LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION, STRAIGHT SIMON SAYS...

Pontificating on the dreadful, pantomimesque Question Time:

"The IMF have backed the Coalition cuts and they're independent."

 Aye, independent bankers, Simon. Wanker

SMALL MERCIES

The ruinous ragbag which has constituted NewLabour this past fifteen years includes some of the stupidest, most incompetent and all round useless  people in the country.  The War and Torture portfolio, just or instance,  has been held by a spectacularly inept trio - Geoff Hoon, a man whose very name is now synonymous with acrid, self-interested, indefensible cack-handedness, a man whose recent, televised Hoon-For-Sale episode, shared with the equally venal Patsy Leatherface  and Stephen Dopey Byers,  was a new stain in the toiletbowl of political misconduct, Well, I expect five grand a day for selling you my contacts and getting the law changed for you;  Des Browne was an over-promoted Jock lawyer, another one, probably incapable of conveyancing a one-acre croft without fucking it up, and could always be relied upon to stand-up and lie his arse off about Iraq or Afghanistan, or anything;  Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, a thick-skinned and thick headed former union thug was  less the oily blagger than the  other two, more the bruiser but ultimately the most disgraceful in his shameful penny-pinching, hair-splitting,  tight-fistedness in the matter of compensating Tommy, roasted and maimed in far Afghanistan - see stanislav, dulce et  decorum est pro patria incendere - shop steward, well out of his depth, working for the masters of war.

The Guardian-stipended Momma's Boy and blabbermouth, Lord Hatterjee of Small Heath is fond of remarking that comparisons are insidious, the fucking pretentious, spit-spraying conceited ignoramus, also that he didn't care for the sight of young boxing gentlemen beating each other insensitive,  I think that perhaps  bachelor Roy enjoyed it rather too much but his solecisms, malapropisms and saliva drenched Freudian slips are, forgive me, a watermark of the preening, over-rated  Labour grandee;  once made Privvy Councillor  they seem to think that their intellect grows by leaps and bounds, despite their remaining stupid, arse-licking nobodies -  check Blair's English, y'know,  spoken or written  and wonder at the value of an Oxbridge degree - despite their daily actions confounding reason, defying good practice  and ruining that over which they minister.

The most brilliant Trade Seckatry ever, Mandelstein,  was so brilliant he couldn't understand his mortgage application form, didn't even understand the principle of a mortgage at all,  yet astounded all his civil servants with his mastery of  complex detail.  The cock-waving buffoon, Deputy Prime Minister Prescott, was and remains a man too stupid to learn how to speak, his speeches the laughing stock of the English-speaking world.  Blind Boy Blunkett, stupid and bullying, estranged from Truth and Decency, clumsy far beyond his blindness, whining and infantile.  Frau Schmidt, even had she been unblighted by her revolting husband, Timney, was the most maladroit Home Seckatry in history.  The list is endless and should not need repeating here. But one of them, time after time, has slipped through the net.

Wee Dougie, brother of Wendy Fishface Alexander, the cheap lying wretch who briefly led JockLabour until she became an embarrassment even to that shower, Wee Dougie is in a class of his own.

Wee Dougie, like lots of them, went off to the States to learn politics, returned to Britain, took a meaningless law qualification, a safe  Labour seat  and joined Gordon Snot's cabal of  yesmen fellators. An irritating, gobby little prick, Alexander is never short of the phrase which conveys how very much we misunderstand, understimate our masters, if only we were as clever as he then we would never have got into this awful financial  mess, a regular on those shitty  Dimbleby programmes which masquerade cuntishly as Democracy on the Airwaves, Dougie probably sits up at night, rehearsing his dwarf statesmanship in front of the mirror.

Along with the greedy, hypocritical toerag, the windbagging Welsh arsehole,  the grinning smug ginger fuckpig,  the spectacularly incompetent election-losing embarrassment, Kinnock, Alexander, then Scottish Secatry tried to fix the last Holyrood election so that Labour won,  he made a complete bollocks of it, postal votes were not sent out in time,  the papers themselves were nothing like as he had trailed them to be and electors were confused by a whole raft of matters being ambigous or just plain wrong.  The result, of course, was that Fat Alec Salmond snatched a victory -- decent people would have sought a new election, but there are no decent people in Holyrood and a full and far reaching cover up found that, Yes, it was all shit, but no-one was to blame, not really.

After this triumph, Dougie the Fixer masterminded the catstrophic Yes-He-Will, No-He-Fucking-Won't, snap election  strategy of his master, Snotty, when that revolting man  finally bullied his way into Number Ten, (allowing Blair to get off, virtually Scot-free, blameless for the current chaos).  Gordon was going to call an election, having personally foiled the flaming ayrabs at Glasgow Airport and sorted the foot and mouth outbreak and all the other stuff he took credit for. And then he wasn't, he was gonna stick it out, the rotten cowardly bastard, and have Dougie mastermind  the UK general election.  The one they just lost in historic fashion. The one for which Snotty shoulders full responsibility - ie no blame, no censure, no loss of pension rights.

But even so, Dougie's history did not deter the fantastically prescient, adroit, capable, gracious and intelligent fuckwit David Banana;  David had Dougie run his Labour leadership election campaign,  the one he lost to his gormless brother, the Ed-thing.  Doubtless they had ruled nothing in and ruled nothing out but we can be sure that Wee Dougie would have been anticipating sitting up there with the Big People, maybe as shadow Foreign Seckatry, had he not fucked Bananaman six ways to Christmas, left Mrs  Bananaman in floods, simply floods of tears, silly cow and upset the gentry of the party, the thieving, lying, warmongering, degenerate, arsehole-munching parliamentary Labour Party, New, Old or completely, as they now are, fucked. And serve them right.

If they had any sense it would have been Burnham or at a push Balls, at least he can dish it out. Squabbling like an  ancient witches' coven over these two vapid fucks, cheer-led by the likes of the unbelievably  talentless Alexander - not even Machiavellian, just transparently thick as horsehit -  the stringpullers and kingmakers, vile old tossers, reprobates like Barry Sheerman, nincompoops like Kinnock and necromancers like Straw,  the  detritus of NewLabour,  the turds on the tideline, with the incomparable expertise of Douglas Alexander have just given CallHimDave a most welcome, early Christmas present;  that they have simultaneously fucked the rest of us, just once more for old times' sake, seems, if it means the disappearance of Dougie the Dwarf, a price almost worth paying.

YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS. David Miliband condones torture of Binyam Mohamed? (C4 News, 10.02.10)

Is this arsehole really the golden boy of Old New Labour? Is suppressing information in the British courts the hallmark of a gifted, talented - all that shit - prime minister; are slavish obedience to Tel Aviv and the CIA what the People's Party values?

As his gormless brother, former minister for windmills, waffles along about his useless and pointless "leadership" and the conference denies anew the founding purpose of the workers' party, reaffirming its devotion to totalitarian consumerism, this turd slopes away, happier to be in a shitty soap opera than in court where, along with his masters, he belongs. That the Labour Party fawns over either of these two repulsive good for fuck all ciphers tells us all we need to know about uni-party Britain; a choice between the Millibands, Balls, Burnham and the increasingly preposterous, freeloading Abbott on the one hand and the wretched, political failure, Cameron and his whipping boy Clegg, on the other; it's no choice at all, a politics hijacked and mediated by skymadeupnewsandfilth.

I think he was very sincere in his speech, don't you? Yes, I do, reminds me of that Tony Blair, when he was younger. Yes, and his wife's pregnant, too. Only she's not his wife, not really, not being a Jew, like. Or is it Jewess?

