WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH,Police use CS gas on tax protesters Police used CS spray on protesters at an anti-tax avoidance demo today after an activist was arrested while pushing leaflets into an outlet of Boots.

MORE FROM INSPECTOR GOB

Well, sir, I was proceeding in an orderly fashion down Oxford Street with a patrol of heavily armoured  friendly neighbourhood beat officers when, acting upon intelligence, we noticed some young people - and we know how dangerous young people are to the govament, don't we, sir - we noticed some young people pushing paper leaflets under the door of Messrs Boots the Chemists, sir. Quickly perceiving that these were paper leaflets and that these people were protesters, legally protesting about the taxation arrangements of some very respectable business gents I had no alternative but to order my men to gas them and if necessary set about them with items of security apparatus. Yes, sir, big sticks, and boots and fists. Some of them we arrested for causing criminal damage with the paper leaflets and removed to the police station for further beatings, I mean interrogation. One and the same thing, sir? Oh, I don't think so, sir, not now that we have the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, which stipulates quite clearly that when we are beating people or crushing their testicles   or hanging them up from the cell windows,  the cameras must be clearly switched off. I mean, sir, we can't have people going around protesting about things can we now, sir? So I think, sir, what with the upsurge in so-called protest,  we might all come to call CS gas  Democracy's truest friend, the rubber bullets, too.

Criminalising  lawful behaviour, using the media to distort the truth,  gassing dissenters, Egypt, sir? Yes I believe it is what they do in Egypt but we are a long way from Egypt here, sir. Move along now, please, or I shall have to call in the army. Harrier jets, over the Enbankment, sir? No, the govament have sold them off, sir. To pay for my overtime. Of which, sir, there will be a great deal. A very great fucking deal.

An out-of-control mob, bent on bringing violence to the nation's capital.

MURRAY, A SUITABLE CASE FOR TREATMENT

I AM SO NOT WORTHY OF MY MOTHER.

People of a certain age would think it nigh-on impossible to detest a tennis player more than John Patrick Gabshite McEnroe, one of the nastiest, most fucked-up individuals on the planet - the ideal person, therefore, to be a BBC presenter. Petulant, conceited, ill-disciplined, ill mannered and foul mouthed, McEnroe, with his equally obnoxious father pulling his strings, eased Ruin's path into professional tennis. And everywhere else.


Back in the day, McEnroe bullied and tantrumed his way into a sort of celebrity noir, cursing at umpires, linesmen and opponents, no-one  then in the game had the New Balls Please to oppose the nasty brat and today it's too late, his techniques are applied all over professional sport, especially among the Premiership gang rapists and he is kow-towed to as an elder statesman, when what he needs is a punch in the face, several; and if his rotten father is alive, him, too.

There is good reason for decent people to hate McEnroe and those who licensed him. Murray, though, centres his tantrums on himself, scowling and grunting like a man possessed by Devils, lashing at himself with facial contortions and spastic limbs, self-flagellating with his racket, in a permanent agony, way beyond crucifixion;  he is a truly fucking awful spectacle, stretched on his own rack of conceit. Even so, I hate the sight of his ugly, unshaven face, the sound of his stuttering, whining voice, his grimly remorseless  self-absorption, his litany of injury, of setback and disappointment. In a way he is reminsicent of former unelected prime minister Snot, surrounded by wankers and parasites, none bold or disinterested enough  to tell this guy that he looks like an emotional train crash.

The best thing for him would be for someone to lock his mother in a cupboard for six months but that won't happen, the witch is central to the continuum of Murray disappointment - ad-vantage, Mother Murray; maybe his divorced old man could come and wrest him from Mummy's ambition, maybe his uncle, a Dunblane butcher, could offer him a job, making sausages, train him up, so's he could bone a leg of lamb, take him up the road to the Dunblane George Robertson Massacre Graveyard, and tell him there's more important shit than losing a fucking tennis match. If his male relatives do not free him, however, from the tyranny of the nipple, the poor mad fucker is doomed, his life, too, smashed out of him in straight sets.

MUMMY LOVE, YUK.

EVENSONG. A SONG FOR UNCLE SAM.

Escaped Beefheartee, the man who gave Keef Richards his  riffs, world musicologist and Blues maestro, Mr Ry Cooder, plays the best slide guitar ever played.

Interesting how the worse this Egyptian shit gets, the worse Clinton sounds, stage managed events - election rallies and compliant press conferences - are one thing, real events seem to have revealed quite how inappropriate and over-promoted she is as Seckatry of State and thus how beggared has become Uncle Sam's political system, a fucking nobody appointed so that another fucking nobody can have a clear run at the White House, even though, considering the opposition, Obama should have pissed it; but his greatest enemy was not the GOP redneck motherfuckers but the ambition of the hideous poxed-up, patched-up, fucked-up, screwed-up, coked-up, bought-up, sold-out, draft-dodging Clintons; Jesus, talk about organised crime.

