Sunday 27 June 2010


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Col  Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap,  the British military spokesman in Helmand, said: “It is with great sadness I must inform you that four soldiers were killed last night in northern Nahr-e Saraj, Helmand Province. They were part of a team that was travelling to assist in an incident at a nearby check point when they were killed in a vehicle incident. They will be sorely missed and their actions will not be forgotten. We will remember them. What were their names, again?”

This Afghanistan bollocks, feted as unlikely to see a shot fired in anger by its author, Mr Lord John Glasgow, the infamous drunk, pothead and sexual  bully, has now harvested the souls of three hundred and seven service persons  and the limbs and senses of thousands more; it has, furthermore, acclimatised the nation to the sight of Army Widows and Army MotherWidows, not to mention tellystruck  ArmyAunties, - arentchasicktodeathovem -  insisting that Mark or Wayne loved what he was doing and was happy to spill his guts for whichever worthless bandit was being puppeteered by the White House;delighted, he was, thrilled and honoured,  to die, legless, screaming, so that Mustapha or Ahmed  coud ride off on his rusty Toyota to vote in some utterly pointless, rigged election, Yeah, Mum, I'm totally made-up to be part of organised crime on such a grand scale, so don't you worry, If I should die, think only this of me, that I believed any old shite they told me.

Well, Mum, I'm fed up with all this  fucking sentimental rubbish, if you're happy to see your sons and occasionally daughters crippled and wasted for propaganda,  you can  be happy on your own, you and Huw Welshman, you and the prime mninsiter and his gimp, every Wednesday, namechecking the dead.

You know how these things go, Mum.. Ah, yes, we did promise not to raise VAT/leave Afghanistan but now we know the full facts of what a fuck-up it is we're just gonna have to leave Ahmed to his own devices, after all; we are all in this together, apart from Ahmed of course - or Yes, of curse we don't do deals with the IRA, that's why we let them all out of prison and put them in govament, your sons, yes of course they are still heroes, just heroes for fuck all. 

Still, the world as orchestrated by skymadeupnewsandfilth, loves a martial cliche.   For boys drowning, terrified in the dark, hampered by webbing and weapons,  merely for Obama's election purposes and for the opportunistic soundbiting of idle filth like CallHimDave or Bob The Cunt AInsworth, and who's this new buttoned-up, constipated arsehole, wotsisname, FoxKnowsBest,


another fucking diploma-waving, Call-Me-Doctor doctor, naturally endowed with the wisdom of Solomon, the courage of Alexander the Great, the acuity of Clausewitz; another shifty, Tory closet fag, another ranting megalomaniac, like that other noisy bastard, Rifkind; Jesus where do these freaks spring from, are they bred in some mad S&M laboratory, bottle-fed sterness and cruelty, tutored in condescension and the humiliation of others, pain and degradation their lullaby; horrible fucking bastards;  and the Labour Partry, les Internationalistes, falling all over each other in their rush to napalm the Muslim working classes all across the Middle East and Southern Asia; how did that happen, how is it that from Cuba to Kathmandu our land, our people, have become a byword for atrocity; well, that's, for me and the boys drowning, a martial cliche too far.

How is it that now we damn the old to exhaustion, penury and hypothermia we still maintain vast numbers of expensively trained people on a Fool's errand, shovelling ever more costly materiel into Failure's abyss? Is there nothing, in this Broken Society, no repair,
which a regiment or two might effect, now that we must retreat, chastened and scourged, to the nineteen-twenties? Can't we do something with them, other than have them blown to bloody bits?

How is it that here, in the future, nineteenth century fantasies of Regiment and Corps of dulce et decorum est pro patria mori so vigourously survive? If these customs are suborned to cheap Blimping, to a  trumped-up  cassus belli, to a strategy of torture and kidnap, a tactic in which our side pays and trains the other side to attack us and to a high command more attuned to the power of the telegenic soundbite than to the folly of the mission, then these customs grow hollow and their practitioners may not always  sing a Warrior's song.  And from Londonderry to Baghdad, too often, a darker refrain sounds. Armies should fight armies, not civilians, which is what we have been doing since Shock and Awe, seeding the fortunes of Tony and Imelda, corroding the values and traditionss of our armed forces;  the managerialists, the I-Know-Besters, the SpivULikes, everything they touch turns to shit.

The first time, at least, fighting the fuzzy-wuzzies, there were interests of Empire at stake, now there is just politicking.  Barely out of the Cold War we have been plunged into a new state of constant warfare, George Dubya's  War Of Endless Terror, Gordon Brown's War To Keep Safe The British Street,  CallHimDave's War Of Staying In Office, Obama's War Of I'm In Charge.  For the militarists it couldn't be better, an invisible, infinite army of enemy Others, hiding under the bed, behind the curtains, they're everywhere, in the East, in the West, even though we can't see them we're gonna be fighting them forever.  Just like the Communists. Only better.

Well, said Lord Reid truculently on Radio Glasgow,
these yins drowned, did they no', in the fucking canal, so I wis right, they didnae die frae a shot fired in anger, so there, bollocks and Ah'm  the first Trotskyist peer in history so you better watch oot or Ah'll be gi'ing ye the famous Glasgow Emroidery Lesson (Can Ye Sew?  Vicious Headbutt. Well Stitch That, Then.) No, we owe these lads a great debt of gratitude, we who'd rather go in prison than go soldiering, and we're no' gonnae pay it, nae fuckin' way, if they wisnae oot fightin' fer Queen and country, they'd only be on the dole. Not like me, one of Labour's great men. And very rich, thank you. Service life? Me? No, I sincerely never  believed in armies. See You, Jimmy, if you dinnae watch oot I'll be roond yer hoose at midnight, bawling up that I'm gonnae fuck yer mrs, like I did wi' that Dawn Primarolo.  Aye, I ken, a dog, but I was pished

John Reid and Geoff Hoon and Jack Torture and Tony&Imelda; cardboard, cut-out generals, generations of Ruperts, mouthing their master's voice, that's what Armed Forces Day celebrates; that ludicrous, idle, pampered gabshite, Windsor, sponge, nonce and incompetent, taking the fucking salute, the BBC commentators wetting themselves with sincerity;
some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, of Hector and Lysander and such great names as thes, but of all the World's  great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow row row row row row row, to the Britsh Grenadiers.

