in the development of NewLabour by Mandelstein and whoever else was involved in promoting Blair over Brown. We should point out that figures mentioned as being close to Thomas Hamilton, the alleged paedophile who entered a primary school and massacred children and a teacher, were his Labour MP, George Robertson, now Lord Robertson, Michael Forsyth, Tory MP, now Lord Forsyth and the local Chief Constable.

It is claimed that many, aware of Hamilton's behaviour and of the threat he presented, opposed his being granted a gun license - in those days for handguns as well as rifles and shotguns - but were over-ruled by those in power, with drastic consequences. It is claimed that Robertson supported Hamilton's application and Robertson, almost immediately after the shootings was airlifted out of Scotland, out of England and into Brussels in the made-up job of General Secretary of NATO. Hamilton was dead, others kept schtum about their involvement and, as mentioned, the official papers relating to the events are sealed for seventy years, despite the clamouring of the bereaved for their release.

Is there a nationwide paedophile ring in Scotland, involving cops, lawyers and politicians, as there was in Northern Ireland, in Belgium, in the United States? Why are the Hamilton-Robertson papers sealed for seventy-five years ?Delete
Anonymous
Anyone watching the post-Kinnock Labour Party would have judged Brown and not Blair the heavyweight. Mandelstein, with the ghastly Geoffrey Robertson, was a Brownite, to claim, as they do, that Blair was chosen because he was the more telegenic is disingenuous, Blair was, is, bug-eyed, buck-toothed and jug-eared and speaks a grating and patently dishonest tongue, nothing remotely attractive about him; now, though, that skymadeupnewsandfilth has fellated him all these years he looks marginally more acceptable, but he was never a handsome man. What happened? Why despite Blairs' leadership and huge victory was Brown always able to disobey and undermine him? Why was Blair - the butcher of Baghdad - too frit to sack grumbling, groaning Gordon, throw him out of his bunker, with all his scheming lieutenants? This is preposterous, a prime minister with three large majorities, forced out by his chancellor. What was going on here? Are we doomed never to know? Instead, to be fed tittle tattle by Sir Michael Kneepads White and Polly Last Chance Toynbee, as though we are too immature to know these things? 

Brown's body language, alone or with Sarah-George, shrieks derangement, his huddling for comfort on the Treasury bench with whoever is there is pathetic; consider his casual look, as uptight as a guilty man can look; consider how often his chosen self-description is some of form of "right"; I haven't read Rawnsley's supposed revelations because they are not revelations to me. Watching Brown as Chancellor, browbeating the commons with his tractor stats, years ago, prompted me to write "Stalin is not gay." Here, in other words, is a bent thug. Neither parliamentarian or statesman, Brown was just a punk bully from a club you wouldnwanna go in, comforted by husband and wife teams of praise singers, like Mr and Mrs Balls, neither of them parliamentarians, either, parachuted-in from Labour's undemocratic management team. To any with eyes to see Brown has ever acted like a freak, staying publicly just this side of Reason, and privately straying over into madness. Is he on pills, his weight balloons as though this fine athlete, rugby player and all around All American Boy was completely fucked, grey, paunchy, jowly, seedy, gibbering and spasming, his outside reflecting his inside.

What is it then, with Brown, which deterred him from family-making until the age when most are grandparents? What is it with Brown, which enabled the flyweight, Tone, to push him aside but which also enabled Blair's removal? What is it which sees him get up and start his dark workings at Ruin in the middle of the fucking night and then brag about it, as though he was personifying the Presbyterian work ethic of his mad father? As though, by sleeping normally, we sinned? What is it which makes the flesh creep at the sight of Brown at Auschwitz, in a school playground, at the sight of Brown, alone, signing the Lisbon Treaty, alone though surrounded, picking his nose and eating it, on the front bench of the House of Commons. What is it which makes him say with such spectacular cack-handedness "...having saved the world?"

Like the cyber metaphors, once said, Brown's assertion cannot be taken away. He thinks he saved the world. He really does. There should be no doubt that he is stark staring, gulping, gibbering mad. 

Saturday 20 February 2010

BLOGGING A DEAD HORSE

TORY LOGGER AND SILLY OLD COW REVIEW THE NEWS ON THE BBC.

IAN CARDIGAN AND YASMIN ALIBHAI MUSLEM.

DALE: " WELL, WE'RE GONNA STOP TALKING ABOUT POLITICS, NOW . "

SO, WHAT ELSE IS NEW, FATSO?

NEXT WEEK: COL VON FAWKES, HOW MUCH MY SHARES ARE WORTH, NOW. WOW.

