EVENSONG, THE WELL-TEMPERED UKELELE, MORE JAKE.

WOTSONTELLY. CELEBRITY SCIENCE, MIDGET STYLE

The Invisible Mind of Richard Hammond, BBC.

Hammond, above, stole the nations's sclerotic heart when he cheated death, escaped by a whisker, miraculously survived some teenage stunt on the ghastly Top Gear programme. He did nothing of the sort of course but his wee spill was milked for all it was worth, all the way to Little Dicky's private hospital suite. Plucky, spirited and all heart, the wee man was up and raring to go, just like the Lord had said, Lazarus - or Richard - pick up thy Porsche and Drive, baby, drive, you ain't dead, just bruised a bit and you can't buy publicity this good, not even in Heaven.

  For readers in countries without TV, the Top Gear format  consists of middle-aged blokes driving impossibly priced motorcars sideways around corners with smoke pouring from the tyres; brainless eulogies to Ferrari, Bugatti, Mercedes and McLaren  and analyses of the driving capabilities of those celebrated for their tits, their singing and playacting or their utter irredeemable cuntishness;  these interviews are conducted by  the motoring journalists' equivalent of Mr O'Bono, of the Irish beat group, U2 , Mrs Clarkson's fat, wee son, Jerry, and are a reminder of how abject, miserable, humiliated, wretched,

contemptible, base and servile we have become that for entertainment, enraptured,  we applaud the  Toytown antics of freaks and slappers and junkies and egomaniacs, burning rubber in an environment invisibly encrusted with safety measures, experts and massive insurance cover. And then we deplore the teenage and infant ASBOID carthieves, aping their betters and sometimes dying or killing.

Top Gear is watched by tens, maybe hundreds of millions of people all over the world and its preseners, therefore, can write their own tickets.  The Filth-O-Graph's James May fronts other vaguely techie shows,  bumbling from Farnborough to NASA in an entirely unengaging amateurish fashion; Clarkson scribbles half-hearted rants for  The skymadeupnewsandfilth Times and fills any vacant seat on any of the proliferation of game-quiz-talk shows which don't necessarily star Steven Fag or David Mitchell or Marcus Bogstick but generally do; he's a BBC wheel; shame he doesn't come off, but there, as he would say, you go,

Little Hammond has graduated from doing adverts for Morrison's

Richard Hammond earns £3m from Top Gear alone not taking into account the sponsorships deals etc etc - please dont fool us into thinking this guy, or his wife or any member of his immediate family has ever set foot inside a supermarket especially Morrisons. You stupid little twat

 

From the youtube comments

and Teatime Kiddies' ShitScience shows and now presents a flagship blah blah blah ground breaking blah blah blah change your life programme called Richard Hammond's Invisible Mind, sorry, Worlds.

Anyone who has ever dropped a fragment of hash on the carpet whilst tripped out of their minds  and desperately sought its retrieval will attest to the multi universes of nasty, filthy, little bastards living in the carpet, billions of the fuckers, the damn thing is alive with them and they laugh at Mr Richard Dyson and his infinite succession of miracle vacuum cleaners, each one better than the previous one which was, at launch, unimproveable-on; the domestic arm of GlobaCorp, Dyson and his wheeled dustgobblers are so essential to the nation that he had to shift their manufacture out to wogland, and they don't strike, the little brown and yellow fuckers, should be ashamed of himself, Dyson, shit product, shit ethics, but he's not.

Anyone who ever read about the Dutchman who invented the microscope knows that, in his words, there are more creatures living on one of my teeth thatn there are grains of sand on the beach.  That stuff exists in mind-boggling abundance, even though you can't see it, is fairly rudimentary intelligence but Hammond lads it all up , waltzing coolly, eyebrow raised,  through slo-mo special effects - they don't make him any bigger - as though he was actually in a rock video.

The programme, a series of  micro - nano? - photography studies is visually  startling and I guess educational, informative, at least, as it magnifies both the everyday and the esoteric to many thousands of times the naked eye perception and then suggest ways in which the knowledge thus  gleaned can enhance our already fairly luxurious lives;  close, microscopic  observation of, for instance, a lotus leaf, has led to us aping it's micro-forestation of water- and dirt- resistant surface hairs in the manufacture of an entirely water-repellent fabric. If only there was a bullshit one.

Interesting stuff, if ultimately corporate and capitalistic but Oh, Hammond; he can't resist the laddish quip, the As You Do, the  There You Go, Top Gear Laddisms, pathetic in that milieu, entirely inappropriate, irritating  and just plain fucking stupid in this pseudo-scientific outing. It's not that the Beeb lacks presnters with credentials, its just that it takes such a lowest common denominator approach to popular science, thinking, rather like Morrisonss,  that just because its Hammond folk will buy it, watch it,  love it- even though he spoils it completely;  this is Ruin writ large,  this is like the Crankies Meets Tomorrow's World, avoid it.

PEEPULUVBRITTUN. I SIMPLY SAY, CLEARLY, ON BALANCE AND IN A VERY REAL SENSE, GIMME MONEY, THAT'S WHAT I WANT, THAT'S WHAT I WANT, THAT'S WHAT I WANT, THAT'S WHAT I WA-A-A-A-A-A-A-ANT, THAT'S WHAT I WANT, THAT'S WHAT I WANT

HERE COME THE NICE, LOOKING SO COOL.

TRUE LOVE WAYS.

The current Tory leader and his Mrs strut their casual stuff

whilst Dave keeps his eye out for incoming shit parcels from the Filth-O-Graph.

Among traditional  Tories,  Mr Yahoo is the only person hated more than Mr Gordon Snot and  has not, therefore, a dog's chance of becoming prime minister Blair, Mk 11, no matter how much he screeches. Fuck, no, they'd rather vote for Mugabe than this prat.

Mrs Cameron, daughter of a robber baron, is said to be good with clothes. But obviously not his.

THE SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT SUPPLEMENT

 DANCING WITH THE ANOREXIC

THE SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT

EDITORIAL, THE HOLOCAUST BLUES  REVISITED.