And  that's why we piss 'em away in others' Wars of Empire, throw them in jail when homelessness and unemployment and the drink are the price they pay for service..

Now, God help us, Widows are  more anxious for celebrity than private grief and acceptance, encouraged by politicians routinely lip-serving a phony gratitude - none of their sons in the forces - and poor lonely boys parroting a mission mantra, the falsities of which they could not begin to comprehend,  and deploying it on a civilian populace which does not recognise it and wouldn't want it if it did.  And Tommy is alleged to be happy to die for this shit, his widow happy for him to die, look, there she is on the telly.

And the danger she poses, Widow Mark or Widow Wayne, is that together with  the funeral-junky ghouls at Wootton Bassett, the posturing Golightly-Jockstraps on the teevee sofa - lovely to have you back again, General Sir  Mike, with your deep, brown, knowing voice - and the serried ranks of cowardly reptiles in the commons bleating and gurning, we head into a happy acceptance of permanent, glorious war, in which all are heroes, for fuck all.

In the new S&M Britain,  Tommy Atkins' death throes are the new snuff movie - created, produced and directed by skymadeupnewsandfilth. It is how  rotten journalism sidesteps the indefensible, just as Murdoch taught them. Dead Tommies, the new page three, the new first item, top of the bill on Wednesday's Order Paper.  There is nothing which cannot be spun. There is no business like show business.


Saturday 26 June 2010


Deputy prime minister and HM principal gimp, the right honourable Mr Nick Gimp, MP, in his cabinet attire;  he sits on the floor. Now that I'm actually the slave of someone who is in govament, stronganstable govament, I feel more able to be myself, a worthless piece of shit,  that's what I am. And if you own me, you can slap me around as much as you want.  It's what I came into politics for, punishment.

Mr Gimp at a local bring and buy sale in Westminster.

You know, now that the oldest two parties have amalgamated we can really dole out the sort of punishment that people need;  while Mr Cameron is punishing me, I can punish you.

And so we really are all in this together.


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A handsome, young veteran proudly displays the honour bestowed on him by a grateful HaliburtonWarsULike, Inc..


The divine Mrs Robinsonbag, 60, above, has been helping Old Bill make-up his enquiries.  Her Don't-Fuck-With-Me-I'm-Suicidal defence (also known as the Gordon Snot manouvre) has been abandoned now that it is obvious she isn't.

Iris, notional wife of the abominable Peter,  First Orangeman, leapt to international stardom when it was revealed that she had been banging a man of eighteen

and sorting him a dodgy loan, from which she,  then an MP and an MLA,  demanded a ten per cent fee.  Belfast rumours are that Mrs Robinson had been banging the boy's dying Dad  and promised to look after the son, too. Which she did, in a manner of speaking.

The Robinsons are infamous for the sums and perqs they have amassed from the public purse, collecting, at one time, a joint salary of half a million pounds.  A year.  They have a multi-millionaire property portfolio, although it is said  that the homes are of thesaurus-defying vulgarity. All Orangey. With bunting.

Peter modestly regales folk with tales of his necktie collection - he says he has well over a thousand.  Now, these won't be part of Tesco's Florence and Fred shirt-and-tie-for-a-fiver bonanza and will probably have cost someone, but not Peter, close on thrity grand. Or more. He is fussy.

This whole tie business, it's as though a pretty cravat will compensate for the larcenous, brutal, ugly face above and it is the view in Ishmaelia that anyone vain enough to have a thousand neckties should see them woven into a shortish rope, tied firmly around his neck and him being placed atop a longladder*.

 . Multi-skilled - and multi-pocketed - Peter  was both Westminster MP for the Undertakers of Ulster Party and an MLA in the local government.  Until the recent election which saw him dumped by local voters, horrified by the scandals - a different standard, of course, being applied to the wretched Iris than to, for instance, the smiling Mr Huhne, whose ethical dilemma was at least a little more age appropriate, but only a little. And who's in the Coalition. Bravely making cuts. Just not to himself or his friends.

But we digress, a sign of the times, one which will intensify as Ruin stalks the councils and the hospitals and the old people's homes but never mind, we are Tackling the Defecit. As the fetishists say in their new, mindless mantra. One big all-in-this-together-shit push.

Peter, anyway, disgraced by a randy wife, revealed as  a bullying, manipulative liar and a rotten, thieving bastard and rejected by a usually overwhelmingly loyal constituency decided that he was too important to the Peace-Proh-cess and should not therefore, in decency, resign his local seat. And so, surrounded by scandal, there he stays, FirstAngryOrangeman.

Those poor benighted RedHand Ulstermen, eh, what are they like?

Except that Tony and Imelda shredded their expenses,

except that Lord Pies wickedly preyed on a secretary young enough to be his daughter;

Dead man waltzing.

except that Blind Boy Blunkett deployed his security detail to bully his non-co-operating mistress and then used his connections to perform dodgy but profitable share dealings; except that Peter Mandelstein was apparently able to blackmail his way out of anything,  and even into the joint prime ministership of the United Kingdom - commitments to Russian gangsters permitting, of course.

So, are the horrid, stupid,
angry, cuckolded FirstAngryOrangeman and  his thieving, adventurous Mrs any worse than our stellar cast of Public Service miscreants and felons?

Well, the Old Bill are keeping schtum about Iris. No comment. But she was questioned this month by senior detectives from the newly devolved - devolved to the IRA - Police Service of Northern Ireland. It will be interesting to see if the often historically rough justice of Ulster is visited upon Mrs Robinson and by default the FirstAngryOrangeman, himself, or if, as is normally the case with politicians, there is insufficent evidence to prosecute them, as they would so vigorously you or I.
Peter's predecessor as FirstAngryOrangeman,

The Lord  Doctor Paisley of LoudmouthBigotry (PhD, Univ. of eBay)  used to remark, snarlingly, that the PeopleOfNorthernIrelnad Will Not Stand For This, So They Won't.  In the matter of Grannygate, we shall see whether they do or not.