IN THE WEE, SMALL HOURS.

Ralph McTell, so sweet, so foot-tappingly twee; his heartfelt, poncey wee narratives, captives oF his leaden, mechanical, appropriated finger-picking, a horrible, morbid accompaniment to his bedsit-dwelling audience's own, sterile, uninventive, pastiched lives......Robin Williamson,however, a whole other thing, his staccato open tunings, running joyful riot, his spare, sawing cello, his riffs, reels and ragas and his instantly penetrating lines lay bare the bones of living and loving, as they are. In the wide hills and beside many's a long water, you have gathered flowers, but they do not smell for me. If I could have, in a lifetime's scribbling, written only one line, that would be it - you have gathered flowers, but they do not smell for me.

THE ENEMY WITHIN.

I was down at the hospital, today,  not in  St James's Infirmary, getting the death stare, joining in the fun, just a three-monthly eye check, see if any more of that crackling,  smokey laser surgery is required. There was an old boy in front of me. Well, seventies, with one white stick and one brown. He was lively, fully compus mentus and a wee bit reluctant to be led by the hand into the consulting room, No, I can manage;  he could,  but at the cost of a banged shin and a near-tumble. This is what we are like, all of us, No, I can manage, I don't need any help.

He was accompanied by a worker from his care home, she in her fifties, earning a pittance, maybe contributing to a four grand  a year pension; she will have been through Disclosure Scotland and will have received training in Lifting and Handling and First Aid, Food Hygiene, Dealing with Challenging Behaviour, Medication Training, Infection Control and fuck knows what else, probably hugely more skilled, more valuable than a subsidised barfull of guffawing, sanctimonious, whoring MPs. They, the blind man and his carer,  were from off the mainland, come in on a ferry, in her own car;  it was an allday gig, checking this man's eyes.

Back at the home people will cook his meals, do his laundry, administer his medicines, change his dressings if he has any, try to raise his spirits when they flag, read to him, maybe, adjudicate over telly and radio disputes, help him to the toilet, clean him when he soils himself, flirt with him, even, flirting with the old boys, it's part of the furniture, in geriatric care, lassooing the past for them,  reviving, briefly, a time of teeth and morning tumescence.  Ah, those were the days, If I was fifty years younger, lassie, such a time we'd have. I didnae always have yon catheter.

There will be OT and trips out, church services, visiting chaplains, nurses and doctors, nutritionists and physiotherapists, cooks and cleaners, clerks and drivers - all the parasite scum, in short, of the public sector, who, dazzled by the usurers'  horseshit,  we fervently believe we can no longer afford,  why should money be wasted, tending these feckless old folk who didn't save for their old age. As if more than a privileged few, reaping the Rewards of Obedience,   can "save" sufficient,  when wages are set at little above survival levels and in many cases below, when BoomanBust come around with monotonous, unemployment-is-a-price-worth-paying, blood-curdling regularity, merely in order to keep the majority in line, the celebrated Masters of The Universe stealing far more than they could ever need as  decent,  working people fight and die in eternal,  successive Battles of Britain - is this, Cleggy's bollocksaganza, the latest such;  is this hammy, immature, corruptible, pipsqueak buffoon, the new Winston? - as if we are become as a nation of supplicants in the Dragons' Den, emceed not by the odious, twittering man-scamp, Evans but by the poxed-up, bitching,  gangsters' moll, Osborne,  an entire nation mesmerised by facetious deficit reduction fetishism,  the same journalists, idle, expansive wankers who lionised Gordon Snot, now demanding our heads, our jobs, our pensions, in return for a bit of access to to the current crew of shameless charlatans, feeling its way around Power's new Ouija Board, Cunts, all of them. Begging for this or that crumb from Filth's dining table, the nation, seemingly to a man, appears convinced that the so-called cuts - the theft of their rights and entitlements by smarmy thugs, generations-steeped in villainy - will fall only on their particular, personal betes noir, and not on them, or their parents or children, fuck no, or themselves, Fucking morons.

Stalin or Mao or Winston would've had a way with these fucking so-called financiers, these jumped-up shopkeepers and perfume salesmen,  Lord fucking Adair Turner, Ruin's own gobby Officer of the Watch, Mervyn King, his sleeping pilot, who gives a flying fuck what these people say about anything,  they don't know any truth which corresponds to mine, just spin and lies and the sophistry of   shared degeneracy and entitlement; these inbred, interconnected families of greed and corruption and their insistence that our money, our country,  our hard-won, imperfect  civilisation  is actually their own personal wealth, on loan to us by dint of their  fucking kindness, and now they want it back.

Forget socialism, Obama is Wall Street's willing lackey,  happy to beggar blue collar America, in obeisance to his masters, in the hope of another four-year stint of cankered glory, a fool, a knave, a clown;  but we knew that from the get-go, when he and his dreadful, interminable, sing-song  didacticism stepped up to the plate, as they say, over there, in the Madlands, in the home of Yes, we can't. 

They must all come from some subterranean Mould of Emptiness, all humanity siphoned-out,  Obama, CallHimDave, Sarkozy, the dwarf pimp; An-Gula Merkel, the sourfaced, betrousered kraut hausfrau - why do so many of these powerharridans wear only trousers, don't they know what makes the world go round, don't they understand vive la difference, if they don't understand that, they understand fuck all -  only the bandit Berlusconi evinces any human traits, and his are all the wrong ones.  Wrapping us all up in a blanket of Euro- or  US- totalitairianisme, consumeriste;  nicely in debt, nicely obedient, made docile by a thousand cuts, all in this together,  that's their game. A pan-global form of advanced national socialism, light on the socialism, heavy on the fascism, liberal democrat fascism,  of course, all who want them shall have gender-reversal operations, Jesus fucking wept. Anyone even looking askance at a revolting ladyman is an enemy of the state. It's what they came into politics to do, fuck-up everything, absolutely everything. For the grandchildren.

The old man,  at the beginning,  didn't fight in the 1940 Battle of Britain - the one which the current unelected prime minister attributes to the Americans, the arsehole - but he would've done, I'm sure, if born  twenty years earlier and  called to.  From the gist of his conversation he worked all his life.  Proper work, from the look and the sound of him. ( I remember once hearing Richard Ingrams, back when he was in his right mind, saying how he recoiled when some fellow panellist on a radio show said to him How Much he'd enjoyed Working with him. Working? said Ingrams, Working?  Now, here in the future, we have legions of undead, walking sphincters, flitting from studio to studio, working, my dear, so hard. You people, in the shops and on the building sites, you don't know the meaning of real work. And over now to Janet Teeth Porter, and this week Janet is joined by Yasmin Alibhai Muslem and David Aaronobitch and his impossibly miniscule beard) I don't know if his carers encourage his involvement in, his awareness of  these toxic current affairs and I hope, counter-intuitively for the friend of an anarcho-plumber, that his news diet is heavily censored;  blind,  weak and frail, travelling,  I guess, on Death's omnibus, sitting in his ante-room,  the knowledge that, to the unelected poltroons, gangster and hypocrites in the house of commons, his life was problematic to the national profit and loss account, might be more than he could bear.

If we had a government worth a badger's turd or indeed any government - and not just a branch office of Bilderbergs - it would say, well, maybe you can have your money,some of it, a bit of it, in due course, but not at the expense of everybody else's comfort,  health and livelihoods,  not by decrying vital, hard-working, underpaid careworkers, easing life-and-death's miseries for increasing millions of our fellow citizens;  not by some repulsive, whey-faced, pampered Oxbridge cocksucker rebuking the genuinely workless for their lifestyle-choices, life's fucking hard enough without you greedy cunts making it worse and if you don't like that, how about we shoot a few of you, you know how that goes, Up against the wall motherfuckers, Do you want a  blindfold or do you wanna look Greed's desserts in the eye ?
 

