Monday 31 May 2010


 THE GUARDIAN is tying itself in knots trying to defend the Coalition of the Unwholesome.  Half-million pounds of charitable pounds a year editor, Alan Arsebridger,  is busy coining a new phrasaeology for rich people's theft;  in an editorial denouncing the  grubby little prat's thieving, he laments the tragedy of David Laws being found-out and forced from his promising axeman career;  what arseholes these people are.

Trust me, I am a smirking, Hampstead hypocrite. And very rich.  Thanks to all the poor people.

 A personal error of judgement:     Fraud

A personal tragedy:  Getting off with something which would see an ordinary person jailed.

Resignation was too high a price to pay. It should have been overlooked

It will be harder for both parties without him. He is a fucking embarrassment.

A troubling verdict for a healthy democracy. The people know too much.

If he had not been an MP, none of this would have caused a problem, since he had done nothing wrong. Fiddling forty grand of housing benefit is not wrong when rich people do it.

The problem arises because Mr Laws is an MP, and because his legitimate privacy was apparently incompatible with the rules of parliamentary financial accountability. Who he is knobbing is the important thing, here.

EVENSONG: Don McLean - Bronco Bill's Lament

A scrappy, live version of a lesser-known McLeanism, prompted, in some accounts, by McLean hearing that Clayton Moore ( The TV Lone Ranger ) had been prevented by the studio from appearing in a mask at supermarket openings and suchlike, by then his only form of income.

The studio version of this, from his second album,  is better accompanied, more restrained, elegiacal, rather than singalong.  McLean's "Vincent," of course, is leaving the Solar System aboard Mariner, an example, for the little green men, of  popular Earthman culture, an accolade like no other.
Bye-bye, Mr American Pie.


In the UK, primoblogger Col von Fawkes, said "hic...this is a time for all decent, women-hating, nigger-hating......hic....embittered expatriot closet-Nazi fuckpigs  to rally round our Israeli friends as they kick some ass...hic....Yo, way to go Hymie...the only thing civilians understand....gunfire...bombing....napalm. I personally am goong to open the Pizzafund with two bottles of cheap red wine...hic...if it's good enough for me, it's good enough for the Jewboys, eh, and readers of my blog should join me in a maximum Pizzaeffort. It's hungry work shooting civilian children and we are grateful to Hymie for doing it now and saving us the trouble of doing it when they grow up into terrorists.....hic"

Sunday 30 May 2010





The late Mr MutleyTheDog, who passed away last week,  cruelly, sadly, fearfully young, whimsied that he was vexed by his blog always being upside down; I know what he meant; we, schooled with books, are accustomed to a narrative starting at the top and going downwards, in this new world of electronic, non-tactile tribalism our ongoing stories, our ledgers and logs  of complaint and celebration, are told and  written-up arse-backwards,in the visual sense they are contra-narrativeal; the past, the beginning of the monologue, or the dialogue, vanishes down the screen from sight and everyday, almost, is the  Day One, a daily In The Beginning Was......only regular readers au fait with the continuum. Visitors, scanning the odd post, would be entitled to presume that this was a place of redneck, queerbashing racism; that's how it is, when you do things backwards.

The natural world, now, the globe, is blanketed, enclosed,  by a gauze of communication, each extra million tweets or blogs thickening, not dispelling the fog between us, each ill-framed rant as important as the next, the odd gem overlooked in a bazaar of banality; a rush to publish today, consigning yesterday's crafted, polished thought swiftly to the cyber archive, ne'er to be seen again.

But there was an interesting exchange here the other day which continues today, on the post    LABOUR IN NEW LEADER SHOCK, in which mr jgm2, mr mongoose and ms agatha debate the purpose of education . We have educators among our cohort, their thoughts, in the New Gove Age of Education are sought. Quick, before you miss it.

I mentioned in another post that out of curiosity I have been looking at poor, old Jocky Neil's This Week mailbox and at his DP blog, where his last entry was a lamentation on the loss of the grammar schools - he went to an ordinary one, I to one of the best, so-called, he is extremely rich and I am not even a bit rich, only by comparison with the very poorest, in Ethiopia - and revealed the interesting statistic that forty per cent of the unwholesomes in the coalition went to independent schools and from this he deduced, poor, ancient, wrinkled lamb, that the age of meritocracy - he means himself -  was over; our leaders, he seemed to say, were better educated, now,  than us, missing, in his half-pissed, over-exposed way, the point that it isn't education which Eton and Oxford provide, far from it, but connections.

Consider, historically the majority of our prime ministers, cabinet ministers and senior civil servants have been Eton and Oxbridge alumni. We have lived, for centuries, under their expert whip hands, at war, hungry, overtaxed, unemployed, sick; abused, hectored, surveilled, registered; preached-at and stolen from, in a cycle of apparently uncheckable boom and bust, in which all suffer, save those who cause it. 

Apologias for this absurd state of affairs abound, just pop down the road to Col von Fawkes's PizzaHouseof Blood, the cyber equivalent of the Sun, and read about his share portfolio, how, just by being a damn clever pisshead, he can cream-off some tax-free surplus value from the labour of others. And ain't that great; too drunk, too vain to see that his extolling of Greed is actually, rather than being an anti-politics position, just a  boorish, right-wing rant, a daily servant to the status quo he claims to abhorr.

At the Filth-O-Graph, bloated Simon Heffer rages at the prospect of increased capital gains tax, as though in a demanding, ageing post-industrial, densely populated nation like ours, taxation was the work of Satan, public services extant only for the feckless and the workshy and lazy. The fucking imbecile,  Heffer, on behalf of the  Oxbridge crew, chides us that ours is the politics of envy, that we should approve of the rich paying little or no tax, even as we toil to make them richer than ever;  yet on the idle rich, even the famous socialist firebrand, and doubtless HefferHero, Winston Spencer Churchill, had this to say, a hundred years ago:

'Roads are made, streets are made, services are improved, electric light turns night into day, water is brought from reservoirs a hundred miles off in the mountains -- and all the while the landlord sits still. Every one of those improvements is effected by the labor and cost of other people and the taxpayers. To not one of those improvements does the land monopolist, as a land monopolist, contribute, and yet by every one of them the value of his land is enhanced. He renders no service to the community, he contributes nothing to the general welfare, he contributes nothing to the process from which his own enrichment is derived.'