* A Belfastfast street cry from  infancy -Up the long ladder and down the short rope. Gawd bless King Billy and to Hell with the Pope.

Friday 25 June 2010



Now, the moral of this story, the moral of this song, is simply that one should never be where one does not belong.......

Not for nothing are journalists rightly despised,   scribbling rubbish in the London papers and spouting drivel on telly, Diane Lard has made a comfortable, private school living pretending to be one of them; in addition to her handsomely-paid public servant role Abbott has boosted her income, not due to her talent or merit - there is much better commentary in these cyber-pages than would ever spring from her leaden opinionising - but due to her position;  last night, she found that journalism is a little more brutal than she had imagined.

Bumptious, hypocritical gabshite beasted on mainstream Tee-Vee

If you missed this week's This Week, among the usual frothy rubbish, pantomime journalists in boats and numbskull, nobody celebrities, there was a dark moment or two of political reality as Andrew Neil effortlessly exposed the hypocrisy and self-interest, the utter poverty of intellect or principle at the  heart of Ms Abbott, she really is as stupid as she sounds, as venal, as precious, as astonishingly maladroit and incompetent as one has always suspected, unable to explain, refute or even divert Neil's questions about her expenses, her own, stagey racism, her contradictory, greedy, self-centred parental decisions, she floundered, Oh-Andrewing, as though these straightforward - and long, long overdue - questions were beneath her.  So utterly banal and worthless was her performance, so embarrassing,  that one wondered, not for the first time,  why it was that Neil has for so long  pretended to value her opinion.

Had Abbott fanned a few flames of hope, that she might wrest a shadow front bench role from this pretend leadership bid, she will today be staring into their embers.

Wednesday 23 June 2010


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Where is his fusilade of tractor statistics, his towering intellect, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each flight of bumptious, bnullyboy doggerel;  where is his incisive, hot-housed mind, his grasp of detail, his complete mastery, as they call it, - the reptiles at skymadeupnewsandfilth - of his brief; where is his Prudence, now;  where is his promised fighting for his party, for the poor and the sick, where is his snotty, raging tumult of I-Know-Bestisms?

Why was he not present as the SpivULikes,  all dressed-up in their SpivUlike suits and ties and SpivULike haircuts, a credit to their SpivULike public schools, trashed not only his history but that of so many wicked enough to work in the public sector,  scorned their miserable contribution to the nation, as though the dinner lady and the probation officer wrote all these mad instruments of greed - or the Credit Crunch, as SpivULike criminality is helpfully described - as though the streetsweeper himself artificially inflated the value of his home and, as for that bloke in the library, well, what a liberty, what do people want with books, now they've got porn?

Chancellor Gideon Spiv got in one of what will be many neo-Nazi jibes, as the poor become nigger, become Jew, become the enemy within  - as you walk off to work, he said,  past the drawn blinds of your sleeping benefits-dependant neighbour..... etc - but of Poverty's Champion there was no sign; the Slayer of Boom and Bust had no platform, no word of rebuttal,  as  war was declared on the weak; all his works, for which, for so long, there was cross-party agreement, were dragged in the shit and he did not lift a finger towards their extrication. So feeble was the Opposition response to the budget that it may as well have been delivered by carrier pigeon but Brown's absence, his failure to comment,  draped the Opposition benches in  shame, their unelected leader relieving himself of any responsibility whatsoever for defending his policies and -and here's the rub-  by his cowardice reinforcing the SpivULike govament's Year Zero wholesale revision of recent history, the one which makes clear that actually it wasn't the bankers' fault, or the civil servants' fault, or the economists' fault or the journalists' fault and fuck me, it wasn't the politicians' fault - the expenses crimes unpunished or self-punished, scapegoated off to an ill-connected minority -  no, it was all the fault of the Untermenschen; all the real culprits remain in position, pampered and pensioned,  the same crooks still running Wall Street and the City,  the think tanks of the New Blitzkrieg peopled by those who have already wrought Ruin for so many.

Despite his awfulness, a little courage from Mr Snot might have redeemed him somewhat in History's chill gaze and most importantly might have challenged the smooth, glaring, brutish hypocrisy of the Coalition of the Unwholesome - two down, the simpering dwarf Laws and the virtuous hypocrite, Huhne -  as it set about rabble-rousing,  vandalising the lives of millions. If he was so confident of his shit six weeks ago, why was here not there to defend it?

The concert group of NewLabour, Blair, Mandelstein and that prick, wotsisname, Campbell, have escaped, filthy rich and unscathed; to Brown, viirtually alone,  falls the disgrace, the obliquoy, the scandal and to judge by recent events - his only sighting being him sermonising a bunch  of, as usual, defenceless schoolchildren  - a craven reluctance to appear before those whom he so-recently lectured, barracked, harangued and conspired against.
Rather than standing up to a bit of parliamentary ragging - surely nowhere near as noisesome as his internal, resentful choir -  and some beasting by skymadeupnewsandfilth, Brown quits the field, defeated, decried and despised.  Here was a moment, an opportunity he didn't really deserve, to redeem if not his lunatic conduct at least his moral fibre; rotten, cowardly bully, he bottled it, his record one of Ruin, his legacy the rise of SpivULike. Again.




skymadeupnewsandfilth, all channels, all media outlets

Now listen up, Mr President Motherfucker, Suh!

No, you fuckin'well well listen up to me, you motherfucking General Stanley McChrystal fuckin' Motherfucker.

Suh! President Motherfucker, Suh.

That's better, General Motherfucker, but maybes if y'all could just remember that is only one person here in the Oval Office gonna be doin' any a that motherfuckin' shit, and who, General McMotherfucker, do we all think that motherfucker is?

Why, Suh! President Motherfucker, that's you, Suh! You are  certainly the main motherfucker round here.

