THREE CHEEKS OF THE SAME ARSE?
Nick agrees with me, no, yes, he does, even if he says he doesn't, but I agree with him more and neither of us agrees with David and he doesn't agree with us except when it comes to the soldiers, where we are all agreed that they are doing a magnificent, professional job of work, keeping the streets safe from the fuzzywuzzies and the nurses and the teachers of course, they do a magnificent professional job of work and we are all ageed about that, even though Nick doesn't have any dead children to mention, and we are all agreed that we have to do something about immigration only not about the nearly half a billion Europeans who can come here in the morning without so much as a kiss-my-arse; which circumstance actually, as it happens, as a matter of fact and just in case nobody had noticed, makes utter nonsense of any national immigration policy, of any local authority budgets and plans and capabilities and which possibility, to all intents and purposes, cements our status as a region of a New World Order governed by the Lisbon Treaty which we all three of us agreed was the right thing for you. Even if you didn't. And still don't.
A disaster for the Sam 'n' Daves.
A flash in the pan for Cleggie.
A coup for the SnotEater.
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Even for womb-bred cynics it is astonishing how blithely the expenses crimes are dismissed by both the perpetrators and the commentators. It is almost as though none of it happened, business as usual; the people responsible, right here on the telly, not even contrite, let alone punished. Yes, I can manage, oversee, scrutinise and regulate every aspect of everything that happens in the country and keep a watchful eye on the rest of the world, on the planetary environment, nothing gets past me, I'm a lawmaker. But the bloke sitting next to me, in my party, how'm I supposed to know if he's running a mistress and a property portfolio at the taxpayers' expense whilst doing half a dozen moonlighting jobs and having free foreign holidays at the expense of gangsters, oh, and so what if I misclaimed fifteen grand it was just a genuine mistake. And I paid it back the minute I was found-out. I'm a very busy man, you know.
The very same people, standing there, telling the very same lies. Clean up politics. Jesus fucking wept.
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Meanwhile, far away, in another part of town, Caroline Leuchars launched the fantastical Green manifesto. There's some, or at least one of them in the Tribesmen's Parliament up here and he is utterly revolting, camp little prat with an earring and a self-important manner and there's some fruitcakes in Boris's London Assembly and a whole fucking forest of them in Brussels but My Goodness, they are refreshing. Higher taxes for the rich, VAT on aviation fuel, free prescriptions, decent old age pensions and scrap all that oppression and surveillance shit. Almost revolutionary.
Leuchars is, she says, in with a chance of winning the Brighton Pavilion constituency, probably all the poofs down there, a veritable Sodom, by all accounts, Brighton. Be very interesting if she does, and who knows, there may be hundreds of anarcho-independents standing elsewhere. Not that you'd know it from skymadeupnewswandfilth.
Her Brighton press conference will be on the iBeeb somewhere, it's worth a look, if only because she's not a grey bloke in a grey suit with a grey mind. I just watched it, been up all night, leaning on the window sill.
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Note for cardigan lovers
Mrs Dale, from just down the road, has made one of those pop videos, bless, it has lots of policelebs miming to a pop song. Anne Widdecombe is on it, Peter Tatchell, Alistair Campbell, lots of well-known queers. Anyone can do it, he says.
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Note for cardigan lovers
Mrs Dale, from just down the road, has made one of those pop videos, bless, it has lots of policelebs miming to a pop song. Anne Widdecombe is on it, Peter Tatchell, Alistair Campbell, lots of well-known queers. Anyone can do it, he says.
20 comments:
You were a brave man, Mr Smith to watch this media event. Sometimes there are upsides to being heavily medicated.
In the end, you had to watch the bloody thing. It was, as expected, highly unilluminating; pap and drivel of the first order. Before it started, Cam had not to fuck up, Brown had not to go mental and Cleggg had to be nice. All three achieved precisely what they set out to achieve. They know there's no success like failure and that failure's no success at all. Round 3 will be the only round that counts. Tune in for some handbags. If you are very lucky, that is.