For landowner we may substitute any number of snooty situations, starting with banker or aristocrat or Red Braces bastard fuckpig. And we must, in HefferWorld, always blame and berate the public sector worker for daring to take up a job as a nurse or a teacher or a binman, rather than doing something worthwhile, like peddling bile and malice and gossip, the obnoxious piece of shit; how dare they, chant the Filth-O-Graphees, these people have no shame, do they, their wickedness scarce alleviated by the fact that though trousering their few quid, they are, actually, helping to enrich the idle, the land monopolist nouvelle;  the rich man at his castle, the poor man at his gate ?

On the broader historical stage,  finely-tuned Oxbridge minds led us to the Napoleonic Wars, the Veldt, the Somme, Dunkirk, Auschwitz; Malaya; Port Stanley, Andersonstown and the Bogside; Srebrenica, Fallujah and Helmand, properly clever people might have seen these things coming and intercepted or avoided them but no shame attaches to the Oxbridge authors - actual or proxy -  of slaughter and mayhem, for they are our betters, allus 'ave bin.

Twentieth century Oxbridge intellects set the accelerants for the ongoing Middle East conflagration, the betrayal of Lawrence's Arabia,  the Zionist expansion and terror,  the support of the Shah  which led to  the  headchopping Ayotollah bastards, the Suez disaster, the support of Uncle Sam's support for Sadam Hussein,  all jewels in the crown of  the Oxbridge establishment, everything they touch turns to revolutionary shit. Pakistan, Malaya, Ulster, thirty fucking years of murder and mayhem and torture, presided over by these same arseholes;  even Cyprus, fucking Cyprus. Spies, arsebandit espionage, Blunt, Philby, Burgess, Maclean, all Cambridge.  What on Earth is the point of Trident, when some Cantabrian at the Foreign Office will be, as we speak, disclosing it's codes and deployments in some furtive  Ivan, Chink or Arab  manlove tryst? Cambridge University - David Frost, Monty Python and BrownHat Treason.  Jesus, the nerve of some people. Never mind the Oxford English Dictionary, what about the Oxford Book Of Catstrophic Ineptitude, A Self-Portrait?

Consider, despite the poverty lessons of the industrial nineteenth and twentieth centuries, our standard of living remains shackled to an eighteenth century, unflinchingly capitalistic model, offering us only Earthcrime and Usury in equal, toxic measure, this is the best that Oxbridge, the Sorbonne, Heidelberg and the Ivy League can manage, Ruin, regular as clockwork.

Whilst saving every penny for retirement, we must go into debt to consume more and more trash,  that the idle rich may have more and more of the good stuff; this - Growth - is all she wrote, growth is all there is, it makes the world go round, growth and only growth, it can't be denied. And every twenty years or so so we Grow into Ruin. Clever stuff. Genius.

As science and technology make astounding, clever-monkey leaps, the dead hand of generations of public school/Oxbridge boys and girls steers us, ever, to the rocks; greed, privilege, the mutuality of pseudo-elitism, the inbred shit floating, self-delightedly, to the top, Johnson, Cameron, Goldsmith, bouyed-up by an education so superior that none could find the hole in their arses, count the change in their pockets, so superior that CallHimDave shits, effortlessly in our faces from his cycle, his limo creeping behind, carrying his work clothes, as he shamelessly fakes a set of eco-credentials; less well-educated people would retire in lifelong shame at the exposure of such crass duplicity; Eton, though, gives a fellow stomach for the fight against Decency, what; play up, play up and play the game, Aye, right. Bastards. And who can forget Johnson senior, saying that his son, Boris the cokehead philanderer, was entitled to be Mayor of London because of all the money he had lavished on his education, donchaknow?

This exercise in privilege - it's not elitism, in, say, mr the dyer's garden's terms,  these people aren't the  best, just the richest, no warrior poets, here -  is little if anything to do with education as I understand it, as mr mongoose and ms agatha understand it, this is to do with positioning one's children so that they are eligible for more, closer to more, conditioned to expect more;  Oxbridge, Eton, Harrow and the rest  don't simply educate, they perpetuate  the bullying of the many, by the few, encrusting our discourse, every generation, with cant, incompetence, narcissism and stupidity.  Shitholes filled with pious, over-indulged, useless, inbred, greedy fucking bastards. I'd demolish them; no, I would. 

This sounds a bit Chairman Mao, I know, a bit Red Guard Cultural Revolution, sounds Philistine. Ah, but what about all the ree-surch they do. Fuck the ree-surch, there's plenty of ree-surch,  there's Hubble and the Hadron Collider and there's lots of other joints doing ree-surch, how much fucking ree-surch do we need ? Why don't we ree-surch a way to give every kid in the world a drink of clean water? Too complex an issue for our gifted ones; war, now, or slump, that's the stuff. Throw the ree-surchers out in the street, let them ree-surch homelessness, and teenage alcoholism, do something useful.

Former prime minister Snot, bog-trotting, sermonising his way into the supposed sophistication of Information Technology  promised high-speed broadband for all. Fat chance, when they cannot run a railroad, or an airline, or an examination system, or a battle-equipped army, or a care system for the elderly, or a foreign policy, or a worthwhile justice system, just one swerving from one punitive mantra to another. The water pipes are leaking, the sewers are antiquated, the roads are potholed and inadequate, the hospitals are filthy deathcamps, centres of greedy, criminal incompetence, the teachers can't frame a grammatical sentence and the cops'll shoot you soon as look at you. And as the preposterous, shirtsleeved, Ivy League Obama poses and rhetorises, archly, embarrassingly  desperate to salvage his limping, spurious popularity, our blue chip companies spray filth all over the ocean, the shores and the bayou, their stooges insisting that it's no big deal. This is what happens when we mistake rehearsed cleverness for wisdom, First Class Degrees in Victor Bogdanov Studies for competence; we arrive in a world of David Mitchell and Steven Fry for joint prime ministers, reductio ad absurdum, as they would say. Universal, high-speed broadband, we'd need to be conquered by some efficient, well-educated Hermans for that to happen, our overstructure is far too stupid.

No use blaming Blair and Brown and NewLabour alone; the Thatcher regime of Red BracesGood, Overalls Bad, was one of the shittiest and shabbiest in modern history, larded with Oxbridge rubbish, as Peter I Have A LIttle Song Lilley and Malcolm Lower Your Voice To A Shout Rifkind now graphically remind us, braying and slithering again on govament benches. Unemployment a price worth paying; no such thing as society; rejoice, we are a grandmother, mad as a longtailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; Oxford, that's Oxford for you, the impudence of the outrageously stupid.

