Wednesday 24 November 2010


Sarah, yes, you, woman!  It's war. Get me the White House on the telephone.  No more hiding in the toilet for me.  I must tell President Darky what to do about Korea. He'll be lost without my input. After all,  it was me saved the world from the wanking crisis, did I say wanking, I meant banking. And like all good blackfellows he'll be looking for advice from his preacher (sings, in doleful, tuneless, brown voice," Oh, the only one who could ever reach me, was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man") Geddit, Sarah? Son of a preacher man?  That's me, that is.  You know how I'm the son of the fucking manse, well, that makes me the son of a preacher man, just like in the song,  by the late  Miss Busty Springfield, one of your lesbian friends, no, no, no only joking. Well, yes, I know I prefer the Arctic Spunkies - or is it Monkeys? Have you got him yet. No? Did you ring the special, Esteemed Prime Minister's number he gave me? He'll be glad to get my orders, he knows I'm a friend of President Kennedy's. Got him? Yes? Whaddayamean, recorded message? Whatsitsay? Your call is not important to us. Fuck off, you  snot-eating Limey lunatic sonofafuckinbitch. Ain't you caused enough  trouble, motherfucker ?  Are you sure that's what it says?

OK, then, Putin, he's the man to deal with, least he's white, and a socialist, like I'm not, even if he is a gangster. Although he does look very fit.   What?  The children? No, no idea, don't we have people to look after them? Here's the hotline number to the Kremlin. Yes, I kept it, when we left Downing Street. Temporarily. You do know, Sarah, don't you, that the British people will very soon be pleading with me to go back to Downing Street, asking my forgiveness?  Good girl. You know, you're not half bad, for a split-arse.  You'll soon have Naomi Campbell round for dinner again. One thing we can be proud of, our door is always open to darkies.

Is that the Kremlin?  Good, lemme have the phone. Yes. Comrade General, Field Marshal Brown here,  from the People's Republic of Fife, now listen, you must do exactly as I say, exactly. Mobilise ten divisions...... What? You're not Comrade General Putin?  Well, who the holy fuckin' Jesus are ye then? National Office of Nuisance Call Deflection. And what the fuck is that and why am I talking to you? Oh. Yes.  I see. Well fuck you, too, you Godless heathen communist bastard.

There's some misunderstanding, Sarah, it's the language thing. Better try the UN, yes, Banki Moon, that's him, obliging little yellow bastard, I believe, Tibetan or something. Like those fucking Ghurka bastards.  Hello?  Hello?  United Nations? Get me the Seckatry General, right away, yes, the little nigger bloke, alright then, Chinkie  bastard, slope, whatever, little wog, with too many teeth.  Who am I? I'm Gordon Snot, Life Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, well, England and Wales, England anyway.  No, not Tony Blair's brooding, bad-tempered  bumchum, Prime Minister. I am the Prime Minister. You know. Let The Work Of Change, Only The Same, Begin, you remember?  I demand you put me through to Banki-Wotsisname so that I can order a peace-keeping mission to Korea. Already in hand? Whaddayamean, already in hand. How dare you? Without consulting me? You're going to hang-up now?

OK, Sarah, I'll have to save the world myself, won't be the first time. Get me Bob Ainsworth at Defence and Alastair Darling, the Chancellor, and get me Jacqui Schmidt at the Home Office and if I'm going to persuade everyone that ThisIsTheRightThingForTheCountry, I'll need to make a broadcast  on the BBC, get me Peter Mandelson. And Alastair Campbell. And the Joint Chiefs Of Staff.  I'll have to take over the Scottish Parliament, as my HQ, no, just execute that bloke, Salmond, I'll declare  a  state of national emergency. Oh, the phone's ringing, can you get that? Probably the White House, 'phoning back, asking if I have a Sol-You-Shun. No? Not the White House? The Kircaldy Oxfam Shop? Telling  me  I can work this morning, after all,  as long as I don't shout at everybody?

It's in times of potential global crisis that we miss him; times like these, when he would come mincing out from number ten, drugged out of his mind, gnashing at his nails,  all gray and fat and jowly, stuttering and doing that dah-dah-dah drywank jawdrop, Sol-you-shunning, right-for-the-countrying, telling the world what he expected of it, the horrible fucking bastard, mad as a fucking hatter, bent as a nine-bob note, grunting and growling like a rabid neanderthal, motormouthing, telling us all how he would never mention his children for political advantage even though he was  doing it, how burning all the money and giving away all the gold to Mr Singh from the cash'n'carry truly was a stroke of genius which only he would have thought of and how the more squaddies came home in boxes or in bits,  the more - obviously - we were beating the Talimen.

Still, never mind,  our loss is Oxfam's gain.



" cannot be a liberal without being an optimist. And it is my unquenchable conviction that if we place our faith in people rather than in institutions, our future, and the future of new progressive politics, is bright. Just as long as no-one  places any faith  in my solemn pledges, of course.
Thank you. Go back to your constituencies and prepare to be progressively unemployed, cold and hungry"

His   remarks came as it emerged that threats to Clegg's personal safety had led his security advisers to review his travel arrangements. He has been told by his protection officers it is no longer safe for him to cycle from his south London home to Downing Street, and that he must travel by car.
He has also dropped plans to visit university campuses, once the heartland of his support base, until emotions have subsided.

The Deputy Prime Minister - a-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha - is hanged in effigy outside the lecture; far too good for him.


In the 'eighthies, after a dust-up with the Murdoch-fellating editor, Andrew Neil, Hugo Young left the Sunday Times to join the Guardian.  One of those ghastly, pompous, self-important Oxbridge gits to whom Fleet Street always offered a refuge from work, Young remained at the Guardian, brown-nosing politicians, on a lobby basis,  until his death in 2003.

The annual Young lecture  is one of those incestuous, journalistic traditions which strengthens the mutually profitable bond between Media and Minster;  that the dull as ditchwater, tongue-tied,   fuckwit, dunderhead, opportunistic, cack-handed, unprincipled  clown,  Clegg, was this year's lecturer is the hallmark of its worth. And his.

Tuesday 23 November 2010


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European officials urged Ireland's beleaguered government to press ahead with its planned budget and not to call a snap election as criticism of its 77bn bail-out grew in the country.

"" We don't have a position on the domestic democratic politics of Ireland but it is essential that the budget will be adopted in time and we will be able to conclude the negotiations on the EU-IMF programme in time," European Monetary Affairs Commissioner Olli Rehn said, adding "Stability is important."