CLEGGY, SAVING THE FUTURE.

 

LOOK, I'M NOT WEARING A TIE, THAT'S HOW MUCH I CARE ABOUT YOU MORONS.

 It's hardly an illustrious company, the Guild of Deputy Prime Ministers, its members generally appointed under sufferance, as some grubby compromise reached among competing bands of party political bandits.  Heseltine, the nouveau-riche Tory prat, the petulant  fairy with the big hair and the big gob, busting his balls most of his life  to be prime minister, neutralised, forever,  by the dumb but wily  Major, with a worthless, powerless office,  the dogs in the street would run to the big queen, Michael Well-I-Am-The-DeePeeEm Heseltine,  en route to his personally-owned Daimler and piss up his leg, Tarzan, right, Tarzan my arse. Ridiculous, pouting snob, tossing his hair like a prima donna. Perched atop a tank, waving the Mace, set by his betters to unseat Thatcher, rewarded with ignominy and ridicule. It was that plan he scribbled, at Oxford, on the back of an envelope - make a million, become MP, become PM - that's what fucked him, naked ambition, not the proper thing, even the faux-aristo sewer rat, Alan  Clark. said of Hezza  that he was a man who had bought his own furniture. Not one of us, he meant, for all his acres of woodland, all his pretence, all his hair.

And John Prescott, surely the stupidest bastard ever to sit on the green benches, vain, greedy, hypocritical to the Nth. degree, But I'm a former merchant seamen. he used to boast of his cross-channel stewarding days. Yes, John, me, too, across the stormy North Atlantic to snowy Canada;  didn't entitle me to fuck a secretary half my age and brass it out, shamelessly. Prescott was Blair's willing stooge, the voice, a coarse, clumsy,  stuttering one, deliberately chosen, one must conclude, for his gargantuan ineptness, his inability to speak his native tongue,  a voice of the working class, not one which ennobled it or spoke tellingly of its decency and struggle but one which made it ridiculous, what NewLabour was fighting against; listen, they must have  giggled to one another, over their skinny latties, if you wanna see the noble working class we're supposed to represent, just look at that oaf, Prescott. And indeed, they were right, at least abour Prescott, a greedy, vain jumped-up village idiot, growing more and more risible as departments - transport, housing, the regions - were stripped away from his useless control, were sprung from the Office Of The Deputy Prime Minister and placed in hands which might not - as would Prezza's - wreck them completely. Cowboy boots and a night at the ranch, gifted from some Yankee crook in whom Prescott's office had an interest. Aye, well, I were allus interested in cowboys and indians, and sherrif's, like,  wot's wrong wi' that? And Pauline, his Mrs, let him shit all over her, in order to become Lady to his preposterous Lord. Aye, we know how to do proper marriage oop North, silly fucking back-combed bitch,  a laughing stock in History' s pages;  her and her husband, two slags on the make. The downmarket, mirror image of Tony and Imelda.

And now we have Cleggy, the Gimping DPM.  I am sorry, I normally have some stomach for these things but I couldn't watch it. Mr DTP,  a post or two back,  confessed to watching five hours of the Tory-Lib-Dems' conference, as they call it, but a few seconds of a tieless, mic-waving Clegg was nearly enough to kill me.  It's the mind,  there is only so-much bare-faced charlatanry that it can absorb without imploding and Cleggy is way across the red-line zone and out on the other side. Wise old Granpa , wotsisname, Vince the Wince,  and his phony old gobbing, I can bear that, maybe because his discomfort in his own skin is so obvious - he knows we know he's a cunt and him being a widower miraculously made whole by dancing with the old boot  who swiftly became his second wife won't excuse him, not among us, not even to himself, as, increasingly feverishly, he mouths the words of the whey-faced inbred freak Osblow, miraculously Chancellor of the Empty Exchequer.  Hughes, Straight Simon, ties himself in knots, explaining how, as Deputy Leader of this shower of shit, he is making sure that the Party does the right thing, as it rolls along doing the wrong thing, robbing the pensioners to give to - what is it now, that Cleggy says, facetiously, unborn generations.  The ridiculous windbag, Huhne, complete with trophy bint, so far up his own arse it's a wonder we can hear him, |I can watch him, poncing and primping.  I can watch all of these cowboys, explaining how they are saving the nation, the world, even,  but Cleggy is too much, too much evidence of utter Ruin, looking like a no-hoper at the Edinburgh Fringe. An entire movement, ragbag and pretentious as it is,  has been dictated to by twenty ministerial MPs, sitting in a Praesideum of Destruction.  The LibDems, always castigated for splitting the left and allowing twenty years of Maggie and then thirteen years of NewLabour, now wrap themselves in glory aiding the Bullingdon Boys in their vengeful, punitive mission;  they, multi- millionaire Oxbridge wankers and us, all in it together.  Mould-breaking, that's what it is. Go back to your constituencies and prepare to be Tories.

It is amazing that a  man who failed to add one seat to his commons party now shores up the equally unelected Cameron fuckpigs  whilst lecturing us about the future and insisiting that this is what we wanted, what we voted for, insisting that even though all parties lost the election, his, somehow, his mangy fifty or so polysexual, shit-eatung, dildo-waving, cross-dressing, toilet-creeping  degenerates may, without any mandate,  endorse and legitimise the unspeakable, and do so, shit dripping from their lips, in high moral tones, too good, too lofty for mere ordinary people to understand, much less question. The toxic rhetoric of the copraphiliac is unpalatable, I fear, to your correspondent and rather than  a review of the worthless Clegg's speechifying, here, instead, is his picture.

HELLO, YES, MR CLEGG HERE, YES, DEPUTY TORY PRIME MINISTER,

NO, NOT OF TOYTOWN, OF THE UNITED KINGDOM

CAN YOU SPEAK UP A BIT, ONLY THE PRIME MINISTER PUT SOMETHING UP MY ARSE AND I'M A TRIFLE DEAF.

MATINS, MONTEVERDI'S VESPERS OF 1610, XII. Ave maris stella

0 From an earlier post

Dick the Prick said...

Monterverdi's Vespers at 7.30 tonight and it's the end of Big Brother too which i'll miss quite a bit perhaps.

callmeishmael said...

I saw the Monteverdi, mr dtp, bewitched. Birmingham's Symphony Hall was built to be tuned, one adjustment ot the auditorium for the Vienna Boys Choir, another for Joan Baez, panels and stuff, whole walls moving, a responsive or interactive or something auditorium; the Monteverdi, however, moved performers around the Albert Hall to the same effect. One shouldn't but one does reproach oneself for one's ignorance, maybe it's because so many bullying lawyerbastards so smugly intone that ignorance of the law is no excuse, as tho8gh they were Eichmann, selecting those who might work, for a week or two, those who must die, as though there was some higher order which fixed things up, just so, and even if you could never hope to understand it, much less adhere to it, you were its prey, by God, stand in line when I'm talking to you.

Reproach myself endlessly, I did, though, for not knowing about Monteverdi; me, who posts evensongs as though I had some special knowledge, pig ignorant. It's tough, working on cyberstreet.

RUIN, A GROUP PORTRAIT.

NAME THOSE CELEBRITY SINNERS, LEFT TO RIGHT.

1, I AM NOT AN INCOMPETENT, COWARDLY, SNOT-EATING,  LUNATIC FAIRY WHO BURNED ALL THE MONEY.