Both our sets of vaguely partisan demagogues have been richly colonised from Oxbridge and independent schools and crucially their immoveable Mandarinate consists almost exclusively of useless, good for fuck all, never done a day's proper work wankers, oily bastards and useless, self-serving piece of shit, peerage-hungry arseholes, first-this and permanent-that, not fit to run a carbootsale; festooned with the glittering prizes, usually a first or even a double first in classics, or PPE, whatever they are, and thus issued with a lifetime, business class ticket to the GreatShittingOnThePublicLatrineOfState, or Westminster, as it is known to all and sundry and especially, currently, to the lovestruck Oxbridge midget, Mr Laws. Will his ticket-to-shit remain valid, will it be cancelled, or suspended, or will one of his fellow-Oxbridgees advise him that he best just mind his pees and cues? Alas,  we learn that the horrid little turd must leave his shitmission unaccomplished and spend more time with his partner who is not his partner; he has done no wrong, of course, just doesn't want to distract from the national ruinous purpose, to which all of his ilk are committed. Cameron and Clegg, his masters, beneficiaries of the most expensive education, within days of hijacking Power, revealed as clodhopping, maladroit nincompoops, as ignorant of personalities and human foibles as they are of policies; if I had paid for their education I would want my money back.

And another reason I'd want my money back is that this pair of clowns, as well as having nothing to say, save self-answering questions - they do not declaim, much less  orate, they interview themselves, as though they had some as yet undiagnosed form of Advanced  Absorbed Paxmanism, Am I saying this? well there's two questions there. Am I relaxed about that? Absolutely -   don't know how to say it.  Two of the purportedly best-educated layabouts in the land estranged from pronunciation and grammar, gonna-ing, wanna-ing, struggaling,  the govament are-ing, meeting-with-ing, the-reason-why-ing;  malapropism, solecism, split infinitives, double negatives, non-sequiteurs, tautologisms; cases, tenses, articles, all  completely misunderstood.  Money down the drain; this pair, so enthusiastic about raising educational standards, would not, judged by their spoken English, pass an eleven-plus examination. It wasn't about education, their schooling. Oh, they would have been coached to pass exams but the insipid, leaden, lacklustre laziness and coarse ignorance of their speech - surely an adroit politician's greatest tool, greatest pleasure - is proof of their  and their teachers' failure. If Clegg and Cameron are an advertisement for private education they prove, vividly and incontestably,  that their parents money bought not an education, merely a series of connections to the powerful, an entree to the demi-monde of high-level, mutual self-interest. Not that I give a flying fuck for any of them but David Davies woukd have romped home in the recent election; the effete waster,  Cameron,  casts about,  now, for reason to be cheerful part one, inventing a New Politics to justify his miserable failure in the Old. These are not the doings of an educated person, this is, shameful grubby opportunism, spivvery masquerading as statesmanship. Flashman, proper public school.

No, the correct approach to education is not to assume that a degree is essential for this is a mediaeval mindset, anybody can get a degree, all you need is for your parents to have money - look at Prince Charles, he's got one and he can't even dress himself - or the ability  to process and retain usually abstract information.  for artful regurgitation in a fixed time period.  The right approach  is to  teach, from infancy, alongside the Kings and Queens of England, the Zen of Work, teach them how to do things, make things, maintain things, make stuff that works; teach the stupid little fuckers about raw materials; teach them  that it was tools, hammers, planes and saws and, before them, shaped bits of flint, clubs and sharpened sticks, which amplified our meagre strengths and made us fearless, kept us warm and sheltered and fed, it was tools which brought us here, not a knowledge of politics, philosophy and economics, the most dismal and devious field of study, emblematic of the parasitism of leadership. Oh, Jocasta took a first, up at Oxford, in PPE, good for fuck all, she is; she'll have to be kept, by the rest of us. Teach them about the properties of and the extraction of and the preparation of raw materials; teach them to estimate and measure and sketch; teach them to plant and prune, to dig and harvest and store; teach them to dig foundations and pour concrete; show them how things work.

One of Blair's many gimmicky betrayals was the insistence that fifty per cent go to newly -invented unversities or as ms agatha has it;
"The expansion of university education with the goal to educate 50% of the young to degree level is, in my opinion, wrong headed. Trade skills have been academicised: we have a two tier degree system,of which employers and academics are fully aware: the older universities continue to offer degree studies in those subjects which have for some years been regarded as academic, whereas the promoted polytechnics offer degrees for the future passengers of the Golgafrinchan "B" Arc: telephone sanitisers, video makers, film appreciators, management consultants, hairdressers etc. Our society is actually in need of people with proper trade skills - or it is where I live - impossible to get a competent builder, plumber, window cleaner, gardener,etc unless you have a friend who gave up an academic career to do something useful instead. It is a sad thing to see all those earnest and joyless young people going into huge amounts of debt to fund a degree in something that society doesn't want and won't lead to a job - let alone the glittering prizes that they naively believe will be theirs. No, for that, you still either have to be born into the right family or fuck someone from the right family or study PPE,or all three. As Mr. Ish might say, a pox in all their houses. If people want to undertake education, let them live at home and study with the Open University, but not let it interfere with the day job, or get it mixed up with how you get to earn a minimum of £60 grand a year.
But that is  not enough for me. There is no reason that people do not study both plumbing and poetry, the vocational/academic divide merely shores-up the posture of those who, unable to work by hand and eye deride those who can,  for their inability  to translate Homer. As if, with shit and icy water and
toilet roll and used tampons pouring down your stairs,  you would rather hear about Odysseus than gratefully welcome a plumber. And there  is more to it than utility over diversion, the artisan must, often, devise, imagine a solution, and then, having imagined it, perform it, his is a blend of that rare intelligence (at the top of the blog) knowing what to do when you don't know what to do with a  physical ability to apply the remedy using the necessary tools, skillfully - providing he has the necessary tools for many eventualities and that they are in a fit-for-purpose condition, you can't cut and paste a new ballcock from the internet, you have to actually know what you are doing,  the why and the how and you have to be able to do it, contorted in a confined space; the plumberpath is not eased by some dodgy professor, almost a family retainer, overmarking the dreary drivel before him, flirting in tutorials.

It is onto the disciplined, practical  knowledge of trade and craft which esoteria should be grafted or, better, both should be learned in tandem; not a barrier to Hamlet or Rembrandt or The Epic of fucking Gilgamesh,  the overalls and the Swarfega are the mortarboard and gown of reality.

Mr ptb told a harrowing  and depressingly familiar story of student-to-teacher brutality in academe and such  behaviours grow common, from primary school onwards,  we have rehearsed it at, here, at length; horrid little shits, ill-parented, often Thatcher's grandchildren, still paying the price worth paying, made feral, that's the word, in order for her privately educated  fuckpig son, Viscount Mark, to ponce money from his Ma's connections and stooge around the world cack-handedly staging insurrections; betraying his old, public school friends when the deal goes down, the useless fucking bastard. Best not whisper it around Harrow School  but Thatcher is actually more of a disappointment, a poorer return on investment than mr ptb's thug-assailant.