For  the 'fifties baby boomers, the Nazi War was still everywhere, the cities were full of bombsites, there was rationing, unexploded bombs and shrapnel, kids played with bits of army equipment, pouches and webbing and big brothers and uncles had guns - big ugly .45s, stenguns, Lee-Enfields and Mills bombs, too,  Lugers and bayonets, they were everywhere.

And there was, too, an awareness of the Death Camps; some had been at them, hoovering-up emaciated bodies, bulldozing them into pits, some were aware of the Nuremberg trials and although people got on with lives lived frugally,  in austerity,  they had, most of them been through a Hell of one sort or another.  Relatively few actually saw combat  and UK casualties were a tiny fraction of those in the Great War of Stupid Generals, when Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap would order ten thousand killed before breakfast, even so, a hungry nation rejected government by pinstripe Old Etonians or Harrovians and threw them out, a delayed reprisal, maybe, for the offence of The Somme and Paschendale.

But after the Nazi War  all the grown-ups knew about the camps and eventually so did their kids, knew about a dark, industrialised slaughter.   I remember, as though it was yesterday,  leafing through a Purnells Six Volume History of WW11 and seeing the pictures of the camps, feeling as though I had stumbled on grown-up dirty pictures, ashamed, a bit frightened. Those piles of things being bulldozed were once people, some of them children.

 I have never forgotten that feeling and have raged at the impudence of the Blairites and Zionists for their demanding a Holocaust Day as  a means of celebrating their own sensitivity and piety, arseholes, and of justifying their own murderous, Nazi deeds. Look, I have invented Holocaust Day, I am a pretty, straight guy;  I would never do anything wrong;  ask anyone who knows me, like Steven Byers, or Geoff Hoon.

The Final Solution was a crime which must have involved a massive percentage of the German and wider European population;  how could it not ? Communities disappeared, camp guards went home on leave, some may have re-entered the Wehrmacht, civilian industries were established to process the stolen property, the spectacles, the gold teeth, the artificial limbs.  This was a massive programme of national crime and the nation responsible should have been dismantled, dispersed, dispossessed;  instead a few were hanged and the appropriate national punishment abandoned in the realpolitik of post-war, Iron Curtain Europe. It was a triumph for the evil which we call pragmatism.  We were expected to, still are expected to believe that this was the greatest crime ever perpetrated and accept that  so very few of the guilty were punished. We are expected, also, to endorse any Israeli brutality whilst leaping to the persecution of the so-called Holocaust-deniers - how can anyone deny this stuff ? but let them, anyway, may as well outlaw the FlatEarthers - with a vigour which we singularly fail to deploy against Holy Mother Nonce.

 For so it is with Pope Ratso and his predecessors, his storm troopers and Gauleiters, Tony and Imelda amongst them; despite the evidence of our own reason we, year after year, excuse or pardon the most sustained,  the vilest offence. 

The Nazi Holocaust occurred  over a couple of decades at most, starting with the urban terrorisation of Jewish families and businesses and ending with camps, more like small cities of industrialised slavery, murder, torture and experimentation. Now their haunted, harrowing architecture stands as a backdrop to the unwholesome, the hypocrite.

The Papal Holocaust, however, the systematic, condoned sexual abuse of the most vulnerable has been going on since God only knows when;  the cyber information revolution has exposed cabals of noncing monsignors all across the globe

 and at the very, very least the men in black and purple have been doing this for half a century;  it is preposterous to imagine that this is a post-war phenomenon, unique to our times, the reality must be that these bastards have been doing this forever.  It is only in our times, with the partial collapse of deference, that victims have been able to plead their wretched case and stand some chance of being believed;  that they are now believed yet their tormentors go unpunished, still, is the scandal of our times. The pragmatist, of course, will insist that few of these victims were actually put to death by the Vatican State.  That's alright, then; what's a priestly cock up your arse, in  the scheme of things.

That Gordon Brown and the rest of them will do everything to fellate the visiting Ratso and his organised criminals is par for the course.

Chinks, Russians, Spics, The CIA, BentBankersRUs, London is  now egregiously, sycophantically, whorishly welcoming to international supergangsters -  even though Ratso's home town is holding it's nose about this vile old degenerate. Prime Minister Snot let Chink thugs manhandle him on his own doorstep in the Infamous Olympic Torch March and  this wretched, cowardly poltroon is certainly not about to fuck with His Holiness.

As with the Expenses Crimes in Westminster, where all are guilty by omission, at least,  so it must be, too in the Cardinalates,  in the seminaries, in the churches;  these people must know what is happening and like some Hamburg hausfrau in the thirties and forties they - those not actually terrorising children - look the other way and are as complicit as if they were, themselves, buggering infants.

Mr PT Barnum recently remarked  here that institutions will do anything to protect themselves,  that no sin merits  the collapse  of the sinner's organisation.  By its silence on the matter of Ratso, HM Government is colluding  in a global Holocaust of child sexual abuse but then   these are the same people who buried the Dunblane papers for seventy-five years, a government afloat on a sewage tide of murder, blackmail, theft, deception, greed and bullying, led by  a joint, unelected  premiership of filth, disease and ruin, they are at home, rank, rotten, screeching their virtues with their  bedfellow, Ratso, the Nonce-Protector General, Prince of the oldest Holocaust in the world.


WOTSONTELLY.
THE METHANE LAKES OF TITAN

WONDERS OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM 

is a five-parter on the the BBC, one of its 2010, Year of Science series , dealing with the Solar System in a beathtaking, entertaining and accessible fashion and worth the entire license fee, if only for the novelty of its engaging presenter, a teenage professor, Brian Cox, who resembles an angelic singer-songwriter, c. 1976 and says astonishing an astonishing number of times in each episode.

Professor Cox, 

a cross  between Jackson Browne

and Patrick Moore.