Ze elections, zey are no part of ze modern democracy, nein? Ze peepul must do vot is good for ze bankers, nein? Uzzervise I am out of eine job, und skint, just like Paddy. Fuck zat schidt.

Monday 22 November 2010



"I don’t care about the Royals. I’m a republican.   more broken marriages and philanderers among these people than not. Count them up, back through the ages.  They cost us an arm and a leg.  Talent isn’t passed on through peoples’ bloodstock. The hereditary principle is ­corrupt and sexist.  As with most shallow celebrities . . . they will be set up to fail by the gutter press.’

He criticised the media for producing ‘fawning deferential nonsense .  .  . out of their every orifice’, and added: ‘I managed to avoid the last disaster in slow motion between Big Ears and the Porcelain Doll, and hope to avoid this one too."

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"I accept that this was a serious error."

Oh, no, it wasn't, Pete.

Just now and again somebody from Religions Inc. surprises one.  A swift Earthly disappointment, then, that Bishop Pete has gone a-grovelling to Caesar and undermining what is a necessary spirit of national rebellion against our masters in their various palaces, down the Mall, in Westminster, in Threadneedle  and Wall Street. Forgive him, for he knows not what he does.



From BBC Newsnight.
So, Mr Moribund, what's the plan?

Well, Kirsty, mother and baby and, might I say, father, are all doing very well, although a little tired. We have its name down for a good school and have several eminent home tutors in mind, of course we want to raise it bi- or even tri-lingually,  you know, speaking three languages by the age of five gives a child such an advantage over other.......well, shall I say, lesser children....

No, not the plan for the baby, the plan for the country, you are the leader of the Opposition....

Am I..?  Oh...... Yes, of course I am. No...No... David... is fine....about the baby and everything.  Look, he's my brother. And even though he can't actually have babies, or win leadership elections, I love him more than anything. Well, more than a lot of things. We Moribunds, blood's thicker than Evian, knowaddamean....?

But the country..........

Yes, well, there's several questions there and I'll deal with the last one first:  we haven't a fucking clue, Emily, so that's why we're having a strategic tactical review.

Of what, exactly..?

Well, of all the policies we haven't got .  For instance, we don't have one on.....well, as I said, anything.

So, whaddareyagonnado about, for instance, Mr Spit-Gove  removing  Sport from the curriculum.

Is he? Fuck me, I didn't know that. Are you sure?  Well, we do have quite a big garden and I'm sure we could get together with some other well-placed  parents and sort something out;  tennis, badminton, rowing, horse-riding,  the usual sorts of things. So that should be alright. Next question. Gosh, this is easier than I thought....

But what about in the country?

Oh, the country, well, I've already said, Emily, that we haven't a fucking clue and that's why we are having a review...

A review of what?

Of the policies we don't have, why we don't have them, what they're not about and, most importantly, who we can blame. Or is it whom? You know, Kirsty, I'm not afraid to blame somebody, anybody. Look, I'll get Harriet to blame anyone if I think they need it, as long as I'm on leave.  I can't be seen to be blaming anyone.  Like Mr Woolas, who is a perfectly nice chap.  I mean, once he was a liability, though,  he simply had to go.

Like David?

Well theres two questions there. And I didn't come here to answer any of them on national TeeVee. And you wouldn't expect me to.

So, what's your plan, then,  for the next nearly five years.

Well, there's the Royal Wedding about which, as Leader of this Party, I simply cannot over enthuse, which should take up most of next  year as the happy couple, Long to Reign Over Us, Sir and Your Royal Highness, bring romance and joy to a nation at war with itself, there's that, I will be playing my part in that  but a Plan?  I didn't come into politics to do plans. I mean, I know I'm a wonk but plans don't win elections now, do they, govaments lose them. Like we did.  No, we just wait for everybody to get shit on by the Tories for five years and then they'll vote for us and I'll be prime minister. Just like father wanted me to be.  Or David, actually.

That's it? Sit on your hands for five years, let Chaos reign,  and hope you'll be voted back in?

Well, there's obviously important details to be ironed out, the Devil-As-Ever-Is-In-The-Detail, - that's what I always say, and every other bastard, too -  and that's why I have a superb shadow cabinet team  of dunderheads,  half-wits and maniacal careerists, like Mr and Mrs Wotsit, who won't get anywhere near Mr Postman's  er,, Mr Postman's post as shadow chancellor, but basically, yes,  that's it. Chaos and Ruin, but just for the voters, and then we'll be back in. Brilliant, if I say so myself.

So, if you've got no policies and you're just gonna sit around watching jobs and services and homes go down the toilet, hoping it'll mean more votes for you, you might as well be In the fucking Coalition.

Might I, no, surely not. I hadn't thought of that. Maybe we should give it a go. We do agree with everything they're doing, it's just that we don't want to say so.  We could all be on the Front Bench, then, jeering at, well, ourselves really. And a big empty space, where an Opposition used to be.

Mr Moribund, thank you.

Sunday 21 November 2010


It is one of the Axioms of Evil  that a week is a long time in politics.
 No matter which slag occupies  10, Downing Street, they know that skymadeupnewsandfilth won't let them stew in shit for too long.  It is difficult to credit the fact that a man who had such contempt for us that he rode a bicycle, feigning Green-ness, whilst his office clothes were ferried behind, in a limousine, is now shitting in our faces from number ten, stealing lollipops from disabled children the better to forcefeed bonuses to his chums in the banks;  that the clown who hazarded a guess that the old-age pension was "about thirty quid a week," is now his notional deputy and that a shameless,  terrified, predatory homosexual who trashed his official wife's privacy, spinning her medical history in order to obscure his obvious penchant for pretty young men is now the foreign fucking secretary, if you please. It is as though, regardless of the gravity of their previous crimes, every Monday, the most soiled, besmirched ,rancid, shit-dripping, bloodstained, cock-waving politician starts with a clean sheet.

Shame, embarrassment, dignity, honour, decency,  although much talked of, with honourable this and right honourable that, don't figure in your whoreson politician's life, getting away with it, that's the thing, and the press always let them off the hook, it's part of the deal on the busy thoroughfare between Minster and Media;  never mind let them off the hook, they give them fucking awards, best bullshitter of the year, that sort of thing, I believe Clegg, the gimp, has just been awarded one by some shit periodical with a circulation of about fifteen hundred, including the house of commons and its own staff.