2, AND I AM NOT A SLIMY, HYPOCRITICAL, WARMONGERING COCKSUCKER.

3, AND I AIN'T ONE A THEM STICKY-FINGERED,  MOTORMOUTHING SCOUSE SHITBAGS; NO WAY, JOSE, I'M AN EMINENT LAWYER, ME, HER HONOUR JUDGE IMELDA BLAIR, THAT'S WHO I AM. JUST COS I WHORED THE OFFICE OF PRIME MINISTER LIKE NONE BEFORE, SO FUCKING WHAT?

4, MY HUSBAND NEVER HAD SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT  WOMAN, EGGWINA.

5, WELL, I MAY HAVE HAD SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT WOMAN, BUT ON THE OTHER HAND, I MAY NOT, THAT'S FOR ME TO KNOW AND YOU TO FIND OUT. I'M RULING NOTHING IN AND RULING NOTHING OUT,  A-HA HA,

ANYONE FOR CRICKET AND SPINSTERS?

6, ON MY LEFT, Y'KNOW,  IS MY SON,  WILLIAM, THE ONE I NEVER HAD,  REJOICE! WE ARE A MAD FOSTERMOTHER.  THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THE FAMILY. THAT GENTLEMAN IN THE FROCK, IS IT JONATHAN AITKEN? I ALWAYS KNEW HE WAS A TRANSWOTSANAME

7, I AM DEFINITELY NOT AY BISEXUAL WHO SLEEPS WITH MEN HALF MY AGE, ASK MY OFFICIAL WIFE, FFFFFION, IF SHE HAS AY MOMENT BETWEEN MISCARRIAGES.

8, I AM NICKY GIMP, MP, AND I SERVE TORIES.

9, I MAY BE A MIDGET BUT MY WIFE IS A SIX-FOOT, DRUNKEN SLAPPER.

10, UND I AM NOT ZE MAN VOT SPENT SIRTY YEARS COVERING UP ZE VAST GLOBAL NETVERK OV NONCING MONSIGNORS, AKA ZE CATHOLIC CHURCH, UND BLAMING ZE KINDER FOR ZE PRIEST STICKING HIS COCK UP ZE DELICIOUS LITTLE KIDDY ARSE, SIEG HEIL! I MEAN IN NOMINE PADRE, FILIS ET SPIRITUS SANCTUS

AWOL.

I must apologise. It is a weird compact, here, on cyberstreet, an understanding,  between noms des plumes, anonymati, that there is a continuum of comment, a call and response, as  vivid as the slaves' field hollers, gallows humour, as pungent and sorrowful as the Blues;  not redemptive, just expressive; here is  a rendezvous, at  which people vent their spleen, discerning Ruin's impertinent  nuances,  checking-out the ree-ports, digging-up the dirt. an alternative, outsiders'  commentary, as momentous, in its way, as a solemn mass, a dance around the Maypole, a Bar Mitzvah,  a   daily  ritual of non-believers, believing together, briefly, that a steadfast failure to be convinced by Ruin's discordant praise-singers is conviction enough for any decent citizen;  a touchstone, quarried from MediaMinsters's  putrid canyons of cynicism and self interest, a talisman, clutched-at, as this blitzed nation, CallHimDave's 1940 junior  partner, which fought and won the Battle of Britain and thus the world, flushes itself, now, down Consumerism's toilet. These little enclaves in cyberspace, flighty, scornful, exasperated, scatological and irreverent are the home of today's pamphleteers, broadsheeters, samizdatians;  individually and collectively - those not sold-out in advance, that is,  like Britain's premier blogger,  the talking cardigan - hint at the tumult which, if God smiles upon us, we will soon surely hear from the multitude, presently diverted by His Unholiness, Ratzo, the Nonce-Protector General and Vicar of Christ.  We are all in this shit together, only not as Cameron and Clegg would have us, beneath their splayed buttocks, shat-upon from the great, ermine-trimmed latrine  of state, punished for questioning their expenses thievery,  but defiant, resistant, allied, across the ether, if only by nothing more than a refusenikism,  and while I wish the consciousness of it were wider, we are all in this together and  so I do apologise for the disruption of our ill-tempered but reassuring dialogue and venture, herewith, a brief explanation.

  My oldest and  dearest friend died suddenly. Okay for him, really, he'd had a few drinks, was well, in himself, as they say, aboard a ferry with his family, bound for his beloved France; just went to bed happy and didn't wake up, one of Death's wee surprises, see? You can go swimming every morning, walking every night, be as fit as a fiddle and still, when you're not looking, when you think it's safe to go to sleep, Whoops, one quick yank, from the Dark One's chill,  boney hand and you're over on the other side, one of the tyrannical dead, the ones for whom things are done, because that's what they would have wanted, as though they weren't really dead, just watching us, from the other side of the crematorium,  their ashes crinkling in pleasure as the living, for once, are obedient.

Drives me mad, that, that  'swhat he would have wanted shit;  doesn't matter a fuck what he would have wanted, he is no more, he has no wants, there is no him, that's why he's dead,  that's why we're here, at his fucking funeral, because he is no more, you can play MyWay at a million watts, the bastard's not gonna hear it. Do fucking behave yourselves. The infantilisation even of  Death, the failure, the refusal to understand the simplest of Life's truths,  it bespeaks Ruin.

Years ago, I walked up to the site of an Iron-Age fort at Presteigne, in the Welsh Marches, with a friend holding  the ashes of her late husband. It's what he would have wanted, she said. Yeah, but whaddabout what you want, he's dead,  doesn't matter what he woulda wanted. You're right,  he is dead,  doesn't matter what he woulda wanted, it really doesn't,  and it's alright to say that.  She cast the ashes up into the hilltop wind and they blew away, dazzling, in the Sun, she did it a few times,  and  they were  gone.  I don't know if it was the right thing to say, I think it was, she had been nursing him a long time,  her own wants and needs subsumed, she seemed grateful for it,  anyway,  somebody saying the unsayable, liberated from cliched helpless widowhood.  Don't get me wrong, I am quite Oriental about the ancestors and I keep my dead close, within, Oh, they come out in my speech, sometimes, but there is no public performance of their wishes or requirements,  that's just stupid.

Shocked as I was by this  sudden death,  I also thought,  Oh, to be so lucky. Not for him the hospital, its smells and pans and masks and blades  and tubes and the ghastly, hopeless optimism, the dreadful hospital radio  - even among the suffering, the near-dead, there is no escape from the awfulness of Showbiz, it's ageing apprentices, its camp followers, its dreary, name-checking fuckwits -  and the  ghoulish chaplain and his sickly compassion, hovering,  seeking frightened  souls to rubber-stamp for God; the terrible, waxen  camaraderie of the near-dead, forged in feeble resistance to the doctorbastards and the cheerily impertinent nurses, embellished with catheter and bedpan, a fierce, morbid alliance, yet  routinely ruptured with the arrival of visitors.  Or not. It's shit, all that, dying in hospital. Best avoided. And hospices, how did that happen?  Respite and  palliative care,  this is a grim,  meddler's lexicon, some symbiosis of neglect and hypocrisy,  the family role privatesed,  incorporated,  dying-by-numbers. How did we cope, before these wretched hospicers selflessly invented themselves, built their caring and sensitive and respectful death chambers ? Anyway, none of that for him, no saddle-seat on Death's Carousel, round and round, how are you, a bit better, good, you're looking better, they can do wonderful things these days, a bit tired, it's the medication I expect, they're doing some more tests, you have to try and eat something, keep your strength up. At least he avoided all that.