THE NEWS WITH ANNA FORD, MARTIN TEETH IS A RIGHT CUNT


Letters

The root of Martin Amis's anger

Dear Martin Amis, You complain about the "reckless distortions" and "chaotic perceptions" of you in the press (Review, 13 February). You seem bemused, hurt and outraged. Perhaps a closer and more honest look at yourself in relation to others could be one explanation? Two stories from my own experience of you illuminate what I mean.

First, you visited Mark Boxer, my husband, when he was dying. You came with Chris Hitchens. Mark was exhausted because you stayed far too long. You smoked over his bed. I later learned the length of visit was not borne just of affection, but you were filling in time before you caught a plane at Heathrow. You wrote a piece about your feelings and tears as you left. I saw no evidence of these.

Second, Mark asked you to be god­father to our daughter Claire. She was six when he died and when later she was reading English at University said she was studying Martin Amis and did I know anything about him? Oddly enough, I told her, he's your godfather. We invited you to lunch. You paid scant attention to Claire (didn't even cough up the statutory five bob expected from godfathers!) and she hasn't heard from you since.

Can I suggest this level of ­narcissism and inability to empathise may be at the root of your anger with the press and your need to court attention? As ever,

Anna Ford

London


Luvvies, eh, what are they like?


Friday 19 February 2010

EVENSONG, LOUIE LOUIE,THE KINGSMEN

BROWN GETS A GOOD CHILCOTTING, WHAT THE PAPERS SAY IN A FORTNIGHT, THE SCOTSMAN.

Chilcott, verb and noun;

v, to be chilcotted - asked long- winded, bumbling, irrelevant questions which are easy to sideswipe, it was more of a chilcotting than an interrogation, like a swift rubdown with a feather duster, really;

noun - shit; this is a right load of chilcott, innit?

from stanislav's Great Book of Shite

FIELD MARSHAL SNOT,
LEADING FROM A LONG WAY BEHIND

If he'd been closer to me I would have taken him out with a salvo of mobile phones, like I do the typing girls, never mind what Tony Hitler, I mean Tony Blair says, about Weapons of Mass Destruction, everybody knows his country was a rusty shitbucket, good for fuck all, couldn't raise an erection, never mind an army, rather, your worships, like we are now, after my first few triumphant years; it was the cheeky fucker's refusal to do as I told him which led to my invading Iraq and deposing him, Saddam, not Tony Hitler, although I managed that a wee while later, Vote Hitler, Get Brown, that was my pledge. And the invasion was the right thing for the country, not for Iraq, mind, or for this one which I successfully lead to complete Ruin but for the great shining retirement destination of everyone in UK politics and organised crime, the United States of Murrca.

"If Saddam Hussein had signed up to international commitments to disclose everything about munitions to the international community and didn't do it and then failed to respond properly, then the United Nations itself and collective action by the world community itself was put at risk, so for me that was the issue." mumbled the snot-eating lunatic, incoherently.

" Everybody else said that we had to invade because of WMD but I was the only one to think that Saddam was very disobedient and had to go on the naughty step. And then fall through it, only the rope thoughtfully tied around his neck breaking his otherwise dangerous fall. I was always the cleverest boy in the class and only I knew what was really happening in Iraq. To invade a sovereisgn nation on the basis of what Alastair Campbell had completely made-up would be rather like me having an election to validate my prime ministership and then not having it, or giving away all the gold with free TESCO points, or wanting, rather like Mr Saddm, himself. to lock everyone up and beat them, or rather have them beaten and wired-up to the national grid by nasty nignogs because of course I am against torture even though it is the right thing for the country. It would have been entirely the wrong thing to do so that is why I did it. So there, Blair and everyone else was wrong and only I was right. Thank you, your worships, I believe I have proved my worth to the British people. Vote for me and stamp out naughtiness and inattention in class"

"Capital Punishment, yes, entirely against it, apart from when Murrca does it. Ditto with torture, kidnap, detention and, well, anything really."

"Yes, there are questions, about Mr Hoon and others who say naughty things, these are very real questions and I am very keen to make up answers to them just as soon as I have told you what they are and when to ask them, just like everyone else does here. Chilcotting, it is the right thing for the country."

"Regrets, nein, Ich haben keine regretten.....if I had to do it all over again, I would do it all over the British people. And the Iraqis and Afghanis. And Tony Hitler, of course."

sings, in doleful, brown voice: Oh I come from Alabama with a banjo on m'knee, Oh, I come from Alabama, with a banjo on my knee, O-o-o-h, Sarah-George, Oh don't you cry for me..........