On the wider stage,  the likes of the  repulsive Kelvin McKenzie - the man who bravely, the worthless cunt, put sixteen year old tits on page three -  dare not linger too long on a topic - unless he's destroying the life of someone who's nicked a few quid in dole money - for fear that his audience might actually figure out that all this fourth estate, free press shit is just pantomime, all year round pantomime. The new stories have to keep coming, lest we examine the old ones too closely, and find that actually there is no Santa Claus;  here, in the world of skymadeupnewsandfilth, we are children. Stay tuned.

Stories  or more accurately, events, rise and fall, like the tides. Stories.  See?   How easily  we fall into the lexicon of filth, everything is a story, like you tell children, and all the stories are more or less equal;  Madonna buying a child to sweeten  her sour image, the mad old slapper, or Tony and Imelda shredding their expenses claims - why would anyone do that, unless they hasd something to hide? -  just a story, not anything that you need to do anything about, the prime minister probably had us over for millions of pounds, but it's just a story, there'll be some more along tomorrow, no need to persevere with this one, it's past its best now, innit.

The filthsters masquerade as The People's Inquisitors, as though they were some benign co-operative, some affiliation  of fearless and ethical law enforcement - Kelvin McKenzie, I ask you - when they are all just drunken, racist, sexist,  filthy, greedy slags, pimps and ponces,  not a principle between them, happy, like Toilets Maguire, to dress-up and ham-up and just make a cunt of himself on the Andrew Neil ShitShow; like Turd-In-A-Suit, Andrew Gobsley, shamelessly using his charitably-funded gig at the Arsebridger Observer to  promote his endless Big Books Of Gossip.

And even when you think that This Is Good Shit, you know, the expenses thing in the Filth-O-Graph, well, that's just a story, too, managed and strung-out, suspenseful, who's next, this vast perpetual milking of the system by the very same people who are now telling us that we are the naughty ones, well, where has it gone, it was a storm in a teacup,  just a story, the unelected prime minister said,  Look, as soon as I was found-out, I paid the stolen money back, what more do you want, fuck off, I have a coup d'etat to run here. And anyway, I didn't even need the money. So there. 'Snot really stealing, not  when you're as rich as me and my family. The cunt. The previous unelected prime minister said the same thing. And the filthsheets will be happy to report the cases of the scapegoated handful, but not as diligently as they will fabricate, skymakeupnewsandfilth  stories about the wretched, bug-eyed, slaphead, gormless Hooray Henry, William, his floozy and his notional brother, Harry, the prat;  that's it, the expenses thing,  done, sorted, it's not a story any more. And relations between the various branches of CocksuckerRUs are back to normal, just as they all knew they would be, all of them pissing-out together, on us.

The BBC,  never so diligent as when propagandising its independent self, marches, nevertheless,  to the same tune as the demolished and scattered Fleet Street, defining its success as a news organisation by its ratings, using, actually, the yardsticks of those outside, those who do not share its   unique, taxpayer-funded status, who must capture fragments of our time, in order that they may trade them on, to advertisers,  the real editors,  the real leader writers. Even though the BBC is cushioned from, immune to the anti-democratic diktats of GlobaCorp and the cancerous pollutant, Murdoch, it measures and promotes itself by their standards, a commercially-driven, non-commercial organisation.  And nation shall speak shite unto nation.

Just a branch of consumerism, the press, unconcerned with politics, happy to make everything showbiz,  the least threatening, lowest common denominator; Toilets Maguire, apparently the political editor of the Daily Mirror,  making a cartoon of himself,  this is the Establishment-approved journalism;  this, this faux jocularity, this drivel,  this celebrity worship  is all the news that's fit to print, membership of the NUJ now, like membership of NewLabour,  requiring an Equity card.

Increasingly, the good stuff hovers in cyberspace, awaiting discovery.  I remember reading, just after Dubya and his drunk, dumb-fuck redneck brother, Jeb stole the Florida  election that one of those so-called liberal American 'papers, The Washington Post, most likely, had done the research and was due to report that  Yes, this was a banana republic deal, Al Gore had won the election but the Dubya minders and Bush senior's pals in the Supreme Court had cooked the books, aborted the pregnant chads and turned the law upside-down.  And then, a couple of days before publication, came the Strange And Unexplained Events of Nine-Eleven.  And nobody wanted to know if the President was a crook - which he had been all his worthless, wife-beating, drunk-driving, draft-dodging, coke-snorting, money-laundering  life  - just, which nigger ass can we kick for this un-American shit that's just happened ?

And Dubya went from strength-to-strength, even, recently, fooling people into thinking he has written a a book, a whole book, grown-up and intelligible.

Now, here in Ishmaelia, we were never beguiled by President Obama and his Yes, We Can shit but we did think that if ever there was a case for politicians breaking ranks, this was it.  Bush and his crew, even though they had amended the constitution to make themselves immune from inquiry, much less prosecution, were clearly stupendously, breathtakingly criminal;  surely Obama would, you know, even  he didn't amend the law right back again and throw their poxy asses in jail, just  say something about it.  Two years on and Obama sits paralysed, Uncle Tomming, bleating that Dubya is, like himself, a great patriot.

We never heard if there had been a searching and suppressed journalistic enquiry into the 2000 US election  and  in a way it doesn't matter, cyberspace has made citizen journalists of all who want to be and as I said,  there is good stuff hovering, in a cyber  treasure house, often anonymously, passionate and sincere, on the money.

There is much - I was going to say debate, in the mainstream press only, like at the Guardian's Comment Is Not Free, they don't do debate, just bullying - about the merits and demerits of blogging; of cyber comment, is what they mean, but they call it blogging a, because they're fucking stupid and b, because they think that blogging is a suitably disgusting, dirty word, a blasphemy, just as the then all powerful commentators though about Gutenberg's moveable type - How dare non-Church people read and write, they're all ruffians.   Get yer religious tracts and yer theofuckinglogical tits an ass here, at skymadeupnewsandfilth, sole publishers of the Holy Bible and the Annual Book of Miracles, Exorcisms and Burnings At The Stake. The Gutenberg Galaxy, the making of typographic man, the repeatability of thoughts and ideas was dramatic and unpredictable, revolutionary too tame a word for the creation of the global village and the access of all within it to the accumulated knowledge of the world, all of it which has been written down, in books. It may be argued that the IT revolutions in hardware and software, in Knowledge Searchability and  in  the digitisation  and retrieveability of national libraries and galleries is the Global Village gone nuclear; mainstream journalism, meantime, ideologically, runs on steam.