But these kids are  straightjacketed into study they consider irrelevant and which is largely irrelevant to them, unreal,  there is no physical connection, no end product,  their grandfathers built trains and boats and planes, they might, if they are lucky, flip hamburgers, alongside an English graduate.  Even among the orderly, learning has been revolutionised by the Internet, people no longer learn by understanding and remembering,  they simply know how and from where to acquire information,  how and from where, actually, to acquire friends, in bizarre numbers, this is a techno-knack not as useful as it first appears; our very brain circuitry is adapting to the New Learning  but there is no real interaction, how can there be? The process of manufacture, though, is engaging of mind, hand and eye, even a  completed birdbox delights its young creator as though it were a  sparkling suspension bridge across Time, which is what it is.

In the same commentary, mr mongoose rightly delights in the fact that he, like Kinnock, is the first in a thousand generations to go to university, acknowledging that a university place, any university place, confers advantage and status. Relax, said Professor Whitehead - I remember - to his new intake of undergrads, you are here as a reward for your wit and industry, relax and enjoy yourselves. And let the unrewarded lay the bricks and dig the drains, his unspoken corrolary.  I wish, I wish, I wish in vain that I could lay bricks. And I know that, if he can't, mr mongoose, also,  would so wish.

Rather than properly examining the structural failure of education, Mr Michael Spit-Gove and his acolytes  now want to refine the existing, redundant educational landscape, to involve stupid parents in securing a competitive advantage for their stupid children, not enough that educational examination certificates are not worth the paper they are printed on,  there is now to be managerial and curricular involvement from pushy, greedy, aspirational fuckwits  - or concerned parents -  the same to be rigourously applied   by professionals who don't know that hopefully is an adverb, and don't care. More of the same, only worse.  Schools, which by disadvantaged intake are wickedly deemed to be failing, will suffer further neglect and dereliction under coalition plans to empower - get the votes of - the so-called middle class, instead of wading-in and assisting struggling schools, to the benefit of all, the New Briton, made stupid and selfish by examplars in  Royalty, politics, showbiz and skymadeupnewsandfilth, now demands that he be allowed to set up  his own school.  Not a word from the slimy mouth of Spit-Gove about real reform - redressing the stinking system whereby the kids of the rich get all the best jobs, just for the asking.

And it will be more of the same but worse. In these new plans there is no suggestion of novelty or innovation, just another sausage-machining towards five good shit GCSEs,  three good shit A levels and a meaningless shit degree, and a soul-destroying  career, in some shit  branch of GlobaCorp.

Education, like justice, transport, health, policing  and defence is properly the business of the state and not of the wannabe  enclave,  it is certainly not a vehicle for generating profits for dodgy private companies, under the ludicrous mission statement of Choice. People who don't want to live in a state should fuck off and live somewhere else,  the state is the only mechanism by which this many people can live together in close proximity and relative safety. But education  needs to move along.  I am not widely travelled but I hear that in other parts tradesmen and women are considered worthwhile citizens, not necessary-evil untermenschen.

A dismantling of the differential between so-called academic and so-called vocational studies - and pupils - is the only way to properly engage, properly educate our children; an equalising of opportunity - the abolition of rich kids' schools and the redistribution of their staffs, buildings and resources - may result in an improvement in teaching standards;  a practical, integrated, holistic curriculum  both practical and academic, mutually interpenetrating, cannot but increase our numbers of engineers, scientists, mechanics and other skilled tradesmen, cannot but enhance the skills of the lawyer and the doctor and the administrator, broaden the palette of the artist, the range and invention of the composer; we must develop generations of curious, confident, well-read,cultured inventive people, as happy in the art gallery as the workshop, adept in both. We don't need saparating, rich from poor, academic from vocational; we need, in schools, and lifelong,  a new, unified Arts and Crafts and Trades and Sciences movements, an integrated baccalaureat of thought and skill, and we need it to be open to all.

Oxbridge produces mor villainy than virtue, examine the behaviour od the repulsive Laws, even though he was doing wrong, he insists, he was doing it for personal reasons, so it was, actually, not wrong at all, but right, this amoral self-serving claptrap chorused up and down cyber fleetstreet, a huge personal tragedy, such an able intelligent, lying, thieving, cowardly Oxbridge wanker.  The product of a great education.

And as for Heffer and Co, spiteful, selfish, tiny-minded, petulant unimaginative gabshites, well, let them look around, sobeerly and critically,   at the fruits of Oxbridge, of King Edwards Foundation Grammar Schools, of Harrow and Eton and Westminster,  let them behold their works, and despair.



This is nice, just a montage of Kate McGarrigle to  one of her  upbeat tunes, funky and vital. Would have been easy and obvious to choose something more melancholy,  Youtube at its interactive best.


A blogger died the other day, well, probably lots of them did but one of them was notable in this quadrant of cyberspace. Mr Mutley the Dog, Rob Chambers, 46, passed away in his sleep on Friday; no age, as we old people say, fearfully.

He was described as quirky and original and although I knew his name, I didn't know his output but I had a quick look last night and quirky was right, flights of whimsy, along the lines of Chase Me Ladies, I'm In The Cavalry. I intend no dismissal by that remark, no slight; making people smile, or laugh out loud is, I think, one of the nicest things one can do for the world. When my young friend, stanislav, was active, he used to make me laugh until I cried, and I know he made countless other people laugh, too, an odd, anarchy, his, barbed, didactic and mirthful; mr mutley's ouevre was milder, more wry and whimsical and people loved him for it.

The tributes at his site were largely moving and dignified, genuinely affectionate, most considered him a friend they had never met, some were just keen to grieve, May You Never-ing for all their worth; others have just closed their blogs for a few days as a mark of respect, a strange, new, alien ritual; the grafting-on, to the instant, the transitory, of ancient customs, antithetical, really, to the supposed newvalues of life in the the electronic village. Some of his readers had physically met Mr Mutley but many hadn't. How do you mourn those you don't know. And should you ? Is it, post-Diana, de rigeur, do we all remind ourselves, with every soul's passing, of John Donne's, no man is an island.....send not to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee?

Mr Chambers had an eponymous blogdog, Mutley, who had passed away and this obviously endeared him to people with their own dogblokes; there must be thousands of dogblokes unaware of their global fame;  everytime Buster disgraces himself I remind him that I can grass him up to Mrs Narcolept or Ms Lilith and they perhaps wouldn't be quite so pleased, then, to see his 'photos; makes no difference to him, being a blogdog, no matter how much of an honour I insist it is.