'Snot exactly what I meant soldier, what I meant was that there was only one person in here could call another person motherfucker and that, motherfucker, was me. And not you, motherfucker. Am I making myself perfectly motherfuckin' clear, General McMotherfucker.

Suh! President Motherfucker, Suh!

Now then, stand easy, soldier, these niggers, over here in Aghanistan....

Suh! President Motherfucker, Suh! Permission to speak, Suh!

Carry on, motherfucker, but next time one a you sonsafuckinbitches done break my flow of thought for no good reason I'm gonna bust his motherfuckinass down to motherfuckin private, do we now understand  each other, motherfucker?

But, Suh, you said the word, the word no-ones allowed to say no more on account of all the African Americans being President and everything, Suh, Suh!

What word?

Suh, that word, Suh, the N word.

What? Nigger?

Well that's all they are ain't it, motherfucker, worthless crazy niggers, livin' in the Stone Age, what I wanna know is why you ain't kicking them useless niggers asses up  and down the road? Fuck me sideways til Thanksgivin, they only got motherfuckin' catapults and shitbombs and ride around on fuckin' camels, motherfuckin' camels, it's right, I seen it on CNN and they live in tents jerking each other off for Allah, or some shit like that, and when they're not doin' that motherfuckin' shit, they're digging fuckin' holes in the fuckin' ground and burying some poor broad in the motherfuckin' thing and  throwing fucking rocks at her.  I mean General McMotherfucker, these Talimen, they're fuckin' savages, right, and with the whole might of the United States Military Industrial Complex at  your disposal you can't dent the ambition of these no-good nigger bastards??


Shuddup to fuck, Mother fucker. And on top of all that bodybag shit, motherfuckin grunts coming home in boxes quicker than we make the fuckin' things, on top of all that shit - and lemme tellya soldier, each dead grunt is one less vote for me - on top of that, motherfucker, you are badmouthin' me to some shit hack from some magazine, just like I was some dumb nigger, like those ones making a monkey of us in Afghanistan, as though I wasn't your Commander in motherfuckin' Chief, motherfucker.  Like you was the Goddamned president and I was the Goddamned nigger bastard travelling on the back of the bus.

Well, motherfucker, the buck stops here. And so do you. You're off the case, motherfucker, relieved of your command.

Suh! But Suh! You can't do that......

Yes, motherfucker, we can.

And with that the next Republican Presidential candidate left the Oval Office.  For now.

MATINS Giovanni Palestrina - Missa Papae Marcelli - Kyrie, HT MR MONGOOSE


Created by Jagger and Mick Taylor, written by Jagger-Richards, the song covered here is from the Rolling Stones' 1971 album, Sticky Fingers.


.....the song, "re-created all the paradoxical distances inherent in erotic love with a power worthy of Yeats, yet could also be interpreted as a cocaine song." No, surely not.

Friday 18 June 2010



 Vive le coalition.
CallHimDave on l'entente cordiale:

As we gather here today to mark the successful conclusion of the Napoleonic Wars I would just like to say that one of my grandfather's great uncle's brothers was a part of that very successful whatever it was;  Mr Duff-Hard-On, my distant relation, was in fact part of that great  wartimegovament of coalition-but-mainly-Tory  and so it is right that it is I, CallHimDave, who is here today,
as le premier mininstre unelectee-vous, in order to celebrate this ongoing state of affairs, in which our two great nations squabble with each other, until Germany invades France again. .This goes  to show - and talking of goers the little Frog mynx looks like a right one - that,  like His Lordship,  Mr Mandelbum, I, CallHimDave, was born to govern and proves that this is, indeed,  the NewPolitics, new and retrogressive.  I mean progressive. The people of la Belle Anglais, anyway, have voted for no govament at all, and that's just what they've got, me and Mr Nick Toilets, no govament at all. But what we have witnessed in Britain recently is the return of the proper sort of administration, landowners and white collar criminals, united by a love of privilege, greed and the public school. 

But we mean to share this and that is why Mr Spit-Gove is allowing various groups of would-be middle-class oiks to pretend that they can run schools, even though they can't frame a proper fucking sentence and think that hopefully is an adjective and wouldn't know what an adverb was if it bit them hopefully on the arse. Or a split infinitve, so to hopefully speak. But until their brats come home  grunting and counting on their toes these people will continue to Vote Tory, I mean Coaltion. And that, educationally speaking, is all that matters. Next time we'll pretend thay can run their own merchant banks, too.

But hey, Zut alors and Fuck me, non,  we wouldn't be sending our children to their poxy free schools.  Eton or nothing, as we say in the cabinet of all the thieves. And in effect, of course, it doesn't matter about winning elections, just getting the right people to run things, that must be the major judgement,facing the proles;  I mean, not too many eminent moneylenders among the Labour lot, is there?  And it's bankers and spivs and thugs that can really put this country back on its feet and it doesn't matter what party they come from as, long as they're rich  I mean, just look at me and Mr Toilets, like as two peas, hypocritical, geedy, conceited, arrogant, over-privileged, incompetent, never done a day's work in our lives  WeKnowBesters and it seems ridiculous that we should be in different parties. And the fact that we are both rich means we no longer have to be. In different parties.   From now on there should just be the one party, the Ruling Party;  there, that's better isn't it, much better?

And that is why, on this historic occasion,  I can simply say to you, in the immortal words of President General Charles de Frog, apres moi le deluge, which translates as if you fucking LiberalDemocrats vote down the Coalition of the Unwholesome then we are all fucked, or I am, anyway, which, in my tough but necessary judgement, and Mr Toilets', amounts to the same thing. But to quote my predecessor further, we say this to the Poor and Old and Sick and Labour-voting: We will fight you in the JobCentres we will fight you in the A and E units, we will fight you in the old people's homes and we will fight you in the public libraries  - which we have decided you can no longer afford - we, the govament, the stronganstable govament, will never surrender to the people's will.  We got here without it. And we'll stay here without it.

Vive les aristos!