Cox's facial default setting is a  smile, as  constant  as the Sun which dominates the series and that in itself, in a medium swamped by scowling, perplexed Schamas  and pouting Bettanys is a joy; his revelations too, are joyous, in a sharing sort of way, not Aren't I Clever, more Isn't This Amazing Shit, This Solar System ? 

The last episode dealt with the recently discovered, improbable methane  lakes on Titan, one of Saturn's moons, and as these things do, left one in awe of Uncle Sam's NASA, if only they'd put those guys in charge of Health Care...... 

As with every new BBC series the presenter has been jetted, helicoptered, jeeped, hang-glided and sailed all around the world  but in Cox's case the effort has been worthwhile.  Enthusiastic - theus - means filled with God and Cox's show sparkles and crackles with his delight, his enthusiasm, he really does take you places you've never been.

It's still running on the box and probably on the Ithing,

take it where you find it, don't leave it alone.





PAGE THREE

THE LOVELY GORDON
SHARES HIS VALUES WITH US

DEAR STANISLAV

Our resident plumber addresses readers' ishoos.

This week, pregnant old people, strategies for coping.

Was  argument at Lilith's blog of stuff and  someone was fucked-off. Was not fair, all the shit  Mrs Dave will have falling on head, now that she's going  all square-up with Sarah-George Snot and Mrs Cleggie, in Great Battle of Harpies.

Oh, fuck me, is dreadful, says one lady, and poor Mrs Dave, why can't everybastard just be nice, eh? Poor Mrs Dave is just doing stand by your man - or in this case prat and fucking idiot of public school layabout and waster and never days work has done just good for fuck all is, not even for leading Torybastards and all drowning up shit creek are, even though prime minister Snot is degenerate fucking lunatic and not fit to tie own shoes and should in backwards-fitting jacket be,  useless fucking bastard and Dave and braying hangingandfuckingflogging Davettes should be on top of polls and not crawling around in shit, like one- legged bloke in competition of arse-kicking in muddy field in middle of fucking hurricane.

Lilith is very kindly blogger, not like normal, decent hostile aggressive bastard  blogger,  and instead of telling caring lunaticperson to fuck off out of it and go over to Mrs Dale's Cardigan of Care blog, just down the road, like she should and any other fucker  would have  done says, Ah, ho-hum, the word SamCam doesn't exactly impel her to click her fucking mouse. Is very polite way to say Look, I don't give a fuck about SamCam or Mrs Dave and not give any offence. 

The big news, even though it isn't,  is that Mrs Dave is up in the Duff Pudding Club, just like probably millions of other women but being Mrs Dave must get the job done right, on budget and in time, otherwise is like most of Good King Henry Eight's bints and good for fuck all and have head chopped off from neck by skymadeupnewsandfilth, or Princess of Tarts and come to unfortunate but very convenient tragic end in subway with coke-snorting wog playboy. 

Whether is despotic, lardarse monarch or whining Prince of fucking Wales or snot-eating iron hoof  a baby is a PR plus, is call noblesse oblige and can be top baby even if is not strictly come out from top  of drawer and father was call Hewitt, or ten times fucking worse, was Blind Blunkett.  Baby is good shit. But only for as long as it lives. Will be lots of bookie somewhere, making-up odds on  Cameron sprog, 10/1 Dead on Arrival, even money Deformed or Handicapped, 100/1 Its a Frog with Two Heads in a pinstripe suit. .

Dead baby is fucking rubbish, really, electorally speaking, better is  not to have one in  first place, if fucking thing is going to croak. Dead baby is good for fuck all. Can't get no votes kissing a dead baby or stuffing a hamburger in dead baby chops, or posing at front gate with dead baby, like that horrible cunt, Mellor.

Is absolutely fuck all can be done with dead baby.  stanislav  has all the dead dogblokes' ashes on a shelf. Is nice, don't get them out and stroke them or take for walk but is better than Rocky and Barney go in fucking glue factory and end up in chunk of medium density fibreboard. But wouldn't dream of keeping dead baby. Only good place for dead baby is somewhere else and not in house.  People soon would stop coming in house or reading blog, if they knew the place was all filled-up to fuck with incinerated infant in jar or urn or some fucking thing, maybe with a picture on. From  the scan, because baby was born dead and no proper picture is. Like fucking nutter off Jeremy Kyle show. 

Fuck me, Jesus, is horrible to imagine. Wossinthatjar, then ? You what ?  Your first fucking born, I'm outta here and don't you ever invite me for wine and tapas again, you're not fucking right, you're not. Sick bastard. 

 Even stupidest  sentimentalising Sun reader is up to his or her arse with dead  political babies.  Has already been dead SnotBaby and dead CamBaby and public bloke has enough shit to eat on plate with politicians all lining up to take stuff off him, for his own fucking good and him saying yes, I know, is for my own good, get economy right again, is the main thing, yes, fuck everything else, can go and look for work with bare feet and empty belly, just as long as economy is right, long term prosperity and growth, that's the fucking thing, Fuck me, is country full  of stupid bastards, rioting on fucking streets should be and pulling thieving banker limb from fucking limb and instead is listen to Jonathan fucking Dimbleby talking to Foxtrotting Nitwit Vince fucking Cable, well what we need to do is take things from ordinary people and give them to the rich,  that really is the only way we can get the economy right and everybody on the panel agrees with that, and I'm not scared to do that, shall we dance?