 This is from  a strange mixture of pornography and left-wing comment, although the term left-wing is, somehow, a bit redundant, these globalised days.  Can't turn around without some imbecile gabshite hosannahing globalisation, even the Irish.

We will never read anything like this in the Dead Tree Press or see it on skymadeupnewsandfilth, well, not for forty years, anyway. The President a crook,  that ain't gonna shift no product, ain't ya got sumpn about Michael Jackson? Don't know who wrote this syntactically flawed but righteous charge sheet but George Dubya Chimp, and  his keepers, actually did   do all this terrible shit, with the sidelines help of Tony & Imelda, our own great patriots. And Obamalama just, for all his Messiahanic didacticism, his repulsive and infuriating sermonising, just keeps on keeping on.  We said at the time that if Obama was a fraction of the person he claimed to be he wouldn't get within a crosshair headshot of the White House, and he wasn't and so he did.

1. DC jones left...
Thursday, 18 November 2010 5:12 am
I hear it said a lot that Obama should have done this, or that, in dealing with the shameless party, and the corporate and financial interests now calling the shots. I'm referring to his apologists, formerly his staunchest supporters, that criticize his trying to build consensus with republicans, the military, corporations and finance, as a weakness on his part due to an over generous view of his adversaries misguided, but good intentions, or something of the sort attempting to explain how such an intelligent, truly good man could fail to live up to the promise and hope that he had inspired in so many, rather than consider what should be obvious.
  • Right from the start he refused to prosecute the Bush cabal or its toadies for a crime spree including torture, Contempt of Congress, perjury, war crimes, conspiracy to commit millions of felonies violating multiple provisions of the US Bill Of Rights, criminal dereliction of duty in losing cargo planes of cash containing billions of dollars, and possibly the most insidious of all, the legal opinions that Bush had drawn up by John Yoo at the Justice Departments Office of Legal Council that provided Bush the legal authority to assume dictatorial power simply by his claiming it was necessary to fight a terrorist threat. This act of treason included the domestic use of the Armed Forces against anyone, or group, foreign or domestic that Bush declared as a terrorist or supporter there of, unbound by domestic law including eliminating free speech, freedom of the press, the Fourth Amendment, due process, and any authority of Congress to stop him. In light of Rumsfeld's, and Wolfowitz's, neo-con ideology, and history of participating in 1976's “Team B” intelligence and security analysis that set the president for what would become decades of intelligence manipulation, fabrication, and exaggerated national security threats consistent with the neo-con credo of American military hegemony of the planet, and not forgetting the longevity in which they have wielded power, or the neo-con's recent domination and monopolization of federal power, they may be the greatest danger the US has ever known. The covert imperialism that has been a blight on America's soul, hidden from the collective conscious for generations, has now been exposed naked and obscene, the shame of it so unbearable as to cause men to justify evil. Crimes so glaring they defy the typical ability for a social network to ignore unpleasant facts that undermine the shared collective view of the networks sense of pride, importance, worth, or merits have to be addressed. The transparent lies delivered by an arrogant fool whose brazen disregard for the rule of law displayed his contempt for those he had sworn service to, revealing to all eyes that could see, the true root of evil. The illusion of righteousness, truth, justice, and democracy dispelled in the face of the horrors reported at Baghdad's hospital morgues, was replaced with the bitter poison of regret, guilt, and self loathing for supporting a course of action where prudence dictated a moral obligation of careful scrutiny, that all who supported the invasion of Iraq failed at miserably.
  • Obama, by not holding these criminals accountable for their crimes, displays a lack of integrity, courage, judgment, and wisdom. Prohibiting justice to be served after such a severe assault on the binding principles that have merited the aspiration, loyalty, and sacrifice of men to uphold and build upon for 234 years, prohibits the necessary purge of the poison that was permitted by the cowards in the other two branches of government to so completely permeate and severely corrode the republic and its foundation. For a civil society to remain civil and not degenerate to barbarism it must maintain at minimum the illusion that it is good and fair, or special. No group of patriotic men ever volunteered for military service in a time of war with the intent to rape, murder, and steal the wealth and resources of innocent people in the service of evil that represented their countries policies.
  • Obama's reaching across the aisle is only a charade to hide his motives. His concessions are from positions that he does not hold. From his promises to close Gitmo., restoring government transparency, reverse many of the Bush policy wrongs, etc., to the BP coverup and the restriction of the media under the penalty of felony charges for getting near oil slicks, persecution of whistle blowers, making a deal with the insurance industry and big Pharma prior to health care negotiations, and the biggest sin of all (excluding the Bush/Neo-con crime wave), not prosecuting under the RICO statutes the big commercial banks, the credit rating agencies, all the traditional banks that originated what they knew to be toxic debt, and all the regulators whose job it was to regulate. Appointing the felonious Tim Giethner as Secretary of the Treasury should have disillusioned everyone right from the start that Obama was a man without integrity.
  • As food for thought, what do you think the citizens of Pakistan think when they hear and see the patrols of our predator drones flying overhead? Do you think they might be wondering about who they talked to, and what was said, or that they may fear anything they, their family, friends, and business associates said which could be misinterpreted, marking them as a target or even a victim of the US Orwellian sterilized term, collateral damage? Do you think they ever worry about malicious gossip from rivals, an enemy, or even a debtor? Debtors are known to be quick in finding an alleged betrayal or wrong done them so as to justify not paying what they owe a creditor. How would you feel knowing that these weapons patrolling the sky often kill innocent civilians just like you, and the people that surround you all the time? Has it ever entered anyone's mind that the purpose of these drones is to instill terror? For the millions of dollars it must cost to run the assassination program, what would be the greater purpose served. Martyr what are suppose to be a few Taliban leaders with intelligence supplied by duplicitous Pakistani Intelligence sources, or a prolonged campaign of terror to pacify resistance through attrition? Still have any illusions regarding the nature of the newest US Director Of Imperialism?



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The judge said that after the four-day hearing he was satisfied that Andrews did not intend to throw Somerville into the cell and that injuries she suffered were probably caused by her falling to the floor after letting go of the door frame. Or some such bollocks.

Maybe, after Sergeant Plod had thrown her to the floor, she got up, got hold of the doorframe, let go of it again and threw herself down again. So it was all her fault, clearly.
Never mind, Judge Bean said that Sergeant Plod might have done things better.  These wimmen, eh, we all know what they're like, such a trial to a man doing a difficult job.