Mr Chambers wasn't one of those bloggers-for-cash, so despised by mr rantin rab, not a pathetic carpetbagger, like Mrs Dale of the cardigan emporium, down the street, not so much a forum, more an entree to midnight telly's dodgy celebrity. He was, instead, it seems, one of those to whom the internet gave both voice and audience, a double blessing and smiles all around.


 "I don't think  I love you any more, you've made me look a fool."
"It wasn't very hard."
"You're just a dirty rotter, really; you Liberals are all the same, I never shoulda got in bed with you."
" 'Snot what  you said at the time, couldn't wait, as I recall."

It's not the beginning of the beginning; it's not the middle of the beginning, it's not even the end of the beginning; it is the beginning of the end of the coalition. All over by Christmas. If the Tory party lasts another six months men will say This was not its finest hour, fuck me, no.

sir winston s churchill

Friday 28 May 2010


I can honestly say that I had absolutely no intention, none whatsoever, of being found out,  and I did not, absolutely did not, need the money so I can pay it back and lets all draw lines in the sand  and move on to the real work  of tracking-down benefit cheats.


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 The revolting Alistair Campbell reveals a porttrait of the ToryLiberal  axeman, gabshite former Master of The Universe, Merchant Banker, Dennis Laws. Mr Laws' appearance on the usually pointless David Dimbleby Show was cancelled by the govament when it was unable to oust Mr Campbell from the panel, leaving the Coalition represented  only by the dissenting member for outer space, Mr John Vulcan. 
A spokesoik for the stronganstableanunelectedgovament said it had decided to abandon party politicking and act in the national interest. But not this time.

Wednesday 26 May 2010


                          LARD - OUT               DWARF - IN.

It's only a grand per appearance - say twenty pounds a minute - but it'll help Hazel offset the tax she so bravely paid, last year, even though she didn't have to,  the horrid little turd.

Fuckface Neil, the ridiculous, senile Lothario and the BBC's ubiquitous Mr Politics, will doubtless argue that Hazel Blears' greedy, stupid, hypocritical infamy will provide sparkle for his dreary This Week bore-a-thon; Diane Lard, though, is less than pleased at being replaced, after she had been told she could stay, whilst seeking captaincy of Labour's HMS Ruin; not all bad news then.

Tuesday 25 May 2010




Strong and stable aristocracy, that's the thing. She really is outstanding, proclaimed an all-star cast of former cabinet ministers. Selling her contacts to the highest bidder, she makes us all look like amateurs. We really look forward to her leading us to victory  and if not victory, lots of money.

NewLabour 'as allus been a party of the monarchists, says John Pieman, former deputy leader and sexual predator, an' I'll be only too 'appy to sink my severance pay in 'er recession, if you knowhaddamean. She's knockin' on a bit and I prefer 'em younger, about half me own age, or less, preferably,  but I wouldn't mind a quick tour of her royal passageways. Pauline, the Mrs? don't matter what she thinks, she ain't goin'  nowhere, who'd 'ave 'er, after I been  shaggin' her all these years, when I couldn't find nothin' else, like.

Aye, and if she fancied 'avin' a little lad, like, said Lord Blunkett, to go with the Princesses, then I'd be 'appy to oblige, if someone 'elps me put it in, like, only I can't see, but I've 'ad no complaints,  people don't like to complain about blind people, 'sworked for me, anyroad.

Well, I simply don't accept that she's done anything wrong, said Lord Geoff Hoon, I mean, important people, like the Duchess and myself, are governed by ay wholly different set of morals, Kirsty; we don't have any.

Monday 24 May 2010

Cet animal est tres mechant; Quand on l'attaque il se defend.

Matador in hospital after horrific goring

Spanish matador Julio Aparicio was recovering in hospital on Saturday after suffering a horrific goring during a bullfight in Madrid.

1 of 2 Images
Spanish bullfighter gored in the throat
Spanish bullfighter Julio Aparicio is gored in the throat by his first bull during the San Isidro Fair bullfight at Las Ventas Arena, in Madrid Photo: EFE/Gustavo Cuevas
The half-ton bull caught the torero under his chin after he lost his footing and stumbled while executing a pass with his red cape at the Spanish capital's packed bullring.
The horn of the animal tore into the bullfighter's throat and emerged through his mouth in a dramatic goring on Friday evening that had the crowd screaming in horror.
The pink-stockinged, sequined matador was lifted into the air and then dropped to the sand. The bull backed away after it was distracted by fellow matadors who dashed to the rescue.
The 41-year-old struggled to his feet, staggered a few yards, spluttering blood and was then carried from the ring and into the medical ward at the Las Ventas arena.
He later underwent six hours of surgery at the October 12 hospital in Madrid where doctors performed an emergency tracheotomy and worked to reconstruct his throat, jaw, tongue and roof of the mouth.
"He remains in the intensive care unit of the hospital, has regained consciousness and his vital signs are stable," reported a spokesman from the hospital.
"There were no surgical complications" said the bullfighter's father, also called Julio Aparicio.
"It was a serious goring. Almost his entire mouth was destroyed. It's too early to talk of recovery, we must wait and see."
There were fears for his life in the first anxious hours after the goring.
The injured man comes from a famous bullfighting family - his father is also a matador - and he was one of the big draws at the San Isidro bullfighting festival that takes place each May in Madrid.
The evening bullfights are watched by sell-out crowds at the 25,000 seat Las Ventas bullring and are broadcast live on cable television. Six animals are killed in each bullfight.
Many of Spain's newspapers carried the photograph of the exact moment of the goring, sparking arguments on their message boards. Some viewers thought the image too shocking. Others used it as a chance to call for a ban on bullfighting altogether.

Sunday 23 May 2010

EVENSONG, THE BI-POLAR BLUES. The late Nick Drake Black Eyed Dog



Am I the Deputy Prime Minister and Chief Reformer? Yes, of course I am, do I feel the hand of history on my shoulder? Well, now is not the time for cliches…..

(stunned gasps from assembled hacks, Forsooth, he speaketh in naught else, is verily an walking fucking cliche, the dolt needst but  open his gob and  out poureth an torrent of o'er use-ed and plainly counterfeit platitude and maidenly wishful thinking, which must, before a Summer’s passing, round and bite him on his pox-ed arse, or I am not Toilets Maguire, of the Daily LookingGlass.

Master Toilets Maguire,
trying to do thinking.