  Oh, fuck me, no job, no benefits, bloke and mrs is fighting like fuck and nasty fucking poisonous consumer  brats all want new Ishit and no fucking money is and credit card company is phoning every five minutes, like stalkers, watching and listening until they know you are in,   and writing every day and forest of fucking bills is hurtling through letterbox just like in Harry fucking Potter book of Satanism for Kids and can't afford to heat the fucking house any more and can't go down Harvester shithole  or even drive to Greasy  MacDonald Typhoid Emporium and get  familysize bucket of mutant chicken and baked fucking beans and all for twelve quid, fuck me hasn't seen twelve quid in fucking months but comes in house after fruitless search for shit job on half wages  and bring your own tools - is the only way to get economy right, is pay everybody half and give cunting fucking banker couple of million fucking pounds bonus for buggering-up the whole fucking world, yes, I know, is good for me and right thing in long term interest of country -  and first thing he says is, Oi, Mrs, how is Mrs Dave getting on, everything is OK, innit, baby developing healthy and all, not got six fucking toes, has it, and cleft palate, like Orkney presbyterrian, Oh, thank fuck for that, just as long as Sam Cam is all right;  Wot,  the bailliffs have been and taken the wallpaper and the lightbulbs, well, never mind that, look on the bright side, Sam and the Baby Dave are doing well, we can read by candlelight, Wot, they took the candles, too, well, just as long as it helps get the economy right and the public finances balanced, that's the main thing.

Is too much of a risk for Sam and Dave.  Just imagine, useless airhead prat loses the election and Mrs  loses the baby. Fuck me gently, there wouldn't  hardly be no synpathy, you already done that one, would be the hooted public response off starving bloke and mrs closely following baby progress, you and Brown, Westminster is fucking littered with baby corpses off you lot, Jesus, must be like Midsomer Murders round your houses, Massacre of the fucking Innocents.  

Is Tory Assassins committe of old  men in undertaker suits, the backstabbing nineteen twenty-two committee is called and sole purpose is for removing useless bastard from leader's office and drowning in lukewarm shit, like with Ian and Duncan Smith, the quiet bastard and not turning up the volume is. If Cameron baby goes the way of Brown baby then, within five minutes, 1922ers   calling would be with messages of sympathy and betrayal.  Terrible thing, old man, but twice is taking the piss a bit.  Good of the party and everything, S'the Chiltern Hundreds for you, old chap. No, immense respect for the NHS is no good, didn't work last time,  you lost one just before the last election. It's just bad ju-ju, dead babies all over the shop, unsettles the voters. Spend more time with your family. That's the thing.  The surviving ones.  While you still have 'em.  Before they all drop dead from some form of spasticity or mad cow disease.  Yes, got a speech drafted for you, here.

Is very nasty business, politics. But best is to not mention baby to Geoff - suspended but not by the fucking neck, unfortunately - Hoon or will come round with  napalm lullaby and say, Jolly Good Show,  I simply don't accept that killing babies is wrong and will thank Geoff one day for baby slaughter and not like those ungrateful Iraqi bitches who haven't got round to thanking me yet and that will be three thousand pounds, please, for my day's work. And definitely not mentioning to  Father Michael from local RC church or else will be round pronto, rubbing cheesy old dick under frock.  Amen and see you all next week with more problem solving to do.

SUGARBABES, ONE DEFINITELY FROM THE TRAILER. DUSTY.

Catch me if you can, I'm going back.

SUGARBABES, ALISON KRAUS, COUNTRY GIRL SINGS MOTOWN.

THE THINGS THEY DON'T SAY, ABBOTT AND RANTZEN.

"This week, dogfighting, here on the BBC."

"You can kiss my sweet black ass, you horrible, old scrote."

"Mwoh. Just like that."

"If I close my eyes, maybe that image will go away."

HRH PRINCE OF COCK VISITS AFGHANISTAN. ALL CHANNELS

I'm going to be the King, y'know, if only my mother'd die. Before I do. I bet you're married to a right little raver.

And we are joined here in the studio on this historic, grovelling, brown-nosing  day by Colonel Rupert Golightly Jockstrap,

Former Colonel Richard Kemp,

now of skymadeupnewsandfilth.

Colonel Richard Kemp, while you were in Afghanistan, did the Prince of Wales ever fuck your Mrs?

I am most deeply sorry to say that such a singular honour has never been mine.  Like most senior officers I have made the old thing available to Haitch, as we call him, matter of one's duty to the Crown, really but sadly he has never been so good as to  oblige me, or her;  there are many officers' wives for a Prince to get around and one can't always be lucky, I suppose.

Well, alright, then, did you ever bang the late Princess of Wales, like wotsisname, Harry's dad - Hewitt? - that's it, Hewitt ?

Well, Kirsty, I would of, of course, would of loved to slip the old soldier up her Khyber Pass, what,  the dirty bitch,

Diana, Princess of Wales

and Forces Sweetheart

well Hewitt's, anyway.

but I fear that her dalliance with Captain Hewitt proved her last military engagement and she concentrated thereafter on working her way through the list of NHS surgeons  and of course the Arab shopkeeper's son,  which caused her unfortunate traffic accident and no more dipping soldiers in her eggs, what? Not even wog ones, which she'd learned to admire, filthy slut

But isn't it great for the common people, His Nibs going out there...?

Certainly is, Kirsty, gets me on the show again, for one thing -  and y'know.old soldiers never die they just swarm all over the meeja like the pox in an infantry regiment - and it lets the nation reappraise the Prince, or Haitch, as he is known to his intimates - not my wife unfortunately - and his qualities of heroism and what a frightfully good job his batman does of dressing him, although it's probably batmen;  I mean, if you contrast his immaculate appearance with that of the snot-eating fairy from Downing St  you can see why the one's a Prince and the other's a scruffy old queen.

Field Marshal Gordon Snot

leaving a Cabinet meeting.

And will we win in Afghanistan, Colonel von Kemp, formerly of the Queens Own RedTrouser NancyBoys and now of skymadeupnewsandfilth?

Win, of course we will. And even if we don't we'll say we have.  So there, Job done, Keep The Homefires burning, only not under my mrs, not unless you're the Prince of Wales, what?

The useless, smarmy, pampered, idle, ruinous,  lazy, Highness bastard, good for fuck all and don't start me on the tourist trade,  is seen here with Ishmaelia regular, Rory Stewart, OBE, Keeper Pursuivant and Wielder Rampant  of the Royal Afghani Foreskin Flannel, patronising some nignogs.