He managed a wood, in retirement, and he hoped to live to see great-grandchildren.  I entertain no such hopes but had hoped to sit with him  in his wood, opposite his front door, urban, large and municipal  or in mine, tiny, walled and private,  maybe in my late sixties;  old friends, sat on their park bench like book-ends, a sharp and cynical dotage, mine,  the very  antidote to his  genuine, Hail, fellow, well met bonhomie. He was much-loved, gracious and polite, warm, a toucher, a clasper, a hugger, almost living every day as though it might be his last, not wishing to leave any sour memories.

Why don't your write a book, he said to me, for forty years. There's enough books, don't need any more fucking books, books're the last thing we need more of. The last time he asked, a couple of years back, I wanted to say Well, in a sense, I have, it's called stanislav, a young Polish plumber, there's at least a bookfull of him, but I didn't.  I think stanislav, in toto,  was a tad too profane  for him, even though some of the bits were written with him in mind, he was the young probation officer, hating the sin but loving the sinner,  or even about him, his was the motorhome which irked stanislav so much and I am sure that at some of the commentaries  he would have, as did so many, as did I,  spit his coffee out over the keyboard. But now I'll never know. It's probably what he would have wanted.

I knew Dick for forty years, that's longer than I have known anyone. He described me as a close personal friend - dinners, theatre, pubs, holidays, weddings, we did all that stuff;  he visited here, in  the Far North, almost every year and we made  trips to the West Midlands;  spoke a few times a year on the phone, sat up late, drinkng whiskey, when we were together.  I guess that's close personal friendship; easy, no pressure, none of the flirting of new acquantanceship.  But there were five hundred close personal friends and colleagues at his funeral.  Not close as we were close but determined to claim at least a kinship, seriously warm cvolleagues. And there was a feed, after the funeral, at which hungry current and former probation officers filled their boots.  See you at the next probation funeral, said one of them, as though that's all it was, and indeed for many of these close personal friends,  that's what it was, a career formality.

It was  a hard  journey,  embarked on at very short notice, broken with an overnight stay in some Godless, heathen bastard, scruffy sonofafuckingbitch couldn't spell hospitality, Scottish Borders hotel  and then down the M6, beautiful in Cumbria, Hell's highway by the time you reach the Midlands;  a bad enough journey at leisure, murder in a hurry.  The death, aboard a Brittany Ferry,  occurred, technically, in France, and so the frogs had to do their shit and then the body was returned and the English coroner had to do his and we thought it would be another week but in the end we only had a day or two's notice.  When we got there, with the family,  there were those spontaneous eruptions of grief on all sides, snot and tears, shaking of heads.  I mean, it wasn't like the Arabs do it, shrieking and wailing - odd, that, considering how good Paradise is, for good muslems - and fat women slapping their own faces, having to be held up, nothing like that, we were English, Irish some of us, but even so the stiff upper lip was hard to do, standing in that kitchen, where I had stood countless times,  feasting, and drinking,  in the early days of cloudy, week-old home-brew, latterly of  interesting, brewery-bottled  beers and single malts, a place now, forever, of loss. All its walls' memories sicklied o'er.

I could go on and on about this but it would be to no purpose, the gist of it all is that we kinda lost our purpose, for a while, a week or two;  there was a big, busy,  road-movie journey, bracketed by a sense of shock  and bewilderment.  This life, here,  this old house and the walled garden, the lane, the hedges, the trees, it's a project;  it's not a clever, got-it-made, low-maintainance, Country Living, Aga-Saga, des-res, shabby-chic, Barbour Jacket and Land Rover Life.  I am not Michael Heseltine.  It's all hard work, some of it even is altruistic. I was lying down, last evening, in the wet, planting Hawthorn cuttings through black membrane into a raised bed to maybe, in  a couple of years' time, plant another hedge. I'm always doing stuff like that, as though lassooing the future,  but my friend's so-sudden death knocked the wind from those sails, as well as  arresting   whatever it is which usually speeds these posted commentaries and  I didn't see any point in writing, buffeted, as I was, this way and that, accosted by Death, nagged-at by Life:  Pull yourself together, Ishmael, if you don't do this shit no other bastard will.  The longer you leave it, the worse it'll be

While we were away, the gales came and blowtorched nearly everything with saltburn from the shore, but every year we fight back  with clever pruning and stakes and fleeces and hope, we are farmers these thousands of years, clever monkeys, fishmen upo the shores of the sea; sometimes we fashion  a forest of sections of drainpipe staked over tender trees and shrubs  and each Spring it all comes back again.  Dick won't be driving down my lane in his much ridiculed camper van, not this coming Spring, not ever again.  But there it is, in the midst of life we are in death; never morning wore 'til evening but some poor heart did break.  We will ape him in our speech, those little repetitive sayings which we all develop;  we will miss him at our table and keep him in our hearts.  But he is mourned now, enough, and,  as ever, there are knaves to chastise, windy gabshites to mock and governments to bring down. Let the dead bury the dead, I spy motherfuckers.

SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH, ALL MADE-UP NEWS IS THERE, AND IN DOWNING STREET.

MORE THIN BLUE LINE HEROES,

HEROES LIKE SGT. MARK ANDREWS, HERE,

ARE ALL THAT DIVIDE US FROM A DECENT SOCIETY

His victim, seen being assaulted in the police station, is a fifty-nine year old woman who had  fallen asleep, entirely free of alcohol and other drugs, in her car.  One, just one of Andrews's colleagues, a WPC, complained about his conduct and he has been found guilty of assault and faces six months in an open prison, somewhere. That he felt able to perpetrate this  offence in full view of the force's own CCTV cameras, makes the blood run cold

Andrews throws his victim to the floor, knocking her unsonscious

 only returning to the cell after, drenched in blood,

she regains consciousness, to bully her some more.

‘We respect the decision of the court and the force has formally apologised to the injured lady for the assault she suffered while in our care"   said Assistant Chief Constable  Geenty of Wiltshire Police. That's good of him, eh. Cunt.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1309136/Lifted-like-rag-doll-hurled-cell-Shocking-video-police-brutality--5ft-2in-tall-59-year-woman.html#ixzz0ycoLZySR

EVENSONG: WILLIAM BYRD, GENTLEMAN OF THE CHAPEL ROYAL, 1540-1623, AGNUS DEI, FROM MASS FOR FOUR VOICES

IN DUBLIN'S FAIR CITY.

Handsome young warmonger pelted with eggs and shoes.

It was only a handful but better than none at all.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for we shall arrest them and beat them up.

This is a lunatic progression he is on, in search of Truth and bound for Glory, marching to the strident beat of his screeching, BadFairy ego;  many, equally lunatic, dazzled, even in their dotage,  by spun celebrity, will queue, starstruck, clutching his grubby, ridiculous book, desperate for Ruin's autograph, Shame on them.

PLEASE, ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF

I'M A MAN OF WEALTH AND TASTE...

GERRY AND CILLA. THEIR ADVICE TO BELEAGUERED CRICKETERS.

Well, the first thing is to say that everybody does it, said Gerry, a handsome, clever young doctor. 

Taking bribes or abandoning three infants while you go on the piss, it's all the same. I mean, who hasn't left their infants alone and at risk, who hasn't taken a bribe? It really is unhelpful to pretend that there's something wrong in shockingly bad behaviour.  I mean, our difficulty was only with little children, yours is so much more important, being about money.

Yeah, said Cilla, a beautiful and clever young doctor, and the other thing is just to not answer any questions them bizzies ask you.  They have such a cheek, asking you all them questions like that, just cos you're gorgeous, like I am.