Thursday 17 June 2010


Evenin' all and welcome to our little Westminster studio and on tonight's show we have a rotten, wrinkly, clapped-out  old reprobate who loves the young female form, or a dashing playboy approaching middle age, as I prefer to describe myself.

We'll be looking at the cuts proposed by the Coalition of the Unwholesome.  But not too closely, because they mean fuck all to the likes of us. And certainly not to me because the BBC gives me all the work I want. Some say it's because of my searching interview style, others because I'm right up the arse of the political establishment and they can trust me not to go too far. You ask yourself, as you open your bottle of Blue Nun, while you can still afford it, if I was any good, wouldn't they run a fucking mile from my Daily Politics show? Well, wouldn't they?

On the show tonight there'll be some fading, jumped-up celebrity like Billy Bragg or Bill Wyman and they'll be sharing their thoughts,  such as they are, not that either of them could even spell elected dictatorship or expenses whitewash or even pisspoor Tory leader who couldn't win against a mental case and a gang of thieves.

But never mind that. And talking of gay mental cases, on the sofa, still -  and true to form, he's not standing for the leadership of anything -  is the Smouldering Spaniard, Don Miguel - as he's known on the cottage walls - our very own Michael Portillo.

 This is what happens to people who tell lies

Michael, your moment of the week, did you have your minders attack some defenceless little poof, who was trying to out you,  - not that there's anything to out -  wrestle him, quite illegally, to the ground and quite illegally rough him up a bit and you a former cabinet minister, and a privy councillor and everything and a lawmaker, but then, of course, the law, as we have seen, doesn't apply to cabinet ministers, past, present or future, we might almost say, and since we are all so closely connected, probably doesn't apply to journalists, like myself, either. And it must be true because if I was an ordinary elderly person then my colleagues in skymadeupnewsandfilth would be yelling at me, staking-out my homes and front-paging me with pictures of very young women and calling me a pathetic, dirty, filthy, old cunt abusing my money and my position at the BBC in an attempt to stave-off Death and to obliterate the guilt I feel at being such a lying, distorting, unprincipled, money grubbing  gabshite charlatan - or a typical Journalist - all these years, which is what I am of course. All of the above.  Did I tell you I went to grammar school?

I mean, it's alright, Michael,  you sitting there looking outraged, you know I wouldn't really ask you these questions, it's only that the bloke who writes me has been sent some herbal cigarettes for his birthday and is trying to portray me as an almost decent old bloke, instead of the festering canker that I am, leeching, symbiotically on the diseased body politic and pretending,  quite ludicrously, to be its Nemesis, it's scourge and that's why people old enough to know better, some of them as old as me, still consider me, despite all the evidence to the contrary to be a people's champion, a tribune,  my life spent commissioning, editing and proofreading a fanfare for the common man, skymadeupnewsandfilth style. That Neil, he really goes for it, rips 'em a new arsehole he does,  that's what they say, which, let's face it, is bollocks, when's the last time I broke a story, exposed a  political fraud, a conflict of interest, never, that's when, gossip pretending to be news, that's my thing, rips 'em a new arsehole, as if, I didn't get where I am today by challenging the status quo. Obviously. Aye, People's Champion, me and John Prescott.

But now to our first guests, satirist Mr Chris Wotsit, whatever a satirist is, nudge-wink, nudge-wink, Ah,  the old ones are the best, although some of my young female acquaintances might disagree, and Mr Peter Poofter - did I mention I was from Glasgow? And went to University? Peter is a fag activist who doesn't have very much money.  Chris and Peter, what's your........TakeOfTheWeek?


Execution of Ronnie Lee Gardner, convicted of murder, will be the first of its kind in the US in 14 years
    Ronnie Lee Gardner
    Ronnie Lee Gardner has been on death row for 24 years. Photograph: Francisco Kjolseth/AP
    Barring a last-minute reprieve, Ronnie Lee Gardner will tomorrow night be strapped into a chair, hooded and executed with a blast of gunfire from five rifles in the first death by firing squad to take place in the US in 14 years.

    Gardner, 49, will be taken at midnight into a specially designed execution chamber in Utah state prison in Draper, Utah. A target will be placed over his heart, and then in the first minutes of Friday five unidentified law enforcement officers will line up in front of him with .30-calibre rifles. After Gardner is allowed to say his last words, they will be ordered to fire at the target.

    Should the execution go ahead, it will be the first in Utah for over a decade and only the third time since the death penalty was restored in 1976 that a firing squad has been used. Both previous firing squads – the execution of Gary Gilmore in 1977 and that of John Taylor in 1996 – were used in Utah.

    Other than Oklahoma, Utah is the only state in the US where the firing squad is listed as a possible execution method. Prisoners are allowed to choose between it and lethal injection, the cocktail of three drugs preferred by most other death penalty states.
    In April, Gardner told a judge: "I would like the firing squad, please."

    Gardner's death sentence relates to the shooting in 1985 of Michael Burdell, a defence lawyer. Gardner was in court in Salt Lake City, facing trial for murdering a barman called Melvyn Otterstrom, when he tried to escape from the courthouse and in the process shot and killed Burdell. He also shot a bailiff, Nick Kirk, who died from his injuries 10 years later.

    Last week Gardner appeared before a five-member board of pardons to plead for them to commute the sentence.
    He said that he was a changed man and that he wanted to devote his life to helping abused children.

    "I'm really remorseful. I don't want to live for the sake of living. If I can help somebody and be a positive influence, that's what I want," he told the board.

    But the panel noted that he did not make any claim of innocence over the killings, and ruled on Monday that execution was appropriate. The same day the Utah supreme court dismissed an appeal by Gardner's lawyers, who argued that there were mitigating circumstances for his behaviour including drug addiction as a youth, physical and sexual abuse and possible brain damage.

    The lawyers have lodged a further appeal with the highest court in the country, the US supreme court. It is not yet known whether the court will agree to hear the petition.

    The impending execution by firing squad has ignited a fierce debate within Utah about the death penalty in general and this method in particular.

    Protesters will hold a prayer vigil outside Salt Lake City's Catholic cathedral and at the time of the execution on the steps of Utah's state capitol building.