I say, you chaps can have four wives, can't you?  Well, I can have as many as I like, doncha know, other people's, mind, best way.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE NEW YORK TIMES, RATZINGER, NONCE PROTECTOR GENERAL

POPE NAZI, YOUNG POLISH PLUMBER WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG

HATS OFF TO STANISLAV, A YOUNG POLISH PLUMBER, LIVING IN SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND.

Vatican Declined to Defrock U.S. Priest Who Abused Boys

 

The Rev. Lawrence C. Murphy, with hands together, at St. John’s School for the Deaf in Wisconsin in 1960.

Top Vatican officials — including the future Pope Benedict XVI — did not defrock a priest who molested as many as 200 deaf boys, even though several American bishops repeatedly warned them that failure to act on the matter could embarrass the church, according to church files newly unearthed as part of a lawsuit.

Multimedia

Interactive Feature

Timeline: The Predator Priest Who Got Away

The Document Trail: Lawrence C. Murphy

 The Takeaway With Laurie Goodstein

Related

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  Abuse Scandal’s Ripples Spread Across Europe (March 25, 2010)

Enlarge This Image

Jeffrey Phelps for The New York Times

Arthur Budzinski, at a cemetery behind St. John's School for the Deaf, says he was first molested in 1960 when he went to Father Murphy for confession.

The internal correspondence from bishops in Wisconsin directly to Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the future pope, shows that while church officials tussled over whether the priest should be dismissed, their highest priority was protecting the church from scandal.
The documents emerge as Pope Benedict is facing other accusations that he and direct subordinates often did not alert civilian authorities or discipline priests involved in sexual abuse when he served as an archbishop in Germany and as the Vatican’s chief doctrinal enforcer.

The Wisconsin case involved an American priest, the Rev. Lawrence C. Murphy, who worked at a renowned school for deaf children from 1950 to 1974. But it is only one of thousands of cases forwarded over decades by bishops to the Vatican office called the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, led from 1981 to 2005 by Cardinal Ratzinger. It is still the office that decides whether accused priests should be given full canonical trials and defrocked.
In 1996, Cardinal Ratzinger failed to respond to two letters about the case from Rembert G. Weakland, Milwaukee’s archbishop at the time. After eight months, the second in command at the doctrinal office, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, now the Vatican’s secretary of state, instructed the Wisconsin bishops to begin a secret canonical trial that could lead to Father Murphy’s dismissal.
But Cardinal Bertone halted the process after Father Murphy personally wrote to Cardinal Ratzinger protesting that he should not be put on trial because he had already repented and was in poor health and that the case was beyond the church’s own statute of limitations.

“I simply want to live out the time that I have left in the dignity of my priesthood,” Father Murphy wrote near the end of his life to Cardinal Ratzinger. “I ask your kind assistance in this matter.” The files contain no response from Cardinal Ratzinger.
The New York Times obtained the documents, which the church fought to keep secret, from Jeff Anderson and Mike Finnegan, the lawyers for five men who have brought four lawsuits against the Archdiocese of Milwaukee. The documents include letters between bishops and the Vatican, victims’ affidavits, the handwritten notes of an expert on sexual disorders who interviewed Father Murphy and minutes of a final meeting on the case at the Vatican.
Father Murphy not only was never tried or disciplined by the church’s own justice system, but also got a pass from the police and prosecutors who ignored reports from his victims, according to the documents and interviews with victims. Three successive archbishops in Wisconsin were told that Father Murphy was sexually abusing children, the documents show, but never reported it to criminal or civil authorities.
Instead of being disciplined, Father Murphy was quietly moved by Archbishop William E. Cousins of Milwaukee to the Diocese of Superior in northern Wisconsin in 1974, where he spent his last 24 years working freely with children in parishes, schools and, as one lawsuit charges, a juvenile detention center. He died in 1998, still a priest.
Even as the pope himself in a recent letter to Irish Catholics has emphasized the need to cooperate with civil justice in abuse cases, the correspondence seems to indicate that the Vatican’s insistence on secrecy has often impeded such cooperation. At the same time, the officials’ reluctance to defrock a sex abuser shows that on a doctrinal level, the Vatican has tended to view the matter in terms of sin and repentance more than crime and punishment.
The Vatican spokesman, the Rev. Federico Lombardi, was shown the documents and was asked to respond to questions about the case. He provided a statement saying that Father Murphy had certainly violated “particularly vulnerable” children and the law, and that it was a “tragic case.” But he pointed out that the Vatican was not forwarded the case until 1996, years after civil authorities had investigated the case and dropped it.
Father Lombardi emphasized that neither the Code of Canon Law nor the Vatican norms issued in 1962, which instruct bishops to conduct canonical investigations and trials in secret, prohibited church officials from reporting child abuse to civil authorities. He did not address why that had never happened in this case.
As to why Father Murphy was never defrocked, he said that “the Code of Canon Law does not envision automatic penalties.” He said that Father Murphy’s poor health and the lack of more recent accusations against him were factors in the decision.
The Vatican’s inaction is not unusual. Only 20 percent of the 3,000 accused priests whose cases went to the church’s doctrinal office between 2001 and 2010 were given full church trials, and only some of those were defrocked, according to a recent interview in an Italian newspaper with Msgr. Charles J. Scicluna, the chief internal prosecutor at that office. An additional 10 percent were defrocked immediately. Ten percent left voluntarily. But a majority — 60 percent — faced other “administrative and disciplinary provisions,” Monsignor Scicluna said, like being prohibited from celebrating Mass.


   Our Scotland correspondent, Megan McHaggis writes: stanislav, a young Polish plumber,  has been complaining for a bonny long time that Mr Ratzinger and the Noncing Monsignors were a force for evil in the world and not, as they claim, all good blokes doing work of God, innit, fucking bastards.  Is horrible old cunt, Ratso, and swift rubdown with housebrick should have and never mind Ave Maria and Bless me, Father, for I have nonced, should hang-up by neck be from lamp post and see what Holy Mary has to say about that shit, eh?  Would fill up the lamp posts of Europe, innit, clergyman bastard is only undiscovered nonce,mostly, the rest is just poof and not so bad, not ideal is, the only decent priest is shirt-lifting brown hatter fishung from other bank to where decent ordinary hetero-bloke  is fishing but even so people shouldn't expect no better from man in frock, innit, paedo or poof, and just as bad is, nearly, in Church of Anglican Beard, you watch.  Fuck me and Thank God stanislav is  devout fucking atheist.