I hear fragments of Clinton static on the radio, disjointed, tub-thumping, meaningless old tripe, Uncle Sam a laughing stock. What's he gonna do now, another surge, maybe, more of that Shock and Awe filth - bomb a few ancient cities and strut about burbling Mission Accomplished, like a madcap emperor. Rally Round the Flag, Y'all, chickens done come home to roost.

Somewhere in between Skanky Sarah Palin and Hillary Trousers are some decent people, why don't they get off their arses and throw this lot, the occupants of Capitol Hill, with their big hair, their big teeth and their big bribes, straight in the pen, with the murderers and child molesters, because that's where they belong.

MORE WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN

 Hush, HoneyPie, no lovin' now,  Momma's working.

President Hillary Trousers, the US Secretary of State, said on Friday "My fellow motherfuckers,  the protests underscore that there are deep grievances within Egyptian society, mainly about us, and the Egyptian government needs to understand that violence will not make these grievances go away. And sure as flies on shit, it won't make us go away, neither.  We are deeply concerned about the use of violence by Egyptian police and security forces against protesters, this is normally the job of the US Marine Corp (semper fi and gays now welcome)." Mrs Clinton told reporters.

"And my husband, Spunky Bill, together with Middle East Peace Envoy, a-ha-a-ha-a-ha-ha,  Limey Cardinal Blair, both stand ready to do whatever they can for money, and in President Clinton's case, pussy and drugs, the sonofafuckinbitch. What we need in this troubled region is for gay women to stand up and be stoned or beheaded. Only not me, of course. Nor my Chief of Staff."

Her comments, vague, banal and irrelevant,  were similar to remarks earlier made by Ms William Hague,



the UK Foreign Secretary, for the time being, who said,  " There is only twenty-four hours to save the Egyptian pound and I  call on the Egyptian authorities  not to support, I mean suppress people's right to freedom of expression. This is quite clearly ay matter for the Metropolitan Police under the direction of  Commissioner Murdoch, his heirs and successors. Mr Murdoch, the head of the govament, has made it clear that he does not believe that I am gay. Even though he has the pictures, locked-up in his safe."  Mr Gay continued, " I would just like to reassure those lithe, handsome, darkskinned boys rioting in Cairo that there are other ways of achieving their ends away. They could come and work for me in the Foreign Office (the job involves frequent travel and staying in a hotel room with me, quite normally, overnight, and scampering around together in the morning, like puppies, see below for job description, applicants must be between, well any age and twenty-five. But seriously, as Foreign Seckatry, I have given those Egyptians a jolly good,  statesmanlike  talking-to. So that should sort them out."

 Two young men, full of joie de sperm, I mean vivre,
discuss the tragedies of miscarriage,
after an evening of perfect heterosexual normalcy,
sucking each others dicks.




 RAMASES TUTANCLEGG THE THIRD.

Actually, my great Grandfather was a Pharoah, said Mr Nick  Clegg, the deputy uelected prime minister of UK Strapped4Cash plc, and intolerable fucking imbecile, when interviewed by Bravo TV News. Now, if you are asking me does this make me especially well placed to solve this problem, well, of course it does  and that's why the electorate elected me - in perpetuity, I might add - to be their deputy airhead fuckwit  lying bastard dumbfuck pussy-whipped sorryassed, shit-for-brains no-hoper and  good for fuck all hypocrite. Pledges?  I can do 'em wholesale; the thing is, you see, you don't actually have to mean them, in order  for you to nevertheless mean them very sincerely. This is at the very core of my being, this is why I make a point of always not washing my hands after I've been to the toilet; it is the very phosphorous of my political fibre, it is in the very bone of my marrows, it is the warp and weft to my mill,  essentially, it is the very essence of why we are Liberal Democrats, to lie but to do it with great sincerity, even to mean it passionately at the time, even though it's shit. Not that there's anything wrong with a nice bit of shit, ask my colleague, or former colleague, Mr Oaten, although, clearly, I have to say, that on balance, eating all that shit made him go bald. But all that's in the past and it doesn't matter, our home affairs spokesman being a fucking dirty bastard shit-eating hypocrite.That's what we Liberals are all about, shit and lies. Unlike the other two parties, I mean one party. All of us in the coalition are sincere, well-meaning, public school millionaires, very aware of the cost of living and the old-age pension.  Except my distinguished colleague and deputy, Mr Straight Simon Hughes, who's a cunt. No, what the Egyptians need is proportional representation. And windmills. Knock down all those rubbish pyramids and build nice, green wind turbines. These are tried and tested political principles and they should serve the emerging Egyptian Liberal Democracy very well. I and all of my colleagues are quite prepared to sign a pledge saying that Egypt shall have only seven fat years, even though we mean seven lean ones. Or even no food at all, like in the UK. Given under my hand, in this the four-thousandth year of Our reign. May the SunKing, the radiant, the bountiful CallHimDave  grant all your wishes.  But mine, first. Now, ff you are asking me for the LibDem policy on dictators, well, we are a democratic party, of course, but we work for the Tories, so you'll have to ask them."