I am afraid that I could not face QT or Brillo. Too much for one day, Mr Ishmael.
Three cracks in the same arse, all discharging the same excrement.
I listened to most of it, lilith, in the kitchen, down on my knees before the Rayburn, trying to get the bastard to go without asphyxiating everyone within ten metres and watched the last ten minutes, I think it's that volcano shit, pouring down the chimney. Is the medication for an illness or just self-administered to repel all the shit for a while? Get well soon, whatever, as we say.
Any votes that Cleggie garnered from his preposterous performance - how can anyone fall for that? - will be from the Sam 'n' Daves and we may well see a ShitSnot pact, or even a fourth term for NewLabour, The Tribesmen are probably going to get a well-deserved kicking up here and the only place people will go from there is to JockLabour. If the Greens and UKIP - although they should bury their putative leader, Lord wotsit - and some other, truly independents, maybe Esther Ratso and Terry Special Envoy Waite, grab a few seats it'll be the Tories in meltdown and not the Snotties; serve 'em right, serve 'em all right.
In the dimestores and bus stations, mr mongoose, people talk over situations and there is, I am sure, in large swathes of the country, a race memory of hatred for the Tories and a dread of hearing Unemployment Is A Price Worth You Paying from fuckpigs like Hague and Spit-Gove and the rest.
I sort of disagree about all getting what they wanted, Cameron needed to do better than that gobby, affronted, public schoolboy but regular guy schtick, the one with the dead kid, rides a bike with a limo behind, like normal people.
Shrewder minds than that prick Stewart - you know he does that Lights! Police! Camera! Mortuary! show, despite having more Drunken Driving convictions than the great Irish-Israeli patriot, Colonel von Fawkes, tut-tutting like a good presbyterian bastard at other people's lesser road traffic offences? - may have noticed that the things Flashman was vehemently for - the NHS, SureStart, family tax credits - are all Labour creations and that his only novelty is the MilleniumVolunteers4Dave rubbish that he's been trotting-out. As though couples both working all the hours God sends in our brave new consumer world, trying to spend, spend, spend to keep M and S afloat and save, save, save for Micky Mouse University fees and for a pension which the state should provide its citizens are going to rally round his cheesy flag, and start picking-up litter at weekends or taking ASBOIDS on meaningful Outward Bound holidays. Are they fuck.
I never saw The Naked Lunch, mr yardarm, but there was a talking arse in it, I believe, some piece of dark animation, pre-CGE, must have a look for it. Yes, one arse or three, all sitting on the same bench shitting in our faces.
I have a dim childhood memory of some grandfatherly type person with a pipe clamped between his dreadful teeth, another one with more and better teeth but no pipe and a third with unmemorable teeth, a pipe and also a hat, though that may have been his fatal error, as I do not remember him ever getting a turn at being Pry Minister, though the other two did.
The Sailing Grocer, the KGB Sleeper and the Dog-Shooter's friend, mrs narcolept. Those were proper politicians. Oh, for the glory days of the Seventies. Proper fucking criminal corruption not fannying about with fiddling expenses.
Alcohol & cannabis worked their mystical phenomenon again and I succeeded in making it to the end of Brillo with the fuzzy mind that err...that just happened didn't it?
I dunno - it's all a big bag of shit to be sure but shit is what shit does. A good stitch up for the proles, that'll do - they're not too bothered anyway - what's that? Riots you say? Gosh, that sounds ghastly.
Quite enjoyed it all in all - made them look like the cunts they are, watch them squirm, talk shite, look awkward, nonce at each other like they nonce in private, nonce to the public? 'Fucking hell Majorie - he's a fucking nonce that one!'
Hmm..got into work this morning and 2 letters by the Glib Dums attacking one of my candidates, personal, nasty, venal - angry now, furious maybe. Fucking politics - makes people scum; chicken or egg? Dunno.