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  • did not defrock a priest who molested as many as 200 deaf boys, even though several American bishops repeatedly warned them that failure to act on the matter could embarrass the church, according to church fiunearthed as part of a

SUGARBABES, JACKIE DE SHANNON, EVERY TIME THAT YOU WALK IN THE ROOM

An original blonde pop chanteuse, Jackie de Shannon inspired the Searchers and thus, presumably, in part at least,  the Hollies and the Byrds and Crosby, Stills and Nash; collossal rythms and riffs.  And her only a girly.

SUGARBABES. Vonda Shephard, the best thing about Ally McBeal, Walk Away Renee

WOTSONTELLY. MENTIONED IN DESPATCHES, NOTHING WE DIDN'T ALREADY KNOW

The greed, venality and the up-to-and-including-mass-murder corruption of ministers, MPs  and Lords-a-fucking-leaping is part of the furniture here, most of them being  referred to as lobbyists for whatever and part-time MPs - William Hague, Director of JCB and part-time MP; Michael Spit-Gove,  Murdoch hack and part-time MP; Boris Cocaine Johnson, Filth-o-Graph scribbler and part-time Mayor of London and so on, try, friends,  being a mere nurse or a teacher and getting away with that shit, try clocking-on at BA and then fucking-off to another job, see what Kelvin McKenzie and the  Tabloids of Hate - and the Cabinet - say about that. The fact that the entire government is currently in place as a result of blackmail and bullying at its  gay, Mandelsteinian heart and reflects and rewards badness rather than goodness, rottenness rather than probity is, here, scriptural;  we have argued long that having allowed them away with the Iraq Invasion we should be unsurprised when they raid the petty cash,  that  Blair's leasing of the UK armed forces to Haliburton, he & Imelda  to be the principal beneficiaries of fees in return, and our compliance in it  marked Ruin's triumph. And so it fucking did, a nation and a legislature beguiled, wantonly infatuated with a man who whored the office of prime minister as none before or since. And now, fuck me, his stooges want their portion, too, want as Hoon said  "...well, bluntly, to make some money."   Surprise, surpise.

That the ghastly, leatherface Hewitt - my husband's a judge -  has been shitting in our faces is not, here, therefore, news, see Ishmaelia passim ad infinitum;  no point getting excited about a wee Despatches programme -  made, incidentally, by Establishment pop satirist, Rory Bremner's,  company, Vera - stating excitedly what has been a matter of public record for, well, forever.  Ministers and MPs and mandarins flog-off their contacts to the highest bidders, Wow,  there's journalism. Next week: People take drugs because they like them, shock horror. Always have liked them. No, really, always. Wherever two or three are gathered together since the Dawn of Time,  they will find something to ferment or distill or chew or eat or inhale or  inject  or shove up their arses that they might briefly escape both Life's merciless sorrows and Sergeant Death's inevitable summons. In Arabia they smoke kif, in Somerset they ingest pulped apples by the gallon. And smoke kif. Should we, therefore, make them legal because making them illegal only causes more shit and far worse crime? Never. Over My Dead Body!  Drugs. And War. And Death. And Art; Art, too. And pensions. The big questions, here for you, on skymadeupnewsandfilth. With our studio guests, Gerry 'n' Cilla McCann and political blogger, Mrs Ian Cardigan. Who wants to be an MP but pretends to be a journalist. After this. Stay tuned. Or Kay Burley will come round and bite you in the face. And so it is with last night's Despatches, a  momentary scoop, harmless to children, pets, old people and to its subjects.

This episode of Rory's political conscience broadcasting, Despatches,  instead of the relentlessly repetitive  Bird and ; Fortune, or indeed the jovial  would-be polymath and prosthetic-wearing impressionist-manque, historian, political scientist and pamphleteer himself, was fronted by someone from the nerd-chic school of TV journalism, cracking-on like he was discovering this crossed Rubicon of shit and filth as it unfolded on his various VDUs and telescreens, sharing  its discovery with us,  in what we now call realtime, whatever the fuck that is. Even in a provocative and edgy - as we say - expose it was assumed de rigeur that  the viewers had to be led by the nose to what we, here, have known for years and have discussed hundreds of times. My quarrel with TV is ever the same, it is TV, another programme will be along after a word or twenty on what you should  buy from Ruin's marketing arm, GlobaCorp, the people who made Rory Rory, so to speak, and Despatches. after the adverts - the raison d'etre of commercial TV -  will merge into some other soporific, there will be scarce a moment before  the same ratings-hungry young and not so young things will be trying to hold our attention, claim for their sponsors our buying power, interceding on their behalf with the people, rather like the elected marketing men, plying their trade from the green and red benches; one programme does not redeem them, or as the self-fellating, busybodying, political Jack-of-all-Tradesing Mr Nick Robinson might say, one swallow does not a summer make.

Hoon it was who prompted stanislav on cunt and subsequently another's campaign on order-order to make his name a substitute for the C-word, you are a right Hoon, stop Hooning around and so on; his solecisms of principle and ethics are legendary -  those Iraqi women will thank me for killing their children with illegal munitions, we can nuke the ragheads, I simply do not accept that black is black, in my judgement it is white, and so on.