And the other thing, added Dr Gerry, helpfully, in his soft Scottish whine, is to blame the police for everything, I mean if they'd been looking after the children, as they should have been, none of this would have happened to poor little Wotsername.  What you need to do is blame the police for not doing their job right, it's actually their fault that you took the bribe.

And the other thing is that you can turn this to your advantage, like, continued beautiful |Cilla. You know, like the public'll stand for the three-card trick;  just tell 'em that you need their help to get away  with it and they'll send you shitloads of money, pay-off your mortgage and everything. With our help you can all win Sportsman of the Year Award,  never mind get convicted; just like everybody thinks we're great parents, like, even though we're shit.. Yeah, I know, fab, innit.  That'll be ten grand, please. To help us find Madeleine, like.

REPOSTED FROM MOTHERFUCKERSVILLE. OBAMA'S EXONERATION OF GEORGE DUBYA, DICK CHENEY, DON RUMSFELD AND TONY BLAIR

 

Obama's Deceitful 'Iraq Speech'

« H E » email

posted Wednesday, 1 September 2010

Source Obama’s speech last night was an exercise in cowardice and deceit. It was deceitful to the American people and the world in its characterization of the criminal war against Iraq. And it was cowardly in its groveling before the US military.

The propaganda prompted disgust and contempt among those who viewed it. Obama, who owed his presidency in large measure to the mass antiwar sentiment of the American people, used the speech to glorify the war that he had mistakenly been seen to oppose.

The most chilling passage came at the end of the 19-minute speech, when Obama declared, “Our troops are the steel in our ship of state,” adding, “And though our nation may be traveling through rough waters, they give us confidence that our course is true.”

It is for this statement, rather than all the double-talk about troop withdrawals, that Obama’s miserable speech deserves to be remembered. It was rhetoric befitting a military-ruled banana republic or a fascist state.

It isn't the Constitution, nor the will of the people or the country’s ostensibly democratic institutions that constitutes the “steel” in the “ship of state.” It's the US military.

Presumably, the democratic rights of the people are so much ballast to be cast overboard as needed.
The Iraqi people were presented by Obama as the fortunate beneficiaries of American self-sacrifice and heroism, which bestowed upon them the “opportunity to embrace a new destiny.”

One would hardly imagine that over a million Iraqis lost their lives as a result of this unprovoked US war.
That some 4 million have been driven from their homes by violence, either forced into exile or displaced within the war-torn country itself.
Every institution and essential component of social infrastructure was laid waste by the US invasion, which unleashed what can most accurately be described as sociocide, the murder of an entire society.

BARACK OBAMA, WALL STREET LACKEY, COWARD AND UNCLE TOM,

SINGS FOR HIS SUPPER.

Although he and his masters don't give a fuck about GI Joe - obviously - he had to go through certain motions, just like Snotman and CallHimDave do, huge professionalism, grateful nation , all that, but that speech was just stomach-churning; this guy is as big a lying, hypocrite piece of shit as was George Dubya, just wordier, his tiresome, didactic speechifying, briefly  novel, now just lawyer's doggerel.  Poor America. Another two years of this gobby, brown Narcissus,  how will they stand it?

COMPOST NEWS

GOOD FOR YOUR GARDEN, BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH,

STAY INDOORS. LIE DOWN, KEEP AWAY FROM WINDOWS, 

BOIL YOUR WATER. COMMUNISTS ARE EVERYWHERE.

DEATHBIN NUMBER 1

Fuck, there's just no end of things against which we must be vigilant. Now it's compost. Can give you Legionnaire's Disease, whatever that is. I think they make these things up. Somebody dies from something they don't understand and they call it a new disease.  Remember Munchausen's Disease by Proxy, that was a good one, irresistible urge to kill people, as I recall. Now it's Compost Fever, Heard it on BBC Radio Four's You And Yours Anxieties Programme, so it must be true.  Some geezer inhaled the moisture from his compost and now he's marching around the hospital, saying Oui, Mon Capitaine, I vill die for ze Legion, Zut alors!

DEATHBIN NUMBER 2

I make it on an industrial scale, layer upon layer of clippings, cuttings, peelings, shredded paper, cardboard, teabags, coffee grounds, seaweed, rhubarb, sawdust, vaccuum cleaner contents, beanstalks, potato haulms,  comfrey, autumn leaves, anything organic apart from flesh, just guess the proportionality of it and normally it's great.  Without my fleet of lawnmowers and my arsenal of strimmers, clippers, shears, loppers, scythes, secateurs and machetes it'd be like a fucking jungle out there,  the way stuff grows, full of nasty little  Japanese bastards with big swords, probably, or Labour ministers, looking for badgers, as they call lorry drivers;  that compost is good shit, in my opinion. Now, they tell me, it's lethal, unless I do as Professor of Compost Studies, John Gob, tells me, thermometers and all that stuff, gloves. And masks, Risk-averse, that's what we must be. Oh, Brave New World, first the Swingers' Coalition of We're All In This Shit Together, Even Though We're Not and now, Compost Monsters From Mars Will Drink Your Blood. Why don't they all just fucking shut up, just for a day or two'd be good. Everybody's so fucking clever, know-it-all, turn on the radio and there they are.  Sperm to worm, womb to tomb, that's the way of it. Apart from on Radio Four, where, if you pay attention,  you can live forever.

SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH: WE DON'T ENTIRELY OWN THE MET. JUST SOME OF THEM.

SIR RON FILTH, 

COMMISSIONER OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE.

It has long been a query here - why is it that the Sun and others like it seem to know when a paedophile is going to court, even before the custody sergeant does? Why are there always spectators and cameras ready to shout at and photograph the Van of Shame, for tomorrow's soaraway front page ?  Might it be that when he's not busting motorists, fencing stolen goods, selling confiscated dope, hustling free meals, drinks,  and clothes; framing innocent people for murder and beating, kicking or shooting people to death, Old Bill is stringing for Murdoch? Of course he is.

But does the rot extend to the senior brethren? The great socialist reformer, Lord John Prescott,

Baron Pies and Legover thinks so but typically won't come out and say so, instead threatening a judicial review if Old Bill doesn't tell him whether or not Andy Coulson's men were bugging his phone a few years back.  Coulson was, of course,  editor of the Screws when it was bugging everybody's phones and he did the decent thing by retiring and becoming  CallHimDave's media enforcer,

an even more charmless and sinister version of Big Ali Campbell, the depressive gay dipso, once beloved of Tony and Imelda. What DO they look like, all greasy and pink, Bormann and Heydrich, is it, Himmler and Goebbels?

Other celebs and prominentos, like NewLabourite MP,  Chris Underpants,

 MP CHRIS BRYANT, 

THE MET WON'T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY.

are demanding to know why Old Bill won't answer his questions on the matter of phonetapping by skymadeupnewsandfilth.  For those of us living outside Fairyland,  there are a few  possible, credible answers: skymadeupnewsandfilth have the dirt on and/or are paying senior Met officers; should Bullingdon Boy have to dump his "media strategist" it will be another hole in the Coalition's leaky vessel and Old Bill, historically Tory, won't assist in that and thirdly,  the Met genuinely has not completed its enquiries into this matter. Clue, it's not that last one.

The New York Times is reported to be  rubbishing its rival, Murdoch's , British operation, particularly in this matter. Amzing, isn't it, that skymadeupnewsandfilth, the cops and the government are all engaged in their own forms of deception and we, of course, are not permitted to know what's going on. Must be that new, grown-up politics that Clegg is always cunting-on about.  The one where Murdoch is secretly in at number ten's back door while  Clegg is smirking at the front.