    Campaigners hope that the possibility of a firing squad being used will provoke revulsion in the American public and encourage states to speed up the pace of reform. Some 15 states have already dropped the death penalty and a further 12 are looking at it again.
    The most notorious death by firing squad was that of Gilmore, who chose to be executed, refusing to make any legal attempt to prevent it, and also chose that method of dying. He had committed two murders in Utah.

    The story of his life and death was told in novel form by Norman Mailer in The Execution's Song, published two years after the execution.

    Gilmore was strapped to a chair, and the five executioners were hidden in front of him by a curtain which had holes cut out of it for their rifle barrels.

    Before they pulled the triggers, Gilmore famously exclaimed: "Let's do it!"

    After Gardner is allowed to say his last words, they will be ordered to fire at the target. No business like showbusiness, eh?  We're gonna shoot you to death but we still wanna hear what you've got to say, just as long as it's not a plea for mercy. Fuck me, Jesus, America is hard to find.

    Disappointing, too, that the Guardian closes this report with a retelling of one of Uncle Sam's Myths of Death and Violence, Mr Gilmore's anecdotal DeathCry being the writer's abiding image of choice, shitty writing, worthy of skymadeupnewsandfilth.

    There was a time but it's a long time ago now when the Guardian and its readers would have deplored the state-killing of a man for crimes committed twenty-four years earlier, would have raged at how this imminent dark spectacle demeans all concerned;  now, under the unspeakable wretch, Alan Arsebridger ( paid £500,000 per annum of charitable trust money) it portrays barbarism as though it were a DVD trailer;  the public sector's in-house  journal so busy endorsing ConLib cuts that it cannot hear Decency's howls of outrage.


    BIRMINGHAM SUNDAY, by  the late Ricard Farina,  performed by his sister-in-law, Joan Baez.


     Unfortunately we cannot blame any overworked, underqualiifed and unsupported young social worker, said Ms Alison SourFace-Career, of Kirklees Social services, but the cuts, very necessary for me to keep my career on track, will give us an opportunity to get rid of some of them.

     A social services enquiry has ruled that no-one could have predicted the abduction of Madeleine McCann.  There was a clear bond of affection between Drs Gerry and Cilla McCann and their defenceless infant daughter and this was why they went out drinking and left her all alone in the dark in  a strange place and didn't report her apparent disappearance until hours after it was discovered.

    These people are doctors and have every reason to earn millions of pounds from charitable donations,  we must all remember that they are the victims here, even though they are not.

    As for Karen Matthews, continued Dr Carole Sourface-Smith, author of the Cover-up Report: No-one Is To Blame, Again; well  all she wanted to do was make money out of the staged disappearance of her child, which she had arranged.  Who do these people think they are, doctors?????

    Wednesday 16 June 2010


    Home, home on the range.

    One of the perceived contradictions - perceived here, at any rate - in Obama's pre-election rhetoric was that he and the Mrs delighted in self-righteous lamentation at the State-Of-The-Nigger in modern America, but only insofar as it effected the basically crossover white nigger, such as themselves - as black in daily life experience as, say, our own, repulsive, Diane Lard; the centuries of institutionalised criminalisation of his claimed brothers and sisters, an international low-water mark in human rights, was never mentioned in his campaign, either as  a matter of national shame or as a cause crying out for remedy.  Other career niggers, like Jackson, insisted that Obama's election was enough, never mentioning his silence on the criminal justice system which so discriminated against black people, up to and including the national urge to witness  their eye-poppin' electrocution

    or intravenous poisoning or gassing to death,  many of which instances were little more than State-abetted, delayed lynchings, all of which, ten, twenty years after the event were acts of barabarism perpetrated largely against blacks. Only his former pastor came anywhere near describing the scale of the Equality Mission in America and look what happened to him.

    It was as though. merely by propelling his hypocrite black ass into the riches of the White House, America would , at a stroke, resurrect, release, rehabiltate, redeem and restore the countless thousands, millions oppressed by Jim Crow; no, Barry, himself , the obnoxious prick, wouldn't have to do anything to upset his handlers, just having a cafe au lait premier would make good the centuries of oppression and cruelty, even though, casually dismissive  of the poor, Obama, earning his pay, set about reinforcing nineteenth century, white capitalism, in the home of Equality. Cunt.
      Obama is one of the most despicable hypocrites  ever to pass the corporate interview for president.  And that's saying something.
    I wrote, at the time  about Obama's hypocrisy at some length  and hoped to see it ventilated in the annals of order-order but the piece  was rejected due to it containing the word nigger. Bless.

    Since election,  this Harvard  professor  has disappointed on all fronts, bank reform, health care reform, he has just tinkered with these, still in hock to Wall Street.  He held a spurious review into the misadventure in Afghanistan;  he could have pulled out, scaled-down but Bush-like, he went for a miraculous surge, from which he will have to pull out, eventually, hand-over-heart, as more young, poor Americans are freighted back home, boxed and flagged, and as more foreign niggers learn, with good reason, to hate his guts.

    Speechifying sincerely from the White House last night  Obama promised blood sweat and tears, the beginning of the beginning of a New Energy Frontier,  a new and lasting compact with the people of Loiusianna and all those other Gulf states but at the same time the beginning of the end of that oil-dependency shit;  I am with you always, motherfuckers and God Bless America.  Jesus, it was pathetic.

    Not a word though about all the nigger bruthas crushed down, squeezed-up, flattened-out in some grotesque maximum security lockdown, doing nine hundred and ninety-nine years;

    no room in Obama's great white future for redressing the wrongs of the slavery centuries, shit, no, whatchyallthinkIam?