Thursday 18 February 2010

THE RIGHT SORT OF PEOPLE.

VOTE FIRST CLASS TORY


VOTE BULLYBOY TORY


VOTE MINI-TORY

AND KEEP THE THE TRAINS FIT FOR DECENT PEOPLE

Wednesday 17 February 2010

WOTSONTELLY, FILTH AND CRUELTY, AS USUAL.

AND WE WILL SING A WARRIOR'S SONG
AND LIP THE PRAISE OF MURDER
AND CHRIST WILL BE OUR DARLING
AND FEAR WILL BE OUR NAME.


GERRY ADAMS, MP, COWARD-IN-CHIEF OF THE IRA,
PRESENTS
THE BIBLE, A HISTORY, JESUS, C 4 THIS WEEKEND,
SO IT IS.

Channel Jon Snow is trailing a new programme. Spoiled for choice we are, really; a cornucopia of good taste and stimulating TV awaits, as programmers struggle wth declining advertising revenues and declining audiences and just, well, decline, or Ruin as we call it here.

Giving-over a programme to the second most infamous terrorist in the world is a broadcasting decision at which we can only marvel; perhaps Mayor Livingstone will appear, chiding us that Verily, I whine unto you, to kill Palestinians is wrong, to kill Brits is divine.

Channel Four's latest wheeze, coming later in the week, excites like little else in mainstream broadcasting. This is not spoofing or wind-up it is absolutely true, Gerry Adams, MP for Death, and a member of the Noncing Adams Family, ruminates on the part played by Jesus in Adams' own forty-year ministry of arson, maiming, torturing, burying-alive, intimidation, extortion, drug-running, impromptu Black and Decker orthopaedic surgery and - his tours de force - serial, indiscrimnate mass murder; the gospel according to Saint Gerry of the Schoolside car bomb. A valuable contribution to the reconciliation debate's what they call it, in the C4 office

Jesus was always in his head and his memory, grunts the horrible fuckpig. The professing of the catholic faith by Ireland's noncing monsignors and mass murderers is the vilest camouflage, something which people should scorn and denounce and if Pope Nazi wasn't such a shit himself he'd have excommunicated these fuckers years ago. That Channel Four pays my money to this monstrous beast, permitting him to promote his newly-found conflict resolution skills, washed, now, in the blood of the Lamb is, well, taking the piss;
Jesus, as we say here, fucking wept.


and we will sing.....from Bold Marauder, Richard Farina

EVENSONG, MONGOOSE ROCK

Tuesday 16 February 2010

requiem, kate mcgarrigle

From the New York Times, January 19, 2010, 1:41 pm

Kate McGarrigle, Singer and Songwriter, Has Died

Kate McGarrigle
Peter Kramer/Associated Press
Kate McGarrigle

Kate McGarrigle, a Canadian singer and songwriter who, with her sister Anna, had a repertory of intimate songs about love and family in good times and bad, died of liver cancer on Monday. She was 63 and died at her home in Montreal, her brother-in-law, Dane Lanken, told The Associated Press.

The McGarrigle Sisters were praised by critics for the warmth of their harmonies and for their approach to folk music, which was neither academic nor commercial. Born in Montreal and raised in St.-Saveur-des-Monts, a village about 50 miles to the north, the sisters learned music from nuns and from their family’s regular singalongs at home, which drew from wide sources in folk and traditional pop. The eldest McGarrigle sister, Jane, was a church organist.

Kate McGarrigle, who was once married to the singer Loudon Wainwright III, and her survivors include her sisters and two children who have become well-known singers, Rufus and Martha.

A full obituary is available here.

m

SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND

NONCING IN THE NORTH.


my young friend, stanislav, the polish plumber, used to rail at, what was it, now, cross-dressing, inebriate, wife-beating, ginger bastard child molesters in his adopted home of Scotland, very best part of England and at good for fuck all, bent, thieving, pinstripe Jock lawyer bastard, need hanging-up from lamping post on piano wire and body fed to dogs in street and everyone spit as walking past is, on way to work, or probably, courtesy is of mad, snot-eating, Jock ruinmeister, Brown, on way to dole office, or jump in fucking river and drown due to all the fucking money getting burned up by lunatic bastard and fuckpig, Field Marshal Snot. He wasn't saying the half of it, stanislav.

Click on the links, if you have the time.