Dost think, brother Heffer,

An fat greedy scoundrel.

that Calleth-Me-Dave doth engage in  rogering the scoundrel, behind close-ed privvy doors, that they are what are call-ed, in Westminster, an item, even unto them being in an toiletmen’s alliance ? I knowest not, brother, but Calleth-Me-Knave enjoyeth not the comfort of an majority, strut and preen as he may, his odd, irregular face alight with pride and cruelty, and who knoweth where he might, to  briefly gainful political purpose, be thrusting his John Thomas, he is, after all, an Etonite, and to the manner born, mayhap they just thrash each other with sticks until reaching some curious satisfaction, or shit, each in the other's face, as is custom among Ye foully misnamed  Liberals, but soft, grandiloquent and intolerably pompous, the buffoon rambles on …)

….am I nothing less than the political arm of the British people? Well, of course I am, and I am here to stay, this is the new, irremoveable democracy. Once you have not elected me, you cannot get rid of me. Brilliant, isn’t it? You might argue that in overwhelming numbers the British people have not voted for me, much less my reforms,  and it it is true, but it doesn’t matter, anyone who can sieze power can keep it; this is the New Politics, so long as they don't offend Mr Murdoch,  and so therefore I have won; my fellow unelected British Prime Minister, my friend, David, says so. So, if he says so and I say so then it must be so, isn’t it, can’t get a more convincing coup than that, both the instigators insisting it is the right thing to do. For the Country.

Are you saying that because we won less seats or is it fewer than last time that I am a failure? Well, no, of course I’m not; less, in the New Britain, this New Britain which we are forging under my reforming zeal, is actually more. As Mr Laws will shortly be advising the nation’s poor and sick and disabled and, well, everybody really. We are all in this together. Some of us more in it than others.

(The clown ist havin’ an laugh, he maketh merriment, doth he not; verily an wealthy, idle poltroon, with ne’er a days artisanship or merchanting  or man-at-armsing under his belt and good, as the Poles say, for fuck all, toying leisuredly with affairs of state, as though ‘twere his portion, to sit on the ermine bench and shitteth down in our faces, his Spanish doxy enjoining, Me-No-Speaka-De-Englishing for all she's worth. Aye and hast heard his promises? An churl, taken by the constables in felony, canst henceforth abjure the statute by which he is detained, Nay, fucketh off, Lord Sherrif, 'tis an odious law, wrought under Gordon the Ruiner,  and shouldst be remov-ed. so sayeth the Reformer, Nick; an citizen may'st but write to him and all laws shall be set aside, Hey Nonny Nonny and thus return unto me that bolt of cloth and that sheep which are now mine and stayeth, thee, yonder hangman's rope, for thou trespasseth on my yooman rites. And henceforth, Lord Sherrif, thou shalt elected be and not an placeman for robber Kings, unless thay be call-ed DaveanNick.

Aye, forsooth, 'tis an shock to the system, this coalesence of venality and hypocrisy, of cant and sermon; 'tis as though one wandered unwarily homeward after an evening wassailing with  brother hacks, harlots and soothsayers and,  'neath an o'erjetting bedroom window, felt, cascading on one's pate, a foul broth of  pisswater and turds.....)

.....Empowering people, that's where I start from, giving back Power to the People, Right-on, but in a measured sort of way, incremetally, but like a BigBang.  But mainly keeping it to ourselves. In the important areas. Like elections.This piece of paper that I have here, in my hand, is the most important piece of paper since Moses came down from his Party conference with tablets of stone, telling people not to fuck their neighbours. Alright, it wasn't exactly a piece of paper but that's the Old, Bad Politics, nitpicking over pieces of paper, or slabs of stone, what does it matter, just so long as we, the Wise ones, tell the stupid ones what they may and may not do.  For fuck's sake, citizens, comrades and fellow-Tories,  it's worse here than in Malta.

(Malta, Malta? What, pray, brother Aronowitz,
is Malta. Why by my tiny, infinitesimal, faggoty beard,
Master David PussyFace Aaronovitch
of Ye Daily Satan.

Brother Gobsley, I knowest not, mayhap it is some realm beyond the Spanish Main, where daemons do foregather to entrap the incautious traveller. I shall  reee-surch it, forsooth, and write an learned column in Ye London Murdoch-Satan
But this is thin gruel, comparest thou this blackguarding popinjay to Tony and Imelda, in their prime, Things Can Only Getteth Bettering and For the Many Not The Fewing, even though 'twere, in the realisation, the opposite way around; but  thin gruel indeed, must think we are stupid, this buffoon, our brains heedless to the evidence of our eyes and ears, or entranc-ed by his elfin good looks, as though we were sore afflicted with the SimonHughesPlague and lusting after man, woman and beast and thus not an disgusting nancyman, fuck, no, but an highly principled polysexual and revolting, squirming abomination, festooned about with warts and sores, as happy with himself as a dog with two cocks.)

Am I saying that I will reform the situation where a few per cent of the populace own nearly everything and pay, in the way of tax, fuck all?  Am I saying that? Well, very nearly, but Tomorrow is A Long Time and we cannot do everything at once, so in the meantime one of my outstanding reforms is to leave things pretty much as they are on the RichPeopleDeserveMore front, after all, I am one, and so is CallHimDave. Oh, we shall talk about rights and civil liberties and CCTV cameras, like the ones watching you now, in case you get violent, and we shall make the case for their abolition, and retain them. It's the talking about it, you see, makes people realise we are takimg things seriously, which we are, only not in the way they think. We are LiberalConservatives, so that's a mixture of our traditional indecision and the Tories' economic brutality, but mainly the economic brutality bit. And that's how  the New Politics differs from the Old Politics, not at all. No longer will JP Morgan and Goldman Sachs be able to direct the affairs of strongstablegovament from the sidelines, No, we will bring them in, give them cabinet jobs, just like in America. In fact one of the objects of this NewManifesto of Change, which no-one voted for, is for us all to go into coalition with each other, us here in Britain, - which I love, but not as much as Europe - and the Republican-Democrats in the States. Well, why not, we are all part of the same,  exciting New World Order, which none of you want but are going to get.

I intend to give regular gimmick bulletins, like this one, as and when I make-up new stuff to reform, or if anyone starts complaining, unpatriotically, about the very necessary cuts which are  very necessary because they just are, if we want the banks to continue lending you your own money at rates favourable to themselves. So, thanks to you all for coming. Don't vote for me. I don't need your votes any more. Brilliant, isn't it?