    The stats below are from:

    Felon Is the New 'Nigger'

    posted Friday, 11 June 2010

    The Race to Incarcerate

    "Felon is the new Nigger. They don’t have to call you a nigger anymore. They just say you’re a felon. The equivalent of a lynching is a felony charge. It's the modern way of saying, ‘I’m going to burn you.’ When your labeled a felon, you’re fucked." What did Obama’s ascendancy really signify for the African American man waiting to be hauled off to the nation’s disproportionately black jails and prisons?
    That’s a good question. Consider the following cold facts from the officially “colorblind” United States, self-proclaimed homeland and headquarters of global “freedom”:
    * Between 1980 and 2000, thanks primarily to the bipartisan U.S. War on Drugs, the number of people confined in U.S. prisons and jails rose spectacularly, from 300,000 to more than 2 million. Drug incarcerations accounted for the majority of that remarkable increase.
    * By the end of 2007, more than 7 million Americans (1 in 31 adults) were under the supervision of the criminal justice system: behind bars or on probation or parole.
    * The U.S. has by far and away the world’s highest incarceration rate (750 per 100,000, compared to 93 per 100,000 in, for example, Germany), “dwarfing the rates of nearly every developed country” and “surpassing those in highly repressive regimes like Russia, China, and Iran” (Michelle Alexander).
    * Most of the spectacular number of Americans behind bars are incarcerated for non-violent offenses – drug crimes primarily – that most other nations do not view as remotely prison-worthy.
    * Illegal drug use is the single leading offense for which U.S. prisoners are doing time.
    * Thirty years ago, there were less than 300 arrests for drug crimes for every 100,000 adults in the U.S. There were 2 prison admissions for every 100 drug admissions.
    *By 1996, the drug arrest rate more than doubled to nearly 700 arrests per 100,000 adults and there were 8 prison admissions for every 100 drug arrests. The per capital incarceration rate for drug offenses in the U.S. rose by 930 percent between 1980 and 1996.
    It gets much worse when you factor in skin color. The people incarcerated and marked by prison histories and criminal records in the world’s leading penal state (the U.S.) are very disproportionately black and male:
    * 1 in every 14 black U.S. black man was imprisoned in 2001, compared to 1 in 106 white men
    * 1 in 9 black men between the ages of 20 and 35 was behind bars in 2006 and a much larger percentage was under parole, probation or some other form of penal control.
    * The U.S. incarcerates a larger share of its black population than did South Africa at the pinnacle of apartheid.
    * In Washington D.C., home to the nation’s first black president, 75 percent of young black men can expect to serve time in prisons.
    * In the city’s poorest neighborhoods and across the many highly segregated black urban ghettoes that persist across (not-so) “post-racial” America, similar incarceration rates and expectations prevail and time behind bars has become “normative” for young black males.
    * In seven states black Americans make up 80 to 90 percent all drug prisoners. In more than fifteen states, blacks are sent to prison on drug convictions at rates from 20 to 57 times greater than those of white men.
    * Three fourths of all Americans behind bars for drug crimes are black or Latino.
    * On any given day, nearly a third (30 percent) of black males ages 20 to 29 is under some form of correctional supervision.
    * Blacks make up 12 percent of the overall U.S. population but account for more than 45 percent of the nation’s prisoners.
    * One in three black U.S. adult males carries the crippling lifelong mark of a felony record [1].
    Felon is the New 'Nigger'
    This last problem – felony marking – is no small problem for social and racial justice in America. The prison experience itself is only the tip of the many-sided mass incarceration iceberg, whose chilling impact on black opportunity spreads across the societal terrain.
    A black minister in Waterloo, Mississippi argues:
    "Felon is the new Nigger. They don’t have to call you a nigger anymore. They just say you’re a felon. The equivalent of a lynching is a felony charge. It's the modern way of saying, ‘I’m going to burn you.’ When your labeled a felon, you’re fucked."
    There’s reason for the preacher’s strong language. Once you’re branded as a felon, all the old forms of discrimination – employment discrimination, housing discrimination, denial of the right to vote, denial of educational opportunity, denial of food stamps and other public benefits, and exclusion from jury service – are suddenly legal.
    As a criminal you have scarcely more rights, and arguably less respect, than a black man living in Alabama at the height of Jim Crow.


    For a few years at the end of his career, John Widgery QC, Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, refused to absent himself from the bench, even though he was barking, falling asleep, talking to himself, was, in fact, suffering from dementia. He wouldn't be told, Judge knows best.

    Lord Chief Justice Whitewash, QC, PC

    Keynote examples of his judgements were his rejection of the first appeal by the so-called Birmingham Six  - who eventually served sixteen years in prison, although innocent - and his preparation of the Widgery Tribunal Report into the events of Bloody Sunday, in Londonderry, on which the Saville Inquiry, also, has just reported, overturning his conclusions.

    The dogs in the street, the pigs in the pen, knew, in the early seventies, that the Parachute Regiment had all but run amok in Londonderry but in appointing Widgery to chair the inquiry, the UK government achieved the false exoneration  it sought, even though international bodies, such as the United Nations, derided both that report and the widespread use of torture by security forces in  Belfast's Castlereagh Road police station. Widgery's disgraceful kow-towing to the Military/Security establishment was perhaps the most significant event in the entire Troubles, enraging decent public opinion in the Province and internationally and validating, for some, enough, the increasingly violent, quid-pro-quo strategy of Mr Gerry Adams and Mr Marty Kneecaps, transforming what had been, before Bloody Sunday,  a perfectly legitimate, if unruly civil rights movement, into a dreadful thirty-years war, billions of pounds, oceans of blood, rivers of tears. Widgery's report, a cynical whitewash, would reverberate for decades, long after his rotten, learned self was roasting in Hell.

    A more just approach by this horrible bastard,  to either the Birmingham Six Appeal or to the Bloody Sunday Inquiry would have had huge ramifications for the culture of bent coppers and rogue trigger-happy soldiers.  Despite the state brutality they suffered and despite the rigged evidence no-one has ever been punished  for the crimes against the Birmingham Six, eminent jurists - aren't they all? - maintain smugly, to this day, that they must be guilty of something,  a bit guilty; Paddies, Republicans, nuff said. And those same lawless voices mutter today that those killed in Londonderry nearly forty years ago had it coming, teenagers, demonstrating on the streets and everything.