Geoff Hoon is a thieving, self-aggrandising, cowardly cunt, the programme revealed to those who, unaccountably,  didn't know and monumentally stupid to boot;  you have to wonder why the troops-loving - or is it people-loving, as in our people, in theatre? you know what fucked the Army. don't you, so that they're all camer-hungry wannabees, like the jokers at ARRRRSE or whatever the blog is,  where the impotent collide with the ignorant in  a frenzy of raging RealMan  testosterone belligerence, what fucked the Army was them all calling each other colleagues, instead of comrades, stupid bastards - Brigadier-General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap didn't smack a well-polished boot up Hoon's scabby arse when he had the chance; dulce et decorum est pro patria Hoonicide, eh, Rupert, or at the very least  publicly venture the opinion that Hoon was unfit to  tie his own shoelaces, never mind adequately resource an army in the field. Still, careers, that's what makes the world go round, Rupert. Careers and shit. Is it any wonder that the various bellicose misadventures East of the Med have been such fuck-ups, with people like Hoon and Rumsfeld even remotely involved in their execution ?  The former Defence Secretary did not even have the nous to check-out a five minute-old, fictitious company but merely ran along to its trough;  any wonder that he sent Tommy up Shit Creek without a paddle?

But the question remains, can anyone seriously pay money for anything this jerk might offer them by way of insider dealing and the answer, unfortunately, is yes, they will, the military industrial complex of Uncle Sam is underwritten by the US taxpayer, who is, albeit, underwritten by the Bank of China and will happily throw others' money at Hoon in exchange for what he claims to know. Andrew Neil will have him on what he calls the Daily Politics and the This Week show and Hard Talk and any other pisspoor fawning shows which the BBC gifts this repellent, septuagenarian, playboy arsehole, squeezed into his horrid suits, his syrup finally receding with his life expectancy, perched and glued, ludicrous and ginger,  atop his empty, bumptious head ?

We might applaud the embarrassment caused to Hoon and Leatherface and the rest but they probably won't even feel embarrassed, betrayed perhaps, undervalued, but they don't do embarrassed, now, do they, any of them.  There was a rugby player, Delallio or something, some gobby, muscle-bound prat with an eye as much to the meeja  as to what passes now for sport, Lawrence, was it, no matter what his name was, he was one of those, a vain, greedy, empty-headed - for want of a better word - Blatcherite, a manchild of the times sort of person who gets his opinions from Kelvin Mckenzie and Richard LittleCock.  He was stung by a tabloid set-up and claimed he could or in fact did, I dunno, who gives a fuck, supply the stingers with as much coke as they could snort.  When the shit hit the fan Mr DeLollypop claimed, as does Mr Steven Byers, currently, that he was just boasting, over-egging his egotistical pudding, was, in fact, giving decent drugdealers a bad name  by pretending to be one of them, rather like young Mr William GoodKidReally Straw.  DeLollypop, despite the opprobium normally attached to drugs and dealers  went on, I believe, to captain the national team  of gang-raping,  coke-snorters - or is that premier league football - just  as young Mr Straw will put aside his childish preoccupations and go on to inherit some safe Labour seat, long to reign over us, just like his Da',  Jack Torture. Doesn't matter, you see, now, here in these Days of Ruin, how shitty people are. The Westminster BDSM couple, Christine and Neil Hamilton, despite their addiction to Mohamed al Fayed's money and their conspicuous lack of talent or merit, have media careers. The sticky-fingered, gullible  moron,  Piers Moron,  has a media career.  Here, in Scotland, the vilest couple ever to pick the people's pockets - and there is some compettition here, believe me - Tommy and Ivana Sheridan have media careers;  the list is endless, of  vileness trumpeted as news;  notoriety and infamy sell copy and copy  swathes advertising, which is where we came in, with Despatches.

It is, friends, as you say, funny and rewarding to see the Hoons and Hewitts hoist, momentarily, with their own petard but you are judging their reaction as you  would expect your own to be, should you be exposed so, on a national TV channel, as a shameless villain.  But whilst you would dwell long, mortified, in sack cloth and ashes, this gang will come out fighting and, where you and I would be shunned by the skymadeupnewsandfilth and Andy Nonce Neil, these bastards will be given every opportunity, often at our expense, to promote their careers of filth and murder.

Embarrassment, Geoff Hoon, don't make me fucking laugh.

The triumphs, here, in cyberspace,  are often o'erblown. Peter Hain was sunk, wasn't he;  Harriet Harman was sunk;  there have been countless events which Field Marshal Snot would not survive, yet he has survived them all, Caroline Spellman just had to go, didn't she;  Mandelstein wasn't going to last a month  after such and such a revelation; the problem with the bloggers is that not only do they read and believe their own press, they also write it. Many insist that the general election will be fought in cyberspace. It won't. Never mind How Many Divisions has the Pope? How Many Constituencies has Guido Fawkes ? And the answer, of course, is none,  the ninteenth century political behemoths, Tory, Labour and Liberal control, and will win the majority of them.  Doesn't matter how many oohs and ahhs there are at order-order, doesn't matter how angry, how  threatening mr old holborn is; how exasperated Ms Lilith becomes, how lofty and condemnatory these pages are.  As far as skymadeupnewsandfilth is concerned the expenses scandal - and it is a disservice to us all to so describe  the institutional criminality of the UK legislature  - is more or less done and dusted, and it's back to business as usual with the same old crowd, maybe a few new faces but the same old shit.  The Dimblebys, Adam Lardman Boulton, Neil and the vultures in the press, Heffer and Yabbo Brown, the most important Raghead Momma in the nation, Mad Melanie Phillips, the dipsomaniac from the Observer, wotsisname, Hutton, Will Hutton, the drunk with a thinktank, the Work Foundation, that's what the Observer wants, Work, only not for them, for the poor, bastards; the whole ghastly caravan of charlatans and boors and degenerates and bullies is already limbering up to speak Their Masters' Voices - Murdoch, the Bizarro Twins, D'Acre and the oligarchs at the Beeb, axes to grind, secrets to hint at, the lobby system, can you believe the fucking lobby secret, sources close to so and so told me but I can't tell you who they were, because I'm a journalist. And I work for Power.  You better believe it.   Now, never mind Geoff Hoon, lets get this country back to work, it'll be hard but we are all in this together; well some of you are.