Monday, 15 February 2010

SK-H114 - Terrified Scottish Establishment DesperateTo Suppress Exposure Of Their Paedophile Ring

SK-H114 - Terrified Scottish Establishment DesperateTo Suppress Exposure Of Their Paedophile Ring


Hello,

Look at this, it was published in Canada!!
Terrified Scottish Establishment DesperateTo Suppress Exposure Of Their Paedophile Ring

A ring that connects into the 'heart' (wrong word) of the Scottish and British governments and the Westminster Parliament and involved Dunblane mass child killer, Thomas Hamilton.

Reporter Robert Green has been arrested and will appear in court in Aberdeen on Monday morning for the crime of exposing these sick and depraved people who get their 'kicks' from sexually abusing and raping children, including the Down's Syndrome girl, Hollie Greig.

If you live in the Aberdeen area can you get to the court on Monday and give Robert some moral support in the den of immorality that he finds himself for telling the truth about these people?

Scottish 'Justice' Secretary linked to Lord Advocate's lawyers after Police arrest journalist over reporting of Aberdeen Paedophile gang claims

'Journalist & Broadcaster Robert Green was arrested by Grampian Police on Friday. Scotland's Crown Office are said to be heavily involved in the arrest in Aberdeen on Friday of the well known England based journalist & broadcaster Robert Green, who travelled to the Grampian area late Thursday to attend a public protest against the lack of action by Scotland’s law enforcement agencies to prosecute identified individuals in an Aberdeen based paedophile gang, names which include key members of Scotland’s legal establishment and even a local Sheriff, who stand accused of serial abuse of disabled victims, including downs syndrome girl, Hollie Greig.

Grampian Police arrested journalist on ‘breach of the peace’. Grampian Police apparently swooped on Mr Green before he was even able to attend Friday’s planned protest, taking him into custody earlier in the morning on a charge of breach of the peace, which Mr Green had been detained on, until his appearance tomorrow (Monday) at Aberdeen Sheriff court, where ironically, Mr Green will be taken before a colleague of a Sheriff who was identified by one of the abuse victims as being an alleged member of the paedophile gang at the centre of the case, who are accused of abusing disabled victims & also passing vulnerable children around their ranks.'

Please register to see links

This is what the Scottish establishment (and British establishment) is wetting its knickers about ... and what they are desperate will not come out - hence the pathetic and cowardly (they do pathetic and cowardly) arrest of Robert Green ...

FREE ROBERT GREEN

Please contact Grampian police and ask what is happening to him ...

Tel: 0845 600 5700 or email Please register to see links.

Please contact Alex Salmond, leader of the Scottish Parliament, and demand that action is taken in this case ... email: Please register to see links

Please email Scottish Lord Advocate Elish Angiolini and demand that she stop the cover up of horrific child abuse by the Scottish 'elite' ... email Please register to see links

Thousands of people have contacted these people to protest from all over the United Kingdom and indeed the world in the last two days. Please can we keep it up. Thank you.

PLEASE CIRCULATE FAR AND WIDE - PLEASE

To view the original CLICK HERE
'Open the curtains, throw open the windows and permit the light of investigation and fresh air into family courts and sexual, emotional and physical abuse of the vulnerable - expose the abuse & the abuse of authority of those acting in OUR name!
No child asked to be or enjoys abuse,
it is for the gratification of the inadequate
'.


To understand the Concept & Service of StolenKids-
where you can help yourself and others at:
StolenKids-
GO TO
http://stolenkids-bloggers.blogspot.com/


To See The Links PageCLICK HERE

ROOM AT THE TOP.

VOTE CO-OPERATIVE, I'M MAD, ME.
BUT GUDE WITH FUDE.


It's By their words shall ye judge them, that's one of the maxims of we Presbyterians, so it is, and the ruffian, Dave Bully, finds ever more words to say, the closer that we might become to anointing him First Gabshite of the Treasury, and the more he says, the worse it sounds.

Today, promoting his Workers' Co-operative vision of Tory Public Service Heaven - no, honest - Dave was afflicted as usual with verbal diarrhoea of the Tory kind - precise, pensive, authoritative and well-articulated but still just watery shit, That's A Very Good Question, he squeaked between dysenteric splatters and splashes. Which I'm not going to answer.