( 'Tis as we feared, brethren,  'tis for the moneylenders and usurers in New Amsterdam and Shanghai and London, that they rule,  and not for the yeoman and peasant, and for all this prating of novelty, all this lofty drivel of reform and improvement it is, as Brother Nose of the Oo doth say in his balladry, Meeteth, thee, the new Boss, Same as the Old Boss. And Clegg, consum-ed by ambition and by Call-Me-Knave is as big an cunt unto himself, as he is unto we, or very nearly. Up with him, against the wall, ye motherfuckers.)


Ed Miliband wins crucial backing from Neil Kinnock in Labour leadership race

Party's influential elder statesman shuns favourite David Miliband, saying that his brother has greater leadership qualities
ed miliband
Ed Miliband announcing his intention to run for the Labour leadership. Photograph: David Levene for the Observer
The race for the Labour leadership explodes into life today as the party's revered elder statesman and former leader, Neil Kinnock, shuns the favourite, David Miliband, and formally endorses his younger brother, Ed.
In an exclusive interview with the Observer Kinnock, who led Labour from 1983 to 1992, says Ed Miliband has all the vital gifts necessary to put the party back in power and possesses more leadership qualities than his brother. "I would say he has got the X-Factor, especially where the X is the sign you put on the voting slip at election time."

(There's more of this airhead shit at The World's Leading Liberal Voice.)

Kinnock ought to know, right? Having fucked-up the most easily-winnable general election - against John Major - with his ghastly, embarrassing rockandrolling, the stupid ginger prick and then having gone over to Europe to enrich he  and his family before coming back to windbag us some more. Yeah, Neil's the dude, alright.

One, just one of the initiatives which Kinnock is celebrated for is, as a paid spokesman  - a grand a week - for an electronic balloting company, ramming this method, together with some rotten forms of gerrymandering cooked up by Douglas FishFace,  into the last Scottish General  Election, depriving  many, maybe ten per cent,  of their votes and delivering a result so flawed that any decent politicians would have demanded a re-run.  Terrified of doing even worse in a a repeat election, all the shitbags at Holyrood resisted calls for a proper election, resulting in the blabbermouthing tribesmen  of Alec Lard and Nicola Moustache making Scotland resemble not a Celtic but a lunatic fringe.

The Arsebridger conveniently omits a mention of Kinnock's pivotal role in the shameful bullying of the auditor who refused to sign-off the books of he and his equally spectacularly incompetent and bent, sinecured commissioners.

If this is the best Labour can do, a grubby, greedy, failed gabshiting hypocrite,  they may as well pack it in. Kinnock, Blair, Brown, Mandelson, Campbell and their fawning,  anti-democratic acolytes, the Ballses and the Millipedes,  these fuckers are, having destroyed it, no more to do with the Labour movement than is Call-Me-Knave Cameron. And probably a good deal less. Elder statesman my arse.

 In a break from counting their fiddled expenses, two greedy, ignorant, shameless, knobhead fuckpigs pose for the camera.
Lord and Lady Kinnock of Brussels.

I will go back to the people of Islwyn and serve them for as long as they'll have me,  or until the Europe job comes up, in a few weeks.

(Kinnock, in one of his many conceding-defeat speeches.)


"No more than two garments in the changing room."

Hello, Gordon here, Prime Minister Emeritus,  and as I said, not for me the glittering prizes of the speaking circuit, Oh, no, not like some people I could mention. Who have NohVaaahl-ewes.  No, I always said it would be charity work for me. And here I am, my first day, volunteering in Oxfam, Kirlcaldy, or wherever the fuck this shithole is,

No, no, I'm sure it's a very nice place, full of people I put on the dole and made homeless, it was the right thing for the country. And, more than ever, they need my help and that's why I am here, sorting out the bri-nylon shirts for them, some of them, you know, they're not too bad at all, a bit smelly and sort of yellow under the armpits,   rather like a tired old government full of thieves and arseholes but, Hey, beggars can't be choosers. And that's what we are now, thanks to me, a nation of proud beggars in second-hand clothes, forced into driving little MickyMouse cars, because of the price of petrol, I don't drive, myself, being too stupid, and so the Mrs, who looks after me, dropped me off here at ten o' clock, we don't open earlier, because the old people who work here are often up all night being incontinent, or having nightmares about means-tested benefits and can only manage to totter in here at ten, and anyway, that's the time that their bus passes start working, thanks, I might add, to me, eleven million pensioners lifted in to poverty, meanest pension in Europe, that's what we can do, together, as Labour, Och, would you listen to me, sounding-off like I was still prime minister. Which, of course, I am.  But nobody is to know, until I have helped Mr CallMeDave and Mr IAgreeWithHim sort out this pickle they've got themselves into, with the NoMoney business, Don't know what they're complaining about. When I took office on that bright, glorious May morning in nineteen-ninety-seven, there was plenty of money, burnt a treat, it did. And anyway, they can always get Mr King to print them some more.

 There's quite a lot of stock, here, it's almost as if it was worthless, like the government bonds, and the pound; there's these things, here, piles of them, all folded-up by the volunteers, hankies, they're called, can't imagine what they're for, one of the  nutter volunteers - they've all been out in the Sun too long, you know, apart from me, or else they've missed their medication, which is someting they shouldn't do -  said they were for blowing your nose into but I can't see the point of that, why would you do that when there's so much hunger in the world, best to just eat those bogies right up and afterwards wipe your fingers on your tie, like  I do. It's the right thing for the country. And the world. Which I saved. And don't you forget it. Talking of which, I phoned my friend President Obama, the other night, to offer him some advice on the global situation but it must have been a crossed line because all I could hear was some rather unpleasant coloured people,laughing and swearing at me. I must get my new government to look into these communications difficulties. Only not Mr Blunkett, the blind bastard. Or Mr Reid. Maybe my old friend Peter Mandelson, he's very good at communications.

Well, there's some Danielle Steele books just come in and some Wilbur Smith, too, so I'd better go and dust them off, put those sticky wee price labels on them  - although I do think two pounds ninety-nine is a bit stiff, even if the money does go to tne savages  out in Africa  -   and put them over here with the James Galway cassettes and the pink bedside lamps, funny how one generations's sought-after and hard-won belongings are so swiftly revealed as worthless trash but still, that's the miracle of economic growth, or Boom, which I invented and Bust which is nothing to do with me. Look around, if only there was a poet, here, like my former young friend, stanislav, how he might mock these greasy Brevill sandwichmakers, these made-in-Taiwan brass plaques  and magazine racks, displaying Constable's England, blurred wee prints of Mr Breughel's Hunters In The Snow, once delighted-in, now discarded,  like a reviled and useless prime minister. It's one of the great strengths of the family, you know, of which I have a young one, that when parents die the children can't even be arsed to look at their parents' treasures but just fuck them all off down the charity shop, quick, so they can get the house sold-off, before Mr Osborne wants a chunk of it. The embellishments of family life, ghastly, cheap and vulgar, hastened away by grasping kin, to charity shops it's a sort of a metaphor, really, for people who aren't up to the job, and just cling on, being a nuisance. But I'm not like that, I still talk to my father, John, up in Heaven, he made me what I am, I owe it all to him; well, I owe quite a lot to you, too. But you've no chance.