====================================

Some background reading here, below, for overseas readers unacquainted with Geoff the Hoon, barrister, MP, thief and murderer.

Secretary of State for Defence

Geoff Hoon (right) at Pentagon briefing with Donald Rumsfeld

In a 2003 interview on the BBC's Breakfast with Frost, Hoon asserted that the UK was willing to use nuclear weapons against Iraqi forces "in the right circumstances."^[3][4]
On 23 June 2003, Hoon continued to claim that two trailers found in Iraq were mobile weapons laboratories.^[5] This was in spite of the fact that it had been leaked to the press by Dr David Kelly^[6] and other weapons inspectors that they were nothing of the sort. The trailers were for filling hydrogen balloons for artillery ranging and were sold to Iraq by a British company, Marconi.^[7]
In an April 2004 interview, Hoon said that more could have been done to help David Kelly, who committed suicide on 17 July 2003 after being named as the source of Andrew Gilligan's disputed Today programme contribution.^[8]
On January 19, 2010, Hoon gave evidence to the Iraq Inquiry about his time as Defence Secretary.^[9]

[edit] Comments on cluster bombs

Shortly after the US/UK led invasion of Iraq began in 2003, following an admission by the Ministry of Defence that Britain had dropped 50 airborne cluster bombs in the south of Iraq and left behind up to 800 unexploded bomblets, it was put to Hoon in a Radio 4 interview that an Iraqi mother of a child killed by these cluster bombs would not thank the British army. He replied "One day they might." Hoon continued "I accept that in the short term the consequences are terrible. No one minimises those and I'm not seeking to do so," he said. "But what I am saying is that this is a country that has been brutalised for decades by this appalling regime and that the restoration of that country to its own people, the possibility of their deciding for themselves their future ... and indeed the way in which they go about their lives, ultimately, yes, that will be a better place for people in Iraq." ^[10]

[edit] Comments on Extraordinary Rendition

Hoon was condemned by an international delegation of European MPs for evading questions about Britain's co-operation with the CIA's so-called 'extraordinary rendition' programme.^[11] Hoon, then Minister for Europe, was being quizzed in the wake of Dick Marty's Council of Europe report which found extensive involvement of European countries, including Britain, in the US kidnapping and torture programme.

"TAXI FOR MR HOON !"

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS, THE BE GOOD TANYAS, THE LITTLEST BIRDS SING THE PRETTIEST SONGS, HT MRS ELBY

THE THINGS THEY DON'T SAY; MICHAEL PORTILLO ON MARRIAGE.

Old-age pensioner playboy, Andrew Nonce, was on fine form during last night's episode of This Week.

Straying into NoPersonsLand the playful Jock right-winger and fuckpig enquired of Diane Lard

and Michael Portillo,

if, in the light of the recent Battle of the Wives - Sam, Mrs Dave and Sarah-George, Mrs Snot and Wotsername, Mrs Clegg - either of them had ever felt pressured to reveal details of their marriages.

Oh, Fuck me, yes, said Dians, I'm a single mother see, and there's a lorra pressure.

Portillo squirmed silently, as though the top of his head was about to erupt like a Roman Candle, hurtling all his well-tempered punditry skywards in a gout of brain and blood and indignation; not a word escaped his luscious, Andalusian lips.

I mean, said Jock, echoing the young stanislav, Gordon Brown was TOLD to get married, wasn't he, if he wanted to be prime minister......?

Something there for Mike to leap on; something away from the enigma of his own marriage. Who told you that, he demanded, angrily, outraged , of the horrid old wigged degenerate and - flummoxed for once - Jocky Neil wrapped the show up, stuttering.

Older readers will recall the Saga of Michael Portillo and His Amazing Telephone Adventures, during which the half-Dago bullyboy and potential scourge of the poor bottled his opportunity to win the leadership of the Pinstripe Party; telephones installed in an impromptu campaign HQ, were never actually connected, as something forced Michael to drop out, leaving the Tory Party floundering in the hands of the Duncan-Smiths, the ludicrous HagueBitch, My-Kul How-erd and this fucking airhead dummy, Dave. The one man who would've kicked the shit out of Blair bottled it. If his reaction to Andrew Neil's relatively mild query is anything to go the Times's most distinguished columnist, for all his dinner party suavity and sophistication, lives in a world of fear; a case of Manuel, whatever you do, Don't Mention The Wife.

THE ENEMY WITHOUT

STRIKE NEWS, IT'S WAR NOW.

MR WILLIE O'WALSH AND HIS PLUCKY BOARD OF DIRECTORS
PREPARE A BA FLIGHT FOR TAKE-OFF.

Oh my, oh my; those frogs, what are they like? And the Portugeezers, aren't they satisfied with having upset Gerry & Cilla McCann, Britain's Number One Parents?

Apparently not. Seems that the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, as well as having a dwarf president, married, for now, to a warbling slapper, are about to upset the noble lord, Mick the Greek Adonis and his mate, Peter, the Lord Crabs - the Mike and Bernie Winters of the House of Lords - by going on strike against Wee Willie O'Winkie, the chief leprechaun of British Very Expensive Airways.

Cabin Staff from six unions at Air France are walking out, or not boarding their planes in support of Unite members striking at BA for three days from March 28th. The Portugeezers are walking out from March 26th to 31st.

Unions - pilots, ground staff, baggage handlers air traffic controllers and cabin crew - in a further 123 countries are said to be willing to down trolleys and headsets in solidarity with BA staff; perhaps they have never heard of Michael Adonis.

In the US, the Teamsters Union, which could paralyse the airports in support of Unite workers, is saying nothing at present for fear of being injucted by the sort of judge we referred to a while back.

Might it actually be that ordinary workers, all around the world, are finally telling arrogant little pinstripe fuckpigs like Willie Walsh, braying arriviste politicos like Cameron, the criminal bankers, the greedy, thieving, degenerate legislators and bureaucrats and the whole, rotten, stinking New World Order of longer hours, less pay and no pensions that they can all go and fuck themselves?

per ardua ad astra