Little linguisitc quadratic equation that came out of last night, thinking about it - reached for pencil in drunken state about what they were onabaaat
It's hard to say without knowing: they could be making any bullshit up
Sums it up reaaly, 2 more rounds you say? Fuck, pass the buckfast!
Hope you have a lovely weekend Mr Ish and peeps.
I'm off to the city for a week, thanks, mr dtp, get away from the volcanic shit, maybe. Buster likes hotels, he likes the beds and the automatic doors and being taken out on pisscall every two hours, morning, noon and night, it's his heart pills, the diuretic. Good news with his cruciate ligament, either it's healed or his body has adjusted to it, miraculous really, all of it, he doesn't limp any longer, just realised, the other day.
Missed Brillo and the other bastard but Brillo, he's like an old pals' act, which of course is what he is, worse than the filth he interviews, he could have shopped them all years ago but prefers playing the eternally piqued grande dame. He's fabulously rich, owns shitloads of skymadeupnewsandfilth shares from his time sucking Rupe's knob. You'd think he'd just fuck off to the Riviera with a harem of teenagers and let someone else have a go but he carries on like Bruce Forsyth, only not as entertaining. No business like showbusiness.
I, too, thought it was all a bit homo-erotic; two of them are public school and Brown's just a big, Queening freak. The thought of watching them while stoned is kind of alarming, if you don't mind my saying so; you should take more care of your mind, it has to last you, you know, until you're in the labourcamps4the elderly or being shoved on down to the Terry Pratchett Deliverance Suite.
Mrs n and mr mongoose remind us that 'twas ever thus, although at least back then they still resigned. Was Old Etonian Thorpe a fully fledged shiteater or was it just the rent boys, fobwatches and velvet collars. Fuck me, he was the stuff of nightmares.
ShitSnot pact. Pure genius, as ever.
One thing, though, as the comprehensively-miseducated son of an Irish roadworker, who has no beef against the public school element, how does Cloggy get away with being Westminster educated and living in Million pound+ house in Putney and not be dissed as toffee-nosed toff like Cameron?
Fuck me, Mr I, did you see the glimpse into the Clegg-Durantez kitche? Smallbone, hand painted, £30k if it was a penny.
And I bet Clegg does the cooking, like every man under the age of 44, who's married to a European dolly.
Last question. Cameron mentioned 'state schools' for his children a number of times. Where are the Durantez children educated? I smell a rat.
Yes, that's right. Shit AND rats. Anybody know?
The other thing that slipped by was that Cameron said that he had tried in vain to get from the NHS a financial care package for his sick son, one where he administered the funds as he chose. They are very wealthy aren't they? Can take this man of the people, universal benefits shit a bit too far.
His kitchen's not as good as mine's going to be. When it's finished.
Can it be discovered whether we paid for this kitchen? (Cleggg's not Ishmael's.)
THE Liberal Democrats’ Nick Clegg yesterday became the first party leader to admit that he might send his children to private schools because of the poor quality of state secondary education.
In remarks that are likely to anger his grassroots supporters, Clegg, who attended Westminster school, one of the country’s best and most expensive independent schools, would not rule out “dipping into his pocket” for his sons, Antonio, 6, and Alberto, 4. “ I am not holding my children’s future and education hostage to a game of political football. I am a father before a politician,” said the Lib Dem leader in an interview for The Sunday Times. Clegg’s own boys currently attend a Roman Catholic primary in Putney, southwest London. He is an avowed atheist, but his Spanish wife Miriam, who is expecting their third child, is a committed Catholic.
The above is from the Filth-O-Mail.
Clegg has always claimed the maximum in allowances for his second home - probably om the grounds that he's a greedy bastard first and a politician second - is that Putney? Maybe there's some kitchen info at the Filth-O-Graph.
Fuck me, why doth mr and mrs Duranteth need a thecond home?
The bugger lives in Putney. Direct line to Wethminster, innit? Probably only visits 'my city' of Sheffield once a month for surgery, fridays 10.30-2.30pm no appointments.