THE COLONEL OF THE MATTER.

THE FACE OF THE COALITION, EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY.

Colonel von Fawkes of the Israeli Army and order-order is getting some stick from MediaMinster over his coverage of the sleeping arrangements of Hague, 49 and Myers, 25 and their breakfast-emergence, resembling two men off to a Kylie Minogue concert, above.

All of those feverishly damning "right-wing bloggers" refrain from mentioning that Hague's sleeping partner,  half his age,  simply waltzed - or is it sambad ? - into a thirty-grand a year job at the FO, without any of the formalities relating to equal opportunities recruitment. What does it matter if he swings both ways,  they bleat, he is an excellent foreign secretary, they say, despite  there being no evidence for that whatsoever, merely Coalition spin. Similarly, Hague is the best  leader the Tories ever had, they screech, even though he  isn't, not by a mile, baseball cap, an hour to save the pound, he was rubbish, even by their standards.  That any decent person  would have resigned over the Hague-Masterminded Ashcroft Manouvre is a consideration much too lofty for his supporters.

The Coaliton-loving and newly right-wing Guardian deplores the gay-bashing of the unreconstructed rumourmongers, heedless of Hague's own, distinguished gay-bashing parliamentary record. Mr Ed Balls, soon-to-be a disappointed and unwilling Millibandite shadow cabineteer, claims that he and his Mrs, Yvette Cooper, were similarly defamed by Fawkes when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth - the Balls-Coopers were, to my knowledge, held to account by Fawkes only for their ridiculous mutual expenses-claiming regime. My young friend, stanislav, often railed at  then Labour ministers appointing favoured rentboys as SpAds - as well as ridiculing the Hague and Coe Workout Team - but Fawkes was more circumspect, leaving his commenters to state the bleeding obvious.

That there is an avalanche of hypocrisy, triggered by these revelations is not in dispute   but it does not emanate from the Fawkesians.  The press and the Beeb, having succesively, wholeheartedly championed thirty years' worth of the same old thieving.  arse-banditing, child-molesting, purse-cutting, gaybashing, wogbashing, warmongering, shit-eating, toilet-creeping, fucked-up, misanthropic, power-crazed, unaccountable  degenerate rubbish in government, now feel compelled to champion MediaMinster's last throw of the dice - the Coalition - and are now soft-pedalling on BillyBoy and his Old-Enough-To-Be His-Father liaisons deliberately dangereuse. Hague's grotesque protestations,  a Wildean over-reaction, are reported, mistakenly, as proof of Fawkes's and the Daily Mail's cupidity. As though shabby revelations of miscarriage are proof of straightness,  Hague, determined to cling to office,  plunders even his wife's  tragic womb.

I don't know what kind of a creepy, egotisitical, self-serving nutterbastard you have to be to so publicly involve,  out and then dump  a young man or to  so parade a woman's  tragedy   but Hague is all of them. Fuck him;  gay, straight, bisexual, sado-masochist, coprophiliac, to name but the front bench;  fuck them all.

I DID NOT HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT WOMAN, OR DO I MEAN MAN?

WILLIAM JEFFERSON HAGUE,
CHAIRMAN OF THE ALL-PARTY BISEXUALS GROUP

Famous after-dinner speaker, director of JCB and part-time MP, Wilhelmina Hague, has delighted the Freaks' Wing of the Tory Party since, at the age of sixteen, he gave a speech in which he uncannily imitated a  querulous old lady. He has never stopped doing that old lady thing and at one point the Bi-Spivs in the party thought to pass him off as the imfamous drag queen Margaret Thatcher, but failed due to wardrobe misjudgements, paricularly in the matter of a touch-too-butch baseball cap. Despite this he has  risen to the very depths of the Cabinet and is very popular among the reptiles, what with his wise-cracking and extra-pariamentary adventures, mainly down the gym with sporty gentlemen like Lord Sebastian Coe, his - whaddatheycallit?- his Work-Out Buddy. Yes, determinedly macho men like Wilhelmina, that's what they need, a Work-Out Buddy.

Billy  is currently, Mr Deputy Spanker, ay very model, ay very model, may I say, of ay modern bisexual foreign seckatry. A true Tory, he distinguished himself in the last parliament by being the member earning the most money outside his supposedly main job as an MP. Hardhatting with the boys, Willy brought his He-Man skills to the wild world of tractors and earth-moving, in a six figure post with Messrs JCB,  whilst working evenings as an after dinner speaker at any business dinner drag club which would pay him. I yam the very model, Mr Deputy Spunker, of ay modern constituency MP. And I commend myself to the House. That'll be fifteen hundred guineas, please,  no cheques.

THE TALIMEN, WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T TOUCH THE DEPUTY FIRST INFIDEL

FROM SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH'S BAD AFTERNOON,
WITH KAY FRIGHT

 KAY BURLEY, OF SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH

Welcome back and our man in Afghanistan, Jeremy Knobhead,   is reporting that Taliban sources have insisted that Britain's Deputy Joker, Mr Nick Gimp, not be attacked or in any way delayed from returning home.  Jeremy, what can you make up for us?

MR JEREMY THOMPSON
OF SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH.

Well, yes, Kay and thank you and viewers will be interested to know that it gets more and more difficult to make things up from here.  Every time another half-dozen British or American teenagers getsblown to fucking pieces, even before the screaming has stopped, some gobby fucking thug from Supreme Allied Command Kabul - or Wall Street -  is out telling us that this is a sign of victory, that the more of our troops come home in bits the more we are winning,

GENERAL BOZO PETRAEUS.
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOUR LIFE.
OR, AT THE VERY LEAST, YOUR LEGS.
OBAMA?  FUCK HIM.
I RUN THIS SHIT
I MEAN SHOW

and in a  sense, Kay, you couldn't make it up, not even experts, like you and I.  But anyway, Clegg, he's been here, poncing about in his shirtsleeves. This was him earlier, talking to the troops:

2nd LIEUTENANT GIMP BORES THE TROOPS SHITLESS.

Fellow Coalition troops, no, no need to salute me, I am actually very much like you, only much richer and my life is more valuable, being a politician and your deputy commander in chief, but even so, look,  we  are truly brothers in arms, y'know, I too, am fighting for the country in a coalition, so, in a very real sense, we are all in this together....

Oh, for fuck's sake ......groans....catcalls....fuck off, you pansy...wanker.....

And I really do wish that I could be out here at the frontline with you only it'd be too dangerous and I might get hurt and I do have a wife and children, like many of you , although me and Donna Teresa Isabella Esperanza Conchita Valencia Por Favor Tortilla Speedy Gonzales are actually married, and not just shacked-up, as, I gather, are many of you chaps. Nothing wrong with that - as long as you're not benefit cheats, like Mr Laws, no, only joking, thought I was in the toilets, 

LIBDEMS IN CONFERENCE.

with the party members, and I do mean members, a-ha-ha.  Only not like that, I've slept with thirty nine women, which is nearly as many MPs as I have . And that's not counting the ones who'll join Labour, very soon.  Am I saying that we we in the Coalition  don't respect all sorts of families,  of course I'm not, excepting poor ones, of course. Is there any chance I might get one of those breakfasts, like political leaders all get whern they come out here?  No? Oh well, never mind.