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Nein, liebschen, und brothers in Christ. Iss very kind ov you but at my age ve do not need ze rubber johnnies  und so iss no point in trying to get von on ze papal knob. Und anyvay, mit all zese silly fuckers vatching us ve couldn't haff no brudderly fun, eh, like in ze seminary?

But mein message to ze staff is ven you is going about holy duties and sticking ze big, hot, purple und angry priestly knob up ze liddle boys' liddle bottom or down ze liddle girls' liddle throats und telling ze liddle fuckers zat zey vill go to Hell iff zey tell anyone, or doing any ov ze vunderful beastly, Ach, I mean priestly, things by  vich  ve spread ze gospel, iss ok now to use ze rubber johnnies.  Zese little fuckers iss dirty liddle  bastards und sometimes a brother in Christ, in ze heat of ze moment,  can  rip ze ungrateful liddle bastard's bowel open und, fuck me Jesus und all ze fucking saints,  iss fucking shit everywhere, including up ze priestly von-eye trouser snake und need more zan holy fucking water to fix up zat motherfucker. For too long, brothers, ze men in black haff been exposed to ze risks ov fucking ze dirty liddle bastards mitout ze proper protection, especially ven ze liddle boy or liddle girl hass been passed around among ze faithful. Und some cops und judges und senior politicians . Now, praise Jesus und Mary und ze Holy Spirit und all zat fucking rubbish, is ok. Go avay und catch ze diseases no more. Heil Hitler.

The Filth-O-Graph does religion, claims to speak for people of faith, well, Micks or C of E, anyway, and  insists today that by suggesting that rentboys - but not exhausted women,  battered into desperation and early death by  childbirth - use condoms, Ratso reveals his "charity and common sense."

Not a word of this repulsive old monster making a career of protecting his organisation from  investigation or prosecution for the  worst crimes short of murder; no mention that he sought to devise mechanisms by which his gang could avoid making court-ordered compensation to its thousands of victims or that, as consigliere to the last Poping bastard,  he  organised the spiriting-away, to other parishes, dioceses or countries, of the most serious, practised, shameless serial criminals, ran, in short, an undergound, an escape route, that permitted his savagely noncing, beastly brethren to escape identification and prosecution but worse, unleashed them, serially,  on  an apparently limitless supply of new child victims. Charity and common sense? Bastard needs hanging.

Thursday 18 November 2010


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And I'd just like to say that in my opinion, whatever the rumours say, Seckatry Trousers is no more gay than I am, most foreign seckatries sleep with young, pretty assistants of the same sex as themselves. And she and I are no exception. All perfectly innocent. As I keep saying. And that's why I sacked him.

Miscarriage? Jeez, this guy looks like one. These fuckin' Limeys; I hope he hasn't had this hand up some boy's ass.

On the current leg of his I'mNotGayIfYou'reNot world tour, Mr William Turdburglar charms Seckatry Clinton, cheerleader and pin-up girl of the Lesbians For A Gay President movement.  I did not have sexual relations with that man,  he said to her repeatedly.  No, nor me, she replied, only the once, and I wound up  carrying that freak, Chelsea, wantsta be fucking President, she does. But not til I've had two terms.   Anyway, let's talk about doing them Iranian motherfuckers up the ass, you know you wanna.

Hills with her body woman, Huma Abedin, a former model and activist.   'A body (wo) man accompanies the politician or candidate virtually everywhere, often arranging lodging, transportation or meals, and providing companionship, snacks, a cellphone, and any other necessary assistance.(wiki)'

Abedin was Trousers's chief of carpet, sorry staff, during her White House campaign and now works for her at the State Department. Abedin is married, now, to a US politician, as is her boss, President Hillary SourFace Trousers, seen below, with Huma, doing that Look, I know someone, out there among the feeble-minded nobodies thing, which was the hallmark of her campaign, that and being a lying, vicious, thieving cheap shit.

Wednesday 17 November 2010



Quite how this smirking narcissistic moron gets away with it is a mystery;  Gordon Snot is long gone, now, and the fact that CallHimDave is not CalHimLunatic should have lost its, to some, welcome novelty, yet none, so far,  rebuke his downright vicious preaching of a new, a ToryLib, Employment Apartheid.

Today,  to massive cheers,  Bullingdon Boy attacked IT workers and other non-frontline employees of the Greater Manchester Police Service and, by inescapable implication, anywhere else in the public sector, How very dare they be IT workers, was today's salvo in his  contemptible   war on ordinary people, doing ordinary jobs, for ordinary wages.  I have a list, he said, echoing the revolting Peter Lilley, look,  there's administrators, and training people, and mechanics, even  - hoots of ToryLib WorkerHate - mechanics, to look after the police cars, Well, I ask you, all this happened under the lot opposite. Fucking moron, of course there are staff, of course there are IT people, the cops are ITd up to their helmets,  their cars are ITd, their helicopters are ITd, simply cannot run a police service without IT and IT workers;  why are they such a source of amusement and irritation to this govament of redneck shit-eating  millionaires?

It is cheap, shabby, gutter politics from an expert at bullying and shouldering his way through life. ; hatred and bile, notably from Georgie Spunkface, fuel these wretched compromises in cruelty,   the Bullingdon Boys trashing the lives of the poor, just because they can, or they think they can.  But it won't work, this is not the 'eighties, IT workers are not Red Robbo or Arthur CombOver; sacking people because of a global recession whilst forcefeeding bonuses to the rich perpetrators of same lacks even Whisky Maggie's dubious legitimacy.  The govament is fraudulent from top to bottom, seething, also, with resentments, Oliver Letwin put in charge of paperclips that the bumptious, decadent, revolting  Huhne  may stand at the Despatch Box, pompous and ridiculous,  gibbering unfeasable eco-remedies and the risible Highlands Milk Monitor, Danny Stupid Alexander, can sit stuttering, counting on his fingers, the ginger imbecile. But as we have seen with the Vanity Corps, with the history lessons, with the front bench,  this prat Cameron is maladroit to the point of idiocy, few, outside the redneck shiteaters, will laugh at his performance today and public sector workers, their families and friends up and down the land will have seen what this piece of shit really thinks of working people, what he has always thought of them. 