Get To The Top Under Me, was the burden of his song today as he namechecked a handful of Asians and women, A-streamed by he and probably HeadMaster Gove-Spit of the skymadeupnewsandfilthTimes and a part-time Tory Know-It-All MP. These people, the wogs and the women, insisted the prat, Cameron, know that it is only under the Tories that they can get to the Top. You see, articulated Bullingdon Man, a career bully, Mr David Prat, with the Mayor of London,
at a meeting of the Bullingdon Co-operative Society.

ponce and slag without ever an original, attributable thought, however weedy, in his head, save that Prison Works, look you, boyo; see, look, niggers are joining the Tories, need I say more, they know its the only way to become white, like Trevor Phillips has

Sir Trevor MoneyBags, one of NewLabour's black Tories

and Oh, I dunno, lots of other decent white jungle-bunnies, Keith Vaz, there's another one, waddayamean, He's not a Tory, course he's a fucking Tory

he may well be in the Labour Party but that doesn't mean he's not a fucking Tory now, does it -

I rest my case ladiesangentlemen of wherever we are but mainly those watching me, at home, on telly. And women,too, loads of the bitches are on the front bench

Teresa Shoe-Fetish, Tory BDSM spikesperson, I mean spokesperson

Look how I've changed the party from being racist to being offensively tokenist, how's that for a government-in-waiting. And with my new policy-in-waiting, of making hospitals and social services departments into workers' co-operatives everybody now can get to the Top, only not the very Top, because that's where I sit, me and the jolly old Bullyboys, and occasionally girls, and we don't want working types up by us, fuck me, no. And the other thing is, of course, when they all fuck things up we can close them down without any difficulty and not have to keep-on paying them.

Mr Dave Bully outlines his socialist principles.

Join my co-operatives and get a fair share of nothing, fuck all, by the time I'm done, comrades.

Monday 15 February 2010

FRY-UP, A HETEROPHOBE'S REVENGE

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY

THE FILTH-O-GRAPH ON WEB BULLYING

......... the fear of Richard, a quiet blogger, who spends most of his time caring for his elderly parents in Birmingham. An idle message he posted on Twitter one Sunday last year unwittingly set off a explosion of hate.

He dared to suggest that national treasure and major tweeter Stephen Fry was “boring”. The actor,




experiencing a period of depression, replied to this mild (and many thought, fair) comment with the following message: “You’ve convinced me. I’m obviously not good enough. I retire from Twitter henceforward. Bye everyone.”

At this point Fry hopped on a transatlantic plane, leaving tens of thousands of the actor’s followers to bombard Richard with messages, stirred up in part by the actor Alan Davies, a friend of Fry, who called the Birmingham blogger, brumplum, a “moron” and other less polite terms.

At one point, Davies even appeared to condone smashing windows in the cause of “sticking up for your mates”.

Richard, reflecting on the event yesterday, said: “Nobody considered what effect it might have on me, someone who has never been in the public eye. I had thousands of messages pouring in, nearly all of them obscene.”

Fry, to give him credit, felt rather shamefaced about the whole episode when he stepped off a 13-hour flight and realised he had unleashed a mob.

EVENSONG, PENTANGLE, LORD FRANKLIN.

English virtuoso folk-blues fusionists, Pentangle, weave delicately through a maudlin 19th c.British maritime lament; the tune, the vocal phrasing and indeed some of the words became better known, globally, as Bob Dylan's Dream, sumpn he learned over in England.

On the sublime Freewheelin' album it's companion songs included , inter alia, Blowing In The Wind; Don't Think Twice, It's Alright; Masters of War; Oxford Town; Corrina, Corrina and A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall; the tunes of most of these now-classics were lifted from elsewhere. Dylan's Dream predates Pentangle's formation but its members, Renbourn, Jansch, Cox, Thompson and McShee would have long known the original song.

It is a moot point, whether the narrative ballad is improved, morphed into superstar introspection and both have their charms; the English, though, as usual, display a little more craftsmanship, savoir faire and - harder to pin down - the frail quality which we lack so much, here, in the future, that weird little seasoning, finesse.




BNP GOES MAINSTREAM

EJECTING PEOPLE? WHO DOES NICK GRIFFIN THINK HE IS, TONY BLAIR?

A skymadeupnewsandfilth journalist is ejected from a BNP anti-racism rally for, well, for being from skymadeupnewsandfilth.


Mr Walter Wolfgang, 82, being ejected from a NewLabour conference for daring to speak just one word of Truth to Power. Mr Wolfgang survived the HitlerShitTerror to hear, at the end of his life, Tony Blair tell him that despite being manhandled and silenced by NewLabour thugs and slags, he was lucky to be living in such a democracy as he, Blair, permitted, here in HMP Britain.

No, really, he is my hero, Blair, said Mr Griffin,

after his party had made its commitment to anti-racist practices at all its future Klan meetings. I mean, look,

he's roasted millions of the fuckers, men women and children and they give him a medal and zillions of bucks. I should be so lucky.