Now, look,  I know some of you, those that can read,  will remember that just before the election, which I so comprehemsively won, or would have done if I hadn't lost, I did say that you were all wasting your time out here  and that anyway, my new party, unlike the two old parties, was against war and stuff like that. Are you asking me if I was against the war then but for it now, the answer is a resounding, unequivocal  Maybe.  And those that know me, like Senora Teresa Isabella Esperanza Conchita Valencia Por Favor Tortilla Speedy Gonzales, will tell you that I am very much a man of my word, it's what I came into politics to do. Tell lies.  It may appear that there is a contradiction between what I said then and what I say now but, you know, we have to be grown-up about this. Or you do. When I said the Tories were rubbish what I meant was that they are rubbish unless they make me Deputy Prime Minister, with my own cage and everything. And now everything is fine. And now that I am allowed to look in Mr Oxbone's Big Book Of Made-Up Numbers I can tell you that all the things I stood for before the election were wrong, especially about war and stuff, and everything Mr Cameron tells me to say is right.  There. I am glad to have cleared that up.

These intra uterine devices, I gather they are the very devil  and can be quite painful.  But I want you all to know that in the Coalition we are comitted to making up reasons for you being here until it is time to make up reasons for you not being here and there isn't too much we can do about the IUDs.  Try and not step on them, that's the best thing. Shouldn't be too hard.  In conclusion, mates, I would just like to say that you have no stauncher ally in Whitehall that me. Until I change my mind, again. It is what I came into politics to do, Visit brave young people fighting an unwinnable war for a corrupt administration and tell lies to them. Oh, and have my photo taken.  Like I was a proper man.

Five more years, chaps;  that's the thing, it's what the country needs; this first five years, and then another five years, and another, and another.

THE TRUTH? LOOK, IT'S SOMETHING YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE-UP
AS YOU GO ALONG, IT'S THAT PRECIOUS TO ME.
IT REALLY IS.


You see, Kay, how hard  it is?  Sometimes I think I should go back to being a Redcoat. Can't be any worse than reporting on these cunts....

But the Talimen, Jeremy...

Wossat?  Oh, yeah, this communication was intercepted earlier. It is believed to be from Osama bin Laden himself....Well, yes, everbody knows he's dead but, y'know, we have to say what the CIA tell us, if the CIA say bin Laden is a clear and present threat then who am I to argue? Whaddayathinkiyam, a fucking journalist?

   Here's the gist of it, from a video on Al Jazeera, a proper news station:

(Shadowy figure with teatowel around his head, terrible, awful,  wailing, Arabic music....)

Salaam eleikum, salaam eleikum, salaam eleikum.

Brothers, don't  touch the  infidel, the Clegg, not a hair, brothers, of his empty head, I command you in the name of Allah, peace and blessings be upon his name, that the Clegg  be permitted to travel home and continue his work of wrecking the Britishers' country. He is but an crazy man but will cause more harm to his nation than  any number of our bombing brothers could achieve.  The Clegg will take from the people their will to live. He will bring fear and despair, hatred and strife as cirtizen turns against citizen, as young turn against old, as black turns against white;  his is a mission of destruction, he will make of the United Kingdom a Gaza Strip.

(Firing of Kalashnikov rifles into the air......Allah Akhbar, Allah Akhbar)

And even now he tampers with the voting system, that the infidel Britishers may never be rid of him and his  cursed lies.  But a handful, a piss puddle,   voted for him and his ladymen and yet he travels the world, even in Afghanistan, like a monarch.  Brothers, the regimes in our countries are lesser than camel-droppings, half of them are being ruled by the military, and the other half by playboy sons of kings and presidents. We have long experienced them. Now,  it is the turn of the Britishers to feel despotism.

( More Kalashnikov...more Allah stuff..)

Already they have endured Blair, the Evil One, simpering and grinning, picking his party's pocket and then pissing in it, and Brown, the lunatic monster  and great, clunking fairyman  who brought tyranny and ruin and the suppression of liberties to their own country and called it the War Against Terror,  that is to say, Brothers, me.

(Raghead Chorus, to the tune of Bread of Heaven :
Oh-oh-sa-ama, Oh-oh-sa-ama.
We'll support you ever more, ever more
We'll suppor-or-ort you ev-er-er more.)

Now, they will really suffer. Cameron and the Clegg barely know what day it is, know nothing of history, nothing of work, are fit only to sloganise, one eye to the television camera, one to the headline writer, theirs is a government of vengeful, tongue-tied  schoolboys, of frightened ladymen, unspeakable lawyers  and elderly ballroom dancers yet it would tear down all comfort, all security, it would cruelly manage the lives of the sick and old, would punish the weak and the vulnerable, would segregate society formally, into the haves, with so-called Free schools, and the have-fuck-alls, with nothing to call their own, merely the scorn of shit newspapers.

Brothers, it is a happy day for us. The British have a government of terrorists;  millionaires, like the House of Saud, above and beyond the law, like the House of Saud and like despots all over the world, educated at Eton and Oxbridge; like the House of Saud, intermarried and interbred, part of the large banking family of Jew and Arab alike.  The Clegg will rewrite British democracy so that he is truly, actually monarchical and he will call it the New Politics;  he will call it Grown-Up; taking Britain back to the nineteen-thirties, of scalped wages and fawning deference to the Banker and the Spiv Businessman,  he will call it Reform.

Brothers, as far as Britain is concerned, our work is done for us, by the Clegg,  harm him not, for he is our ally; suffer him to live and return home, there to wreak havoc. Bismillah, it is the will of Allah.
--------------

So, there it is, Kay, the Clegg, Britain's own walking nine-eleven, a veritable walking, talking, smirking dirty bomb, set to do what Hitler couldn't, and getting away with it, too,  just because people hate Gordon Snot and the Clegg ain't him....

Thanks, Jeremy, you've interviewed the Clegg, haven't you, whadidyamakeovim?

I though he was a cunt, Kay, doesn't everybody ?

Thanks, Jeremy, and after the break all the Sport with that bloke who looks like a mad, grinning geography teacher.  And Jayne Tits'll be here with the business news. Or is it the entertainment news? Hardly matters, It's all made-up . Stay tuned or I'll come round your house and bite your face off

More Petraeus victory news;

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/afghanistan/7972863/Afghanistan-bomb-attacks-kill-twenty-one-US-soldiers-in-48-hours.html

LETTER FROM AMERICA.

 

Vampire Capitalism

 

« H E » email

posted Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Source
 
A neoliberal capitalist offensive is sucking us dry. Vampire capitalism wants the wholesale privatization of the public sector.

Financial capitalism produces nothing of real value. It's fatally hooked on ever-mounting rates of return, simultaneously divorced from and a parasite on the “real” economy.

With the executive and legislative branches in their pockets, the Lords of Capital are set to devour the entirety of the public sector – while forcing the public to finance the feast. The rallying cry is “austerity.”

Behind that lies the real motivation. A redistribution of wealth upwards. Screw the workers, increase our profits.

Financial capitalism is incapable of reproducing itself through productive investment, and so must feed on existing producers or on the State.

Since Wall Street over the decades has already broken up, consumed and exported much of the U.S. productive economy, that leaves the State and all of its parts.

Far from acting as a brake on his vampire friends, Obama leads the charge on corporate hijacking of the public sector dismantling the safety net that prevents th poorest from dying on the streets..

The pace of finance capital deterioration quickens, accelerating the timetable of the Right’s offensive. As the hunger grows, Wall Street’s servants become more aggressive and demanding, and there is nothing in the Democratic Party, as presently constituted, to stop them.

The Obama Boys have successfully shielded their Wall Street masters from anything worthy of the name financial reform. This means financial capitalism remains beyond the reach of meaningful public intervention by conventional methods.

With the air knocked out of mainstream reformers’ bony chests, Wall Street is poised for a Great Offensive against the political and social infrastructure of the United States.


Sound coalescingly familiar?