He's not elected to anything save his own millionaires seat, Clarksonville, full of greedy, braying fuckwits, much like himself; much of his own party detests him,  academe must laugh its socks off at him; the Filth-O-Graph loathes him, even Mr Tiny Speaker is pissed off with all his pathetic party-opposite-said bollocks and increasingly, bluster as he may, ponce about vainly as he may, posing, like Man at C&A, ordinary people will recoil from  the oily sight and sound of him  and his horsefaced bint,  the fucking arsehole.  Soon, as his vile  NewApartheid starts gnawing at people's legs, his  loyal constituency will be limited to Straight Simon Hughes and the  ShitEaters, the bankers and  a few jumped-up shopkepers, like wotsisname, that insufferable, gobby prat from M&S. Oh, and of course, the furiously angry but short-sighted  masturbators over at the PizzaHouseOfBlood.  Jesus, what a poxy crew, septic and maggot-ridden, vile and unseemly, writhing in rancidness,  it must crash and burn. And the sooner the fucking better.



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One would just like to say that one is appalled, absolutely appalled, at the dreadful suffering in one's dukedom,  I mean, one may well have to forego a portion of one's rents.  And at a time when one is going to have to root around in one of the silver cupboatds to give the newlyweds a gift, well, it's a jolly poor show. One may have to go off for six weeks ski-ing to help one restore one's equilibrium.  A jolly good job you lot are paying for the wedding. And my Coronation. And Camilla's. Well, if this little scrubber can be Queen so can my dear old horsefaced shagbag, eh? The people? Fuck the people, they'll think what they're told.

Lieutenant Colonel  Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, of the Queen's Own RedTrousered NancyBoys Regiment,  an equerry (fawning servant) to his Grace, the Duke, said that although His Royal Highness was deeply moved by the plight of his subjects in St Austell and some other towns of the Dukedom which he had temporarily forgotten the names of, he would not be jumping on the Royal Train and going down to help with sandbags and sweeping the shit out of people's grimy little hovels, Fuck me, no.  That's not what the Royal Family is for.

Tuesday 16 November 2010




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His Royal Highness, Prince Gormless of Wales, is set to wed society beauty and sensible girl, Kate something-or-other in a national extravaganza but scaled-down a little bit because of all the jobless, homeless, hopeless people who will nevertheless be cheering-on their future monarch and monarchess. From their cardboard boxes. And serve 'em right, too, how dare they be care workers?  Say what you like about our Wills being a pampered fuckwit who can barely speak but at least he's fought fer 'is country, said Kelvin McFawkes, tabloid spokesman, sort of;  worn a uniform, anyway.  Which is more than these public sector people can claim.


 Prince Harry Nazi was interviwed by Kelvin McCunt about the Big Day. Best man? You bet.  A ruck, I should think so, specially if there's any Pakis there, only mean it in fun, like;  served alongside some nignogs, jolly good blokes, for jungle bunnies, as m'Grandad would say;  he's really cool, Phil the Greek.  No, seriously I am thrilled for Wills, although if he dies, I'll get to be King, knowhaddamean? You can take this blood's thicker'n water thing too far.  And anyway,  in our case it's not.


Just as long as he doesn't think he's getting my job, that's the main thing; otherwise they both might find themselves upside-down in a Paris underpass, Dieu et mon droit, that's the thing, droit de signeur, that's another one, might give the little minx one myself. I'm allowed.

This is a great day for our country, says David Cameron.

Well, if I was a proper prime minister they would have consulted me but since I'm not they just told me. But never mind, I'm jolly glad that there's a diversion to all  Georgie Spunkface's bloodletting, that's the main thing. And we must all say to the nation, That's enough backsliding, never mind your jobs and homes and services, the happiness of these two young millionaires,  that's what the nation should be focussed on.  We should all stop being selfish and concentrate on the important things, like  the monarchy, although I can actually trace my family back further than these Hohenzollern-Saxe-Gotha- Battenberg-Windsor fuckpigs. God Save the Coalition!  I mean Queen. And down with personal photographers, that's what I say. Now.





Just because it's online doesn't mean it's not tabloid bullshit.

The Ancients, gathered here, will recall with fondness the teachings of stage Paddy, Guido, Colonel O'Fawkes, just a few summers back, that the Free State, Eire, the Republic of Ireland was not actually a superstitious, floating pigsty, in thrall to repulsive gangster politicians and crooked financiers, it's children buggered, still,  around the twenty-six counties by noncing monsignors; it's diasporic migrants not a joyless horde of red-faced. spud-gulping, Guinness-swigging, melancholy, repressed-homosexual Mummy'sboys, feasting sorrowfully   on homesick bacon and cabbage, labouring on holes in the road, exploited by their own countrymen in Birmingham and New York;  no, Ireland, according to the great political scientist, Mr O'Fawkes of the PizzaHouseOfBlood,  himself, was the very overnight model of a modern economic powerhouse, so it was, a beacon to we, benighted in poor England,  wasn't the Irish fiscal policy just the very broth of a t'ing, her shifty, simpering ministers the very boys with  the know-how, and weren't we all stupid, not to be, like Guido, himself, pretending to be living in Ireland?

We must hope that the great tabloid newsman now contributes some of his advertising revenue to the exchequer of his adopted country, now that, despite  all his nonsense, Ireland is fucked, mainly by the very tax-dodging, wealth-creating irresponsible entre-fucking-preneurs to whom he, along with the riff-raff now squatting in Downing Street, unfailingly kowtows. We must hope, also, that Chancellor Spunkface, preaching an Irish sermon of  low corporation taxes and massive public sector cuts, lifts his head from Money's groin and sees what's going on in the country whose approach he so admires, even though he won't.

Guido, of course,  should stick to what he does best, and for what he is best loved, racism and sexism, but then he generally does.

Friday 12 November 2010

SONGS OF REMEMBRANCE,(Bagh)dad's gonna kill me, Maestro Thompson's 21st century folk music.


The connection has stopped working, maybe requiring men in yellow jackets, climbing ladders to the satellite dish, tut-tutting, as though the Fates had singled them out, cruelly forcing them to do the job for which they are paid, compelling them to remedy a fault which will surely be of my making, when they could more usefully be doing nothing.  It is a tyranny, this, of builder and mechanic and IT-Fiend and must  be a British disease, surely, it can't be this way everywhere. 

Thursday 11 November 2010


Bad apples ... are seldom brought to justice: no policeman has ever been convicted of murder or manslaughter for a death following police contact, though there have been more than 400 such deaths in the past ten years alone. The IPCC is at best overworked and at worst does not deserve the “I” in its name.
The Economist[50]
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We simply can't accept loutish behaviour and thuggery on the streets of London. Not unless it's being done by my officers.