As the election approaches, those who launched Holocaust, the Movie, in Iraq and Afghanistan will attempt to make use of the British National Party; those who have collateralised the lives and limbs of maybe half a million wog children will chide us, lest we vote for racism; will patronise us that our disgust at their rapacious, greedy, incompetent degeneracy is actually merely voter apathy, our shortcoming, not theirs, that all that needs to happen is a new, fresh, reforming, modernising but austere government, all, then, will be as before, the worm-eaten, putrid body politic resurrected. All of the uni-party, consumeriste totalitairiens nouvelle , the indistinguishables, will find common cause in blackguarding the oaf, Griffin, as though he and not they had launched wars illegal and immoral, as though he and not they had enabled the crushing of civil liberties, the erosion of rights which were never properly in the gift of government, not theirs to tinker with, rights and not therefore removable by the ghastly, sightless, brainless, hopeless, cock-waving demagogue, Blind Boy Blunkett; it will be as though 'twas mad, bug eyed Nick who burned all the money and who gave what was left to the bankers to dish-out amongst themselves; Griffin who sold the passports, fixed the visas, copped the freebies, shredded the expenses, banged the secretaries, sold the peerages, fixed the enquiries, lost the data, pissed the IT billions up the wall, made the children into illterate, homicidal, knife-wielding, granny-raping little fuckpigs, opened the borders, closed the pubs, buried bad news and gave Rover to the Germans . That we are ruined is little if anything to do with neo-Nazism and in any event, what awaits us in the neo-Communist European Project into which we have been dragooned, denied a referendum by all those who cry Wolf! at Griffin's thuggishness, heedless that their own uniformed minders baton-whip women on the streets of London, kill, shoot and maim as they please, the Terror threat a welcome carte blanche to every Griffinite in the Met? What awaits us in the New World Order should be our concern and all of those shitting in our faces are determined that we are there bound, like it or not.

Griffin's shape-shifting rhetoric is bollocks, sure there are neo-Nazis, there are Jehovah's Witnesses, too, and Flat Earthers but we do not face Judgement Day and the Earth has neither edge nor corner; we certainly need not fear the BNP getting hold of the reins of Power; our fear should be their retention in the hands of the likes of Brown, Cameron and God spare us, the gobby prick-in-a-suit, Nick Haircut as Kingmaker.

Most will be a bit uneasy at the sight of that bloke being slung out of Berchtesgarden, yesterday but should not swallow any suggestion from Westminster that they must, therefore, all vote, again, for the criminalati ancien, Fuck, no. When it comes to shameless corruption, copraphiliacal degeneracy, stupefyingly cack-handed uselessness and downright, vicious, bloody, racist wickedness, the BNP are just a white herring.

Sunday 14 February 2010

I READ THE NEWS TODAY, OH BOY.


AMERICANS GET WET WATCHING SURFERS.

WAR ON THE PACIFIC OCEAN
VOWS SECRETARY HILLARY FARTPANTS.

Skymadeupnewsandfilth is reporting that some Americans got wet and fell over and some even had sprains and shit like that as a Maverick wave came rushing ashore at Half-Moon Bay, near San Francisco, ArnieLand; yes, a Maverivck wave, kinda like a terrorist wave, you know, ordinary decent Merkins just out watching Billy-Bob or Billy-Joe or Billy-Bobby-Ray-Joe Jr, out there. shooting the curl, whistling Surfin' USA to himself or maybe Ba-ba-ba, Ba-barba-Ann, and everybody longing for a big motherfucking wave to come and then, when it did, it came in too far, ain't life a bitch, and they all got wet, the folks standing on the shore. Somebody better get their ass kicked over this, some orphanage in Iran, some hospital in Gaza.

We must, simpered pretty, straight guy and lying fucking bastard, Tony Blair, stand wet shouilder to wet shoulder with President Obama, as he will give me lots of money, rather like when I bailed-out from Number Ten, just before the economy shit, as the Americans say, hit the high-speed blender and got put in everybody's milkshakes. Only not mine because I'm a catholic, now. A Maverick wave attacking Half-Moon Bay is just the same as if it attacked Weston-super-Mare, not that I'd know, preferring to holiday in Pimp Heaven, with drug-raddled blackmailing, extortionist, sex addicted Wop prime ministers, money laundering Russian gangsters and screechingly gay popstars like Sir Cliff Richard, Mr O'Bono and myself.

Merkins ought to be able to stand at the edge of the World's biggest ocean and expect it to motherfucking well behave itself and not be doing this wave shit, Merkins should be able to stand right there, close as they damn well like and not get their fucking feet wet, wossapoint of bein' Merkins else, said President Obamala, breaking from his Sunday Bible Study with his wife, Funky Michelle and their two brainwashed children. Dangerous sports is supposed to be safe, aim't they, for decent Merkins? I'm gonna not rest until I teach the ocean who's President around here. We vow, here and now, before God, that we will bring this ocean before Justice's pitiless gaze, or nuke it, or my name ain't Uncle Tom.