I think I'll like working in Oxfam, I've already made some new friends 
 My new Cabinet at a working lunch. I was in charge.

and they all do exactly as I tell them to. It's an onerous responsibility on me, me being barking mad and a criminal lunatic but I had a wee fish supper with the manager  the other night and he said that after he'd had a good go at being in charge and  when the place was about to go bust then I could be in charge. But to start off I'd better just come in two half-days a week. Taking things easy, that's the thing for old people like me, with a young family. Divorce, what, me and Sarah-George, no, well, she hasn't mentioned it to me, anyway.

Well, I must rush, I'll just go and Hoover round those people, the ones trying to look at the books. Best to let them know who's Boss of this charity shop. (Me.)

And then I'll go home and have a wee sit-down, and hold my willy, for a few years.

Saturday 22 May 2010


She's warning people again. It's what she does. Flies around the world on that huge motherfucking airplane  with an army of gay secretservicemen in shades and warns people's asses.

It's those mad goosestepping lunatics in North  Korea just now, as if they give a flying fuck about what she says and then tomorrow  it'll be the Chinks, the ones who own the USA. And shoot shoplifters in the head.

You have to laugh.  Obama stitched her up better than if she was Nick the Reformer, being absorbed into the Tory party. I tell you what, Hillary, I want you to go and represent me, it's a really important job, almost as if you really was President Hillary Rodham Trousers, only you ain't, and ain't never gonna be.



Now recovering in the state-of-the-art, million pounds a week, George HarrisonWankers Hospital in Switzerland,  Mr O'Bono thanked fans, well-wishers and starstruck morons everywhere for their money, all of which would be going straight into an environmental charity, himself.
Perhaps he will have a sudden, fatal relapse.

Thursday 20 May 2010



No, it's just a simple microbe, said Professor Loony, but if you put it in a suit and haircut it can carry out fairly complex procedures,  like stabbing it's voters  in the back and using a limited vocabulary of words such as New, Change, Politics and StrongAndStableGovament, over and over again, in an attempt to feign human intelligence.  Lifespan? Oh, six months, tops.

What about those who say that unleashing this synthetic life-form could be dangerous?
Well, they're right, of course they are, no telling what harm it might do.

And if members of the public should see one?

Stamp on the fucker, hard.

Professor, thank you. And now back to Jayne Tits, in the studio.


 Flanked by representatives from LeisureCorp, Don Foster, MP, (Toiletmen)  receives his award for championing piers, parks and leisure areas. Honest, not invent.

Don Foster, the Lib Dem MP for Bath, admitted this weekend that members in his constituency had resigned over the coalition and he predicted more would "walk away" from the party. "Of course, it will be difficult for Liberal Democrats, including me, to swallow having to work with the people we were campaigning against, but the electorate asked us to do that and that's what we will have to deliver," he said.

When was that, then,  Don,  that the electorate asked you to  join the Sam 'n'Daves?

Translation: a hung parliament has enabled us to grab power and with our friends, the Tories, embark on a massive legislative programme which wasn't in our manifestos and which nobody has voted for and which we have only just dreamed-up to take people's minds off the cuts which we are about to impose on their standards of living. But not ours, although some of us have taken a five per cent cut in salaries on jobs which we shouldn't have, can't do and nobody elected us to. The New Politics is great, better than the old politics. Or worse.



squeaked Willy O'Wanker of the massively subsidised airline, British-Dago Airlines.  I mean, anybody who knows me knows that I am a firm supporter of the Courts, just as long as they agree with me and my pisspoor record on industrial relations but once they step over that line then they can fuck off and fly with my arch-rival leprechaun, Mr Micky O'Looney, of Air Begorrah, see how their Lordships like that, having to bring their own champagne and not getting it bought for them by the tax-payer. I'd sack them, so I would, I'm good at that.

Time somebody at BA stepped back and had a look at how much this belligerent little monster is costing them - and their passengers.  There's no question but that this free or ninety per cent  discounted flights for life perk is a bollocks, indefensible, somebody's paying for it and it's probably me,  and it may be the case that cabin crew numbers can be reduced without compromising safety.  This nasty little prick, however, if he was any good as a CEO,  should have accomplished these reforms by flattery, bribery, negotiation, whatever it takes, that's why he gets the big bucks. Isn't it?

He should be sacked. He can always go into the House of Lords, with Digby Grease, Alan Sugar and that other tosser, wotsisname, Admiral Liberace. Oh yes, and Peter, the Lord Crabs, founder and proprietor, NewLabour plc.  Willy  could be on Call Me Dave's A-List, for the Lords, elected, but only sort-of.


Prelude, Bach Cello Suite 1 on bass by Martin Motnik


The old age pension? That's £30 isn't it? Nick Clegg condemned as 'out of touch' after TV blunder

By Ian Drury
Last updated at 9:39 AM on 17th September 2008  
Nick Clegg was left looking out of touch with voters' lives last night after a question about the state pension revealed he had no idea how much it was worth.
The Liberal Democrat leader - who lives in a £1.3million home in London with his lawyer wife - said a single person's pension was 'about £30 a week' rather than the £90.70 it is.
His blunder risked undermining £61,000-a-year Mr Clegg's insistence that he is in touch with the ordinary person and he understands their concerns. 
Nick Clegg
Nick Clegg kisses babies ahead of the Lib Dem conference. The party leader mistakenly said that a state pension is just £30 a week
Pensioners' charities said there was 'no excuse' for the mistake.
Mr Clegg made the howler during an interview for ITV Westcountry which was broadcast yesterday on the eve of his speech at the Lib Dems' annual conference in Bournemouth.
Several voters were filmed asking him questions and one of them, retired welder Wally Cotgrave, 69, wanted to know what Mr Clegg would do for pensioners and if he knew the current level of the basic state pension.
Mr Clegg outlined his policies, including ending means-testing for pensioners, until reporter Sally Biddulph pressed him on how much OAPs received each week.
Mr Clegg said 'about £30 a week' but it is actually £90.70 for a single person and £145.45 a week for a couple.
The gaffe follows the ridicule heaped on Mr Clegg, who has two homes, when he complained the credit crunch had forced him to switch weekly food shop from upmarket home delivery service Ocado to Sainsbury's.