With apologies for these dreadful images 
to the family of the late Ian Tomlinson,
killed just for being there,
on the streets of London.


from wikipedia

The First Two Minute Silence in London (11 November 1919) was reported in the Manchester Guardian on 12 November 1919:
The first stroke of eleven produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead, and the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped also, seeming to do it of their own volition. Someone took off his hat, and with a nervous hesitancy the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there an old soldier could be detected slipping unconsciously into the posture of 'attention'. An elderly woman, not far away, wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still ... The hush deepened. It had spread over the whole city and become so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain ... And the spirit of memory brooded over it all.[18]

Now, of course, lest we impede Growth, Remembrance Day  is celebrated on a Sunday,  a 'photo opportunity for the filth to posture, as they send more youth to die in some bandit cause, an opportunity for some ghastly Dimblebore or Lardman Boulton to feign solemnity, to hitch their pisspoor diction to a slow, martial beat.  The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month simply too precious to the Economy-Stupid,  think of the money we'd lose, if everyone stopped for two minutes' reflection;  think how angry folks might become, in schools and workplaces,  about the Blair-Bush Wars......Best have a bit of a do. On the weekend.

I wrote this last year, Kipling's not the only poet I know, some of my best friends, if I had any, would be poets.  I say I wrote it but maybe I just, what's the word, channeled it, wrote it straight down without a correction, I like it better this year, it rolls along with an unstoppable venom, who knows where it came from, the shitegeist, maybe.  And given the rubbish that will be published along these lines, I make no apologies for posting it again.  The names and faces have changed, even though it's the same old names and faces, spouting the same old cant, just playing musical chairs, with the quick and the dead.

It is now  the eleventh day of the eleventh month; if you are visiting here,  maybe summonsed by a cyber prompt, maybe just wandering, spare a moment or two.

Saturday, 7 November 2009


Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all,  lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

And you'd think that they was 'oly, with their kissers all turned down
And a look so bleedin' pious you'd think the angels 'ad come down,
the angels 'ad come down, me lads, the angels 'ad come down
And blessed 'em all, for bein' such a sorry bunch of clowns.
A sorry bunch of clowns me lads, all standin' in a row.
Got-up like tailors' dummies, the lowest of the low.

They do this once a year, me lads, the flags and all the tears
But we live with their rottenness, for years and bloody years.

Was the improvised explosive, done the damage to the lads
And they might have fared right better had they been in armoured cabs,
But they never spent the money, so the lads all 'ad it rough
While Bobby Bleedin' Ainsworth, 'ad is nose stuck in the trough,
'is nose stuck in the trough, me lads, 'is nose stuck in the trough.
'E 'ad 'is fingers in our pockets, an' 'is nose stuck in the trough.

Some is living in an 'ostel, some is livin' on the street
There's some 'as got no ears, no eyes, and some 'as got no feet.
And some 'as got no feet me lads, and some 'as got no feet.
Oh, it's hard to go a-marching, when you hasn't got no feet.

And some 'as melted faces, make the children look away,
Make their wives and girlfriends shudder, though they'd never like to say
That there's worser things than dyin', like comin 'ome this way.
They can do wonders, now, with plastic
Or so the doctors say.

And some is off on jailhouse leave, and can't be here today,
The Judge, y'see, he banged 'im up for ever and a day.
'E banged 'im up for fightin; but that's what soldiers do
And when he's got no war to fight, 'e 'as trouble getting through
Trouble getting' through, me lads, when all the shootin' stops 
And no-one wants to know 'im, just the prisons and the cops
The prisons and the cops, me lads, stick in a soldier's craw
Cos those what sent 'im killin' is far beyond the law.

If I but stole a fiver, now, from comrade next to me
I'd be on charges, sharpish, there, for everyone to see
They'll never get their collars felt, however much they steal
It's like that Alan Duncan said, a splendid fucking deal.
They write the rules, then break 'em, say they didn't understand.
They're shitting in our faces, up an down the bleedin' land
Shittin' in our faces, just as hard as e'er they can.

Pissin' in our pockets and spitting in our eyes
And travellin' on the gravytrain to the house of bleedin' lies.
An Armistice, all of their own, and no-one got no blame
They just paid a few shillings back and carried on the same.
Carried on the same, me lads, for now and evermore
Stuffed like pigs and drunk with power, while we go off to war.

The members and right honourables know only how to lie
And cheat and steal and fornicate, whilst we march off to die
In some benighted wogland, some jungle, veldt or bush
Or in the hills and mountains of the Hindu bleedin' Kush
The Hindu bleedin' Kush, me lads, you'd think they'd understand
That the killing fields of Afghannystan are No Man's Bleedin' Land.
No Man's Bleedin' Land, me boys, and it was ever thus
They shoot from caves and run away, in the Hindu bleedin Kush.

There's Charlie in 'is medals, heir to the bleedin' throne,
The one what we're out fightin' for, while he's sitting safe at home.
E'll 'ave yer Mrs, like as not, you give 'im 'alf a chance
He just takes what he wants, you see, it only takes a glance
For he is true nobility, the country's pride and joy
Whilst we are noble savages, cannon fodder to deploy.
They'll send us up to fiery death, and out in unsafe trucks
And when we're blown to Kingdom Come, why, no-one gives a fuck.

But when we come in sixes, with coffins draped in flags
They look a bit embarrassed, like, they're just a bunch of slags
Just a bunch of slags, me lads, all standin' ramrod straight
They'll smile and say So sorry, just a simple twist of fate
I would have gone myself, you know, but I'm important here,
We also serve, we lousy pricks, who only stand and wait.

You can put your bleedin' poppies where the Sun don't never shine
For hypocrisy's your only creed, you ain't no friend of mine
You ain't no friend of no-one's, if the truth was only told
To the boys you send to bleed and die and never to grow old.
It wouldn't do for your sons, all to the manner born
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
That's the stuff for me and mine, our bodies ripped and torn.

So you can put your bleedin' poppies where the monkey put his nuts
The only thing we've seen from you is cuts and bleedin' cuts'
And some ain't got no bullets and some ain't got no boots
And some are boys of seventeen, just bleedin' young recruits
Bleeding young recruits, me lads, all blown to smithereens,
They never saw their twenty-first, they never left their teens.