    Should soldier F be charged? Well, why not? There is no statute of limitations here, he shot and killed  four people.  And doesn't Old Bill almost jump for joy  out of his lambskin apron when DNA research cracks any other sort of cold case? Doesn't matter that Marty Kneecaps killed, bombed, maimed, tortured and burned hundreds, thousands, maybe;  the elected government of the United Kingdom decided that he was beyond prosecution, immune,  so great was his contribution to the Peace Proh-cess.  Maybe Soldier F should be indemnified similarly and we be left with a justice system as flexible, elastic as need be.  Law enforcement, the cops and soldiers, well, if they murder someone, that's ok. 

    But maybe if soldier F had been tried way back, in the day, that poor Iraqi hotel worker wouldn't have been battered to death by a platoon of the Queen's Own Nancyboys.

    Mr Mousa before and after his encounter with British troops.

    And maybe, if an honest judge had bent his mind to the turkeyshoot in Londonderry, we may have avoided all that shit - Birmingham, Warrington, Canary Wharf, Hyde Park, Eniskillen, Warrenpoint, Brighton and  so on and so on, down all the days.

    The worst thing about Widgery, though, is not Bloody Sunday, it is the Hutton Report, its inevitable, logical successor.

    First thing, kill all the lawyers.

    Monday 14 June 2010


    Now listen, sonny, I can call down a Tornado strike,
    soon as look at you.

    I would just like to say that I have enjoyed my time as Commander in Chief of the Defence Staffs and  of all those fine young service personnel getting shot and blown up for absolutely fuck all, out there in FuzzyWuzzyLand. It has been a singular honour to send them all off to their doom, ill-equipped, their lives and limbs squandered in order that Mr Taliman can kill British citizens in his homeland and save all the airfares to Luton;  sometimes I think we might reach an accord with the blighters whereby we just execute half-a-dozen Tommies a week, on their behalf, as it were, and that way we can all save a few bob and get on with mulching the roses.

    I mean, as I was only saying to Her Majesty Doctor Fox, the other day, on the occasion of the Trooping of the Colour,   it is a great privilege for me to see those legless young men, in their wheelchairs, watching their former comrades doing that intricate, ceremonial marching, knowing that, at twenty, they will never march again - unless, of course, they go mad and start hopping to the North Pole on those prosthetic things - and pretending that it was all worth while, I suppose they have to, really, believe all this shit, about the bandit, Karzi and his bloody relations, they'd freak-out else, I suppose, knowing that they'd lost their legs, for sweet fuck all, for the empty platitudes of Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, and for Field Marshal Snot's photo-opportunities and for the comfort of the Lady, Imelda. Still, that's what they signed-up for, shit.
    My situation, however, is entirely different, I mean, I'm off to civvy flying rather sooner than I'd imagined but the pension's all sorted, I hope, and there's always the Lords, beats hanging around down the British Legion, scrounging pints. In a wheelchair. Still, huge personal tragedy, nevertheless, mine. Legs or no legs.

    Ah, you haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,
    haroo, haroo, 
     You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,
     haroo, haroo, 
    You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,
    You're an eyeless, brainless, chickenless egg,
    And you'll have to be put with a bowl, to beg,
    Ah, Johnny I hardly knew you.

    The BBC's JesusFuckingWeptWhoIsThisFuckingCretin, Huw Welshman, was in fine Dimbleby form at the weekend pointing out some lad, a child really, watching the marching bands from his wheelchair, dressed just like his former comrades, in scarlet tunic  and brass buttons, but no legs, not even a thigh, he just stopped, below the waist.

    Now, Barack Obama and Gordon Snot and CallHimDave can all talk shit from here to Eternity

    Join-up? You must be fucking joking.
    They also serve who only snort coke, y'know.
    Although we don't talk about that. 
    Because I said so.

    and the Coalition of the Unwholesome  can fuck about, all statesman-like, the horrible, thieving fucking bastards,  with defence reviews  and that revolting little turd, Michael Spit-Gove, and his fellow travellers can play their nasty, bad breath elitist games but there, that boy in the wheelchair, with no fucking legs,  there, a lifetime in  Heartbreak Hotel,  that is what they think of us; Snotty, Blair, Cameron, Hague;  teenage  limbs torn off, so these cunts can soundbite their humbugging way into  history,  the BBC more interested in the musical chairs at the MOD, than in a thousand pointless amputations.

    Next week: Why it is in the national interest that we help the Talimen form a new government in Iraq,  or is it Afghanistan? Whichever.



    Usual account, is it, Tony?
    That'll be kosher, Benjy, only don't tell Imelda, Oi Vay!

    Mr Tony DeathWhore4Sale is seen, above, doing a deal with Israeli godfather, Benjy NetanNazi which will see a few more millions of dollars flowing into his Swiss bank account.

    Mr Blair, Middle East representative of HaliburtonWarCorpULike and GangstersIncFormer USSR, has appeared on the BBC 's JesusFuckingWeptNewsService, saying that Isimplysay, peepulovBritun, that however much I hoover-up for sending our troops to the assistance of my very good friend and employer, George Bush, it is not enough. Look, decent British servicemen and women got killed in that peace-keeping operation and I deserve more than a poxy twenty million or two in return.

    Look, I mean, if it wasn't for me that war wouldna happened, so,  now, lets be fair, if Benjy the Fink wants me to mumble a few incoherent promises about justice in the Middle East,  well, why shouldn't I, 'slong as the price is right? That's what I'm here for.

    "For people like myself it would be far better if we were engaging with Hamas constructively and getting money off both sides. The difficulty is when Hamas are still prepared to say 'we don't give up the use of violence ...'," he said, acting for the most violent nation on Earth and it's MiddleEastOil proxy, The NazisOfJerusalem.

    "I hope they decide they do want to be part of it (the peace process) because the door is open if they want to go through it," he added, with his winning sixth-former smile. "And get shot through the forehead at close range, on the other side."

    And may I simply say to your listeners that if they have any peacekeeping they want done, or people killing, then I still have some connections.  That'll be fifteen hundred guineas, please.