Putney not like rural Thpain were you can choose from shagged out SEAT Marbella or next door's Donkey to get to Madrid.
I have had a wee peek at the register and he has claimed more than £10,000 over the last three years for kitchen renovations and such. Not to mention a similar amount for fiddling about with his mortgage.
There are also many suspicious-looking hand-written "maintenance" and "gardening maintenance" receipts. The horrible, thieving bastard should be hung in chains in Parliament Square.
Yeah, that My City shit was great. And the writing down of the dummies' names, that was crass even by parliamentary standards, although the commentariat was wetting itself in admiration.
I always thought that they, too, the ShitEaters, were going for a Blairclone but this prat is even more hammy, studied and phony than Tone. They don't have many to choose from, it's true but that beardy bloke, Heath, is it, seems to be on top of things and is at least a grown-up, Huhne is just a walking, angry smirk; the education geezer, Law's an imbecile and the Jocks, Viscount Thurso and Alistair Carmichael would frighten the children and the dogs. Seeing as how they are such liberal, mould-breaking shiteaters they might have gone for a woman, a young woman, even, like Sarah Teather, capable, sincere -as these fuckers go - and as stark a contrast as possible to Mr Snot and Mr Sam 'n' Dave. But that would have meant a woman in charge, couldn't be having that, now, not in the LibDems, where women are not permitted to shine, Jo Grimmond; then the dog-killing freak; David Shirt; Paddy Pantsdown; the drunken, ginger Jock; the cadaverous, sprinting Jock lawyer and now this tedious chump. How so very liberal and mould-breaking is all that shit? Neither a woman nor a black to the forefront, not much change there, eh, Nick. At least the Tories have the shoe fetish woman and that blabbermouth Asian bint; the LibDems have Straight Simon Hughes, the timorously bisexual queerbasher.
Thanks for the register link, Mr mongoose, probably hours of harmless fun, history now, filled with rubble, ancient footprints everywhere.
You have to take your fun where you can find it. 48 hours ago Snotty was thinking that he might favour Mr Clegg with asking for his hand in marriage, but only if the dowry was big enough, mind.
As of this morning the Cleggites - Miss Adeline and the Hotbox Girls - are thinking they may be going back to their constituencies and preparing for Opposition, and Labour can keep its rolled-gold wedding band.
He bought me the fur mink five winters ago
And the gown the following fall
Then the necklace, the bag, the gloves, and the hat,
That was late [2008] I recall
Then last night in his apartment
He tried to remove them all
And I said as I ran down the hall.
Take back your mink
Take back your pearls
What made you think
That I was one of those girls?
Take back the gown
The gloves and the hat
I may be down
But I'm not flat as all that.
I thought that each expensive gift you'd arranged
Was a token of your esteem
But when I think of what you want in exchange
It all seems a horrible dream
Eek.
So take back your mink.
To from whence it came
And tell them to alter and rise it
For some other dame
Take back your mink
Those old worn out pelts
And go shorten the sleaves
For somebody else.
(interlude)
Well, wouldn't you?
I wrote to Heath and told him I couldn't vote for him if the Yellows were going to prop up the Reds.
He said
.."I think you can be assured that we are very unlikely to make any arrangement without very careful consideration of both the interests of the country and the future of Liberal Democrat principles".
No, I am not reassured...
Thanks, Lilith, I knew all along, I suppose, that he was the sort of man who would have, in his home, a master bedroom.
What sort of a lawyer, Mrs WOAR, is Maria Elena Tortilla Consuela Speedy Gonzalez Lopez Placido Domingo Picador Matador Toreador Little White Bull? Obviously one of curious taste, married as she is to that prick ?
And to whom do you think they'll be in opposition ? Might Sam 'n' Dave go the way of the late Eugene KaffirBasher, hacked to bits by the few remaining Tories, incredulous that he lost to the worst prime minister in history? I do hope so.
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