WIPE OUT.

Next Week: The San Andreas Fault, ain't that downright unAmerican?


I READ THE NEWS TODAY, OH BOY.

OPERATION HEARTSANMINDS


ALL OVER BY CHRISTMAS

WAS THE OPINION OF MAJOR-GENERAL RUPERT GOLIGHTLY-JOCKSTRAP OF THE QUEEN'S OWN RED TROUSERSTRIPES REGIMENT.

I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL AND WITH MY VERY CAPABLE COLLEAGUE, MR, ER, ER, ER, BRIGADIER MOHAMMED FUZZYWUZZY OF THE AFGHANI MOTORISED SLINGSHIT, SORRY, SLINGSHOT REGIMENT,

(COR BLIMEY, SAHIB, I CAN'T BLOODY WELL WAIT TO HELP YOU KILL MY COUSINS, BUGGER ME, NO, CAN'T BLOOMING WAIT)

WE'LL GIVE THESE DAMN TALIMEN A GOOD SWIFT KICK IN THE PANTS AND BE HOME FOR TIFFIN. STEADY, THE BUFF HOONS.

I WOULD JUST LIKE TO EXTEND MY CONDOLENCES, SAID NATO C-IN-C, FIELD MARSHAL GORDON SNOT,


TO MYSELF IN RESPECT OF MY DEAD BABY AND MY EVEN DEADER ELECTION CHANCES BUT AS WE SAY IN THE ARMY, IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL THE FAT LADY GETS GANGRAPED AND BAYONETTED TO DEATH AND I SUPPOSE IF I WERE TO HOLD MY NOSE AND TREAD IN THE WATERS OF BABYLON, ONE MORE TIME,
(YES, I KNOW, BENT AS A NINE-BOB NOTE, BUT IT'S THE RIGHT THING FOR THE COUNTRY)

THEN SARAH-GEORGE MIGHT BECOME PREGNANT AND WITH ANY LUCK HAVE A TRAGIC MISCARRIAGE IN TIME FOR MAY, SHOULD BE WORTH A FEW VOTES, WHICH IS MORE THAN CAN BE SAID FOR THIS FUCKING STUPID WAR, OUT HERE, IN WOGLAND. AND ANYWAY, IF WE BEAT THEM THERE THEY'LL ONLY COME OVER HERE AND BOMB OUR ASRSES OFF, WELL, NOT OURS SO MUCH, YOURS. THIS IS WHAT I HAVE SAID ALL ALONG, LET THEM SLAUGHTER BRITS OUT THERE AND THEY WON'T NEED TO COME OVER HERE AND DO IT.

I BLAME MY SUBORDINATE, PRESIDENT NIGGERBASTARD, OF THE UNITED STATES. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GIVE PEOPLE CIVIL RIGHTS, THEY ABUSE THEM.

SPEAKING FROM THE GARDEN OF WHAT IS NOW KNOWN AS MICHELLE'S BLACK HOUSE, PRESIDENT OBAMALAMADINGDONG SAID

MY FELLOW MOTHERUCKERS,
LEMME TELL Y'ALL AND ESPECIALLY ALL THE BROTHERS OUT THERE 'STANSIDE, THAT THERE'S TWO KINDA SURGES IN THIS LIFE, THERE'S A ORDINARY KINDA SURGE AND THERE'S A NIGGERSURGE AND WE'S GONNA NIGGER SURGE ALL OVER THEM GODDAMN NIGGERBASTARD RAGHEAD COCKSUCKIN' SONSAFUCKINBITCHES, BLOW THEIR NIGGER ASSES STRAIGHT TO HELL, OR WHEREVER IT IS RAGHEADS GO TO, BET YO' SWEET ASS WE ARE, KEEP THEM HOME FIRES BURNIN', EH, HONEYCHILE?

I READ THE NEWS TODAY, OH BOY.


MR & MRS WAYNE POTATO LEAVE COURT TODAY DURING THE CUSTODY BATTLE FOR THEIR MONEY.

WE'D JUST LIKE THE MEEJA TO LEAVE US IN PRIVACY, APART FROM THEM WOT'S PAYIN' US, LIKE, SAID A SPOKESMAN FOR THE POTATO FAMIILY. WAYNE NEEDS TO GET 'IS 'EAD TOGETHER, LIKE AND 'E'LL PROBLY BE MAKING SOME CHARITABLE VISITS TO SOME ELDERLY PROSTITUTES, LIKE 'E DOES. NAH, COLLEEN IS VERY UNDERSTANDING, SHE UNDERSTANDS THAT SHE'D NEVER SEE MONEY LIKE THIS IF IT WERE'NT FOR 'ER BEING MRS POTATO.