See, they're only paper flowers and you're only paper men
And if the call to valour came you'd cut and run again.
But paper flowers, that's the thing, to show you are sincere
And shiny shoes an' overcoats, that's why you're standin' ere.
We're soldiers of the Queen me lads, and not this sorry bunch
Who steal their houses, dodge their tax and steal their bleedin' lunch
They're one step down from parasite, a squalid learning curve
Lets hope before they meet their end, they get what they deserve.

Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

Wednesday 10 November 2010


Mr Moron King, placeman, stooge and ruinous lickspittle.
One times two is seven,  two times two is  twelve, three times two is twenty-one.....hang on...I know the next's a trick one....yes....four times two is two,  there;  I can do adding-up too, and division.
jgm2 said...
Talking of 'treason' Mr Ishmael, I notice that it is only now that Mervyn King is developing a little bit of a twitchy bum about governments printing money. Perhaps he should be reminded of his complicity in the Brownian Imbecility of 18 months (or was it 24 months) ago when the Maximum Imbecile (Eternal Rectal Cancer be Upon Him) decided that what the UK really needed was 200bn quid printed in order to pay the Public Sector and let the next government sort out his monumental economic clusterfuck. The sooner to return Labour to power. Because it's the right thing to do. I must have missed Mervyn's resignation. It is hardly credible that he would have acquiesced in the architect of the UK's economic destruction ducking out of responsibility by the simple ruse of just printing money and leaving the next government to take the shit. Surely a man of integrity would not have saddled every single person in the UK with another 3500 quid of debt just so that he, personally, could shuffle off with a knighthood?

Merv's convenient innumeracy has often been reported here, yet, today, even after all his ruinous fuck-ups, the meeja is fawning on his current prediction - which is that we may go into  what they term double-dip recession.  Or we may not.  Kind of a  heads-or-tails approach.  The blogdog, Buster, would make a better Governor of the Bank of England. Why is it that we don't throw stones at these people in the street?

Tuesday 9 November 2010


"Anybody tells you It's a great personal tragedy for Phil and his family, just punch them hard in the mouth; it'll be alright." from a previous commentary

Before we go anywhere, I would just like to point out that it was Imelda,  below,

Her honour Judge Imelda Booth-Blair-Haliburton QC,
famous human rights lawyer, cheap hustler
and bomber of brown babies in their cradles.

who was the first to say what a tragedy it is for Phil's family, she, of course has been near the top of the list for a punch in the mouth these last fifteen years.  Imelda the famous, bombing and torturing human rights lawyer,  is said to be supporting Slimy Phil's application for a judicial review of his treatment, although not, of course, with money. As if. Charity begins at home, in her case, many of them. Barmy  fucked-up Scouse witch.

Anyway, Ed Moribund is on paternity leave, can you believe,  whilst the unelected coalition of public shoolboys makes merry with ordinary people's lives and takes itself off  on a Chinky Junket, hundreds of the fuckers, maybe they'll catch something nasty from the rice, or the Beijing rentboys, maybe the plane'll crash.  Good job there's not a war on, Ed, or a crisis in public funding decisions, eh, useless toothy prick, good for fuck all, and poor old Harriet Soursister has to deal with a fresh  outbreak of poltroonishness among the reptiles, screeching nancyboys and bogbastard fuckpigs, bleating about rights. 

I don't know if Moribund minor fathers his own children or like his brother, buys them in Mexico;  maybe, if he's fertile,  he could have gone round  and slipped the tearful,  'celloing sister in law  one,  kept it in the family, sort of, or  they could have deployed  the savage mobsterbully, Blind Boy Blunkett of LittleLadsRUs,  he'll be dead soon and unable to exercise his paternal rights over, wotsername, the MediaMinster bicycle, Kimberly Quinn, that's it, over her/his little lad,  and Jesus, you'd want to be blind and well dosed up with antibiotics after Simon Hoggart and BlindBoy and maybe, even, her husband, had been prospecting down her mineshaft. 

But if BananaMilliband wants to adopt his family from Amerika, that's his affair and we are in danger, here, of straying into bad taste, and that wouldn't do, talking about parliamentarians - but how Ed reasonably can absent himself at a time like this is a curious matter, indicative, perhaps of his certainty that what imperils us will never imperil him. Cunt. Labour party my arse.

Members of the PLP are said to be mutinous over Harriet shitting for a change in one of their lying faces, bless their poxed-up little heads, their fevered little minds, who the fuck do they think they are? Never mutinous over EyeRack, or ID Cards or unlawful detention or torture, never mutinous about their comrades' shafting the public via the expenses crimes, never mutinous, for instance,  about Tony and Imelda shredding their expenses claims...but mutinous now, that the law intervenes in what have henceforth been unchallengeably their own private matters.  Woolas told dangerous, racist inflammatory lies and the fact that  the objector is a Shiteating hypocrite whose party has always done far worse does not invalidate the finding of the duly constituted hearing;  never mind this being a dangerous precedent, these greedy, shirtlifting, child-molesting fucking bastard war criminals  of all hues, subsidised, pampered, immunised from prosecution, have for far too long gotten away with lies, evasion, dissembling and when those fail the  downright impertinence of failing to answer the question properly put to them (see D.Cameron, G. Brown, A. Blair. J Major et al, every Wednesday, see also, Michael fucking Howard and, oh, all of them ) impudent, smirking filth, every last one of them, mutinous?  SeeHowCleverIAm, PoliticianToMySnottyFingertips, Won'tGetAStraightAnswerOutOfMe. Fuck them. Might have mutinied over Clause Four, but then they would have to have been a Labour Party and they had Newly stopped being that.

Ed appointed Slimy Phil to the  inner sanctum, or the Shadow Cabinet as he calls them,  in full knowledge of the allegations and the proceedings, no wonder he's off, modernly burping baby and changing nappies but those likely to have hitherto been impressed by his NewManliness are despairing as the party goes further down the toilet, as boldly unnamed riffraff shout the odds, fearful, of course, on all sides, that it'll be them, next.

It happens to be Labour but it could easily have been any of them. No use to bleat that Woolas deserves better from Justice, Justice hasn't denied him anything, he can try to clear his name, no-one is stopping him, but a party as badly savaged as the Millibandians should never have let him aboard,  that Soursister, alone, seemingly, has the balls to tnrow him to the sharks -  or a column on the Sun and few TeeVee slots - is a mark of how low, how wretched are the  PinstripePoppy gangsters in Westminster, trading still, on the workers and the poor,  happy to shit in our faces. Mutiny away, lads; Murdoch will be proud of you.