MR POTATO, ONE OF THE HIGHEST EARNERS, SO TO SPEAK, IN THE GANG-RAPISTS' PREMIERSHIP, WAS SAID TO BE DISTRAUGHT AT BEING PARTED FROM HIS MONEY, THEY'RE LIKE ME BABBIES, ALL THEM MILLIONSA POUNDS, LIKE, GRUNTED MR POTATO, THROUGH AN INTERPRETER.

READ MORE POTATO ADVENTURES IN SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH'S HELLO AND FUCK-OFF! MAGAZINE,


AVAILABLE TO POOR PEOPLE EVERY WEDNESDAY WITH PICTURES OF ALL THE IMPORTANT POTATO EVENTS, POTATO HOMES AND WEDDINGS AND WHAT THE POTATOES REALLY THINK. AND DON'T FORGET, POTATO-WATCHERS, THAT MRS POTATO HAS HER OWN TV POTATO SHOW.

CROWD OF MAN U SUPPORTERS OUTSIDE COURT SINGS:

ONE WAYNE POTATO,
THERE'S ONLY ONE WAYNE POTATO........

Saturday 13 February 2010

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH - RUIN.

William Hague's clear message: vote Tory, or be ruined

This is no time to indulge in fantasies of a hung Parliament .

William Hague has an apocalyptic message today for our readers, and the whole country. We must choose between “change and ruin”. In an interview with this newspaper he tells us that the forthcoming general election is our chance - our only chance - to get rid of Gordon Brown. This is no time to punish mainstream political parties with votes for fringe groups or to indulge in fantasies of a hung Parliament.

It emerged some time ago that David Cameron would deploy Mr Hague in the election campaign as his effective deputy. Perhaps the timing is coincidental, but it is interesting that the shadow foreign secretary, a famously plain-speaking Yorkshireman, should be delivering his message at the same time that the Prime Minister bared his soul in an interview with Piers Morgan (to be broadcast tomorrow) during which he dwelt at length on his romance with his wife and spoke frankly about family tragedies.

We should say immediately that Mr Brown and his wife have shown courage in dealing with the death of one child and the serious illness of another. We do not criticise him for talking about these things, any more than we would criticise David Cameron for talking about the death of his own son. But, generally speaking, this sort of interview is not a healthy sign: politicians who invite questions about their emotional lives are nearly always facing political crisis and reaching out for a sympathy vote. Mr Cameron should resist the temptation to follow suit.

Mr Hague’s interview is calculated, too: every major interview between now and the election will have been at least partly choreographed by strategists. It, too, betrays undercurrents of anxiety: the Tories are understandably rattled to find themselves with only single-figure poll leads in the dying days of one of the most unpopular governments in living memory. But, be that as it may, we suspect Conservative voters will be reassured by what Mr Hague has to say.

They will be pleased to see one of the most popular and trusted Conservative politicians pulled back into the front line of domestic politics. Moreover, he uses the interview to express an electoral reality that the Tories have been too slow to acknowledge. Conservative sympathisers and others who want to get rid of Mr Brown and his Cabinet must vote Tory. Indeed, says Mr Hague, “we only win a majority in the House of Commons if a large number of people vote Conservative who have never voted Conservative. It’s not as if there is a large lump of Tory voters who are waiting to return.” It is appropriate to hear such talk from Mr Hague: his popularity has been transformed since his own stint as Leader of the Opposition, and he is now one of the few frontbenchers who can persuade non-Tories to break the habit of a lifetime and vote Conservative.

“Change or ruin” might seem a melodramatic way of expressing the dilemma facing the electorate. But Mr Hague is a historian as well as a politician, and this perspective enables him to see with some clarity how far down the path to decline Britain has moved in the past few years of Labour government. As he puts it, we are “hurtling towards a position in the world that is dramatically more minor than that [which] Mrs Thatcher presided over and Tony Blair was happy to exploit.” In fact, so dire is the situation that the Labour Party might be relieved not to have to deal with the “terrible stinking mess they have created”.

But someone has to and, as Mr Hague insists, that someone must be David Cameron. This solution is only possible, however, if voters pass up the pointless luxury of a protest vote. A national debt of £780 billion requires a fresh government with a parliamentary majority – and a comfortable one at that.