It is fascinating to watch various parts of the Axiom of Evil unravel and dissolve, skymadeupnewsandfilth  and the proper Filth, the Old Bill, forced to do something, besides sack a couple of fat,  useless, gobby wankers;  the Spiv economy, such as it is, showing what it's made of, fuck all; the gangsters' molls,  meeting in Switzerland;  the Tunisians playing up; the so-called UK health reforms rubbished; the Nimrod scrapping rubbished; the student still playing up and now this bastard, Mubarak, another of the West's strong men suddenly, like the late Shah of Iran, almost persona non grata; the witch, Clinton, shitting herself lest the Muslem ragheads take over Egypt on her watch; how could she and Spunky Bill run for Mrs President, humiliated by the Ayrab street? Obama sermonising, as ever,  like a fucking idiot, a billion and a half skint taxpayer dollars shovelled, every year, into this shitty regime which, all of a sudden is being seen for what it is; his endless sanctimonious triads, dah-de-dah-de-dah-de-dah, pontificating idly about what he will and will not accept, what America expects of its paid torturer-in-chief; I don't know about others  but, as with Cameron, I now just have to turn Obama off, so discordant is his reality with mine, so deceitful his words, so calamitous his actions. I just had enough, with the DeadKiddyFest a while back.  This is an achievement unique to Obama, my switching-off PROTUS, at his first I-Know-Best, God-Bless-America cadence.

An angry Egyptian citizen was  on the radio tonight saying that all the Egyptian has expected from his dictator is violence and extortion, supported, body and soul by the UK and the US.  Since the death of Anwar Sadat and the subsequent dictatorship of Mubarak there has been rarely a word from either Uncle Sam or ourselves  to chide, much less reproach Mubarak. It was the same with the late Mr Saddam Hussein, vicious, wicked dictators kept in power whilst they suit the purpose of GlobaCorp. Now, the squirming has begun anew, State Department, Foreign Office, EUSSR and skymadeupnewsandfilth wriggling this way and that, shit oozing from their very pores. We have yet to hear from Bloody Blair, but it can't be long, he is in charge of peace over there, isn't he?

This is what the Egyptian author had  to say on the BBC PM programme on Saturday:

This is not just about the price of bread...... a clear message to Mr Mubarak, the people want him gone. On his thirty-year watch education and health have become abysmal and the citizen expects only violence and extortion from the state;  no-one sees a viable future for themselves or their children - except, of course, the people at the top of the pile, Mr Mubarak and his family and cronies, pillaging the country for short-term gain, like a foreign, invading force - but what is really important to know is  that they couldn't have done it without the support of the governments of the United States and the United Kingdom.


Yesterday, Mr Mubarak persuaded internet and mobile phone providers to kill our messages but still half a million were out on the streets, orderly, courteous and good humoured, for this they are being gassed and shot-at at home and bad-mouthed in the international media. The forces of law and order are turning crminal gangs loose on the street and it is the protesters who are protecting life and property, while the regime lies to the world about what is going on.


We have much to be proud of, today, our young people have taken a peaceful and democratic initiative amd we, the older citizenry, have fallen-in behind them;  we will help them in every way they ask us and what they are asking now is that I appeal to you to do everything that you legitimately can to deny this regime support and also to restore communications so that they can be back in touch with you and part of your world again.

I was down Tesco tonight, the food inflation, since Christmas, is staggering, five per cent, my arse. Today, the unelected Hosni Mubarak, tomorrow, the unelected Hosni Cameron.......

THE UNACCEPTABLE FACE OF STUDENT PROTEST.

From the Filth-O-Graph, 4.11 pm

For God's sake, find this man a safe seat.

Aaron Porter, NUS President,  escorted away from his own members.

C'mon my son, you're one of us now, but then you always were.

"Hundreds of protesters called for his resignation, directing their anger towards him as he made his way towards the students’ union building.

Campaigners shouted: "Students, workers, hear our shout! We want Aaron Porter out!" and "Aaron Porter we know you, you're a fucking  Tory too!"

Mr Porter is facing calls to step down as NUS president by members of the National Campaign Against Fees and Cuts.

Saturday’s demonstrations in London and Manchester were organised in protest against public spending cuts and rising tuition fees.

The protests – attended by thousands of students – began peacefully but around 150 demonstrators broke off from the agreed route and headed towards the city centre, where they targeted Mr Porter."

Speaking on BBC Radio Shit, I mean Four, former NUS President, Mr Jack Torture said  "It's very important, Martha,  for listeners to listen to me , you see Mr Porter was doing what many young people have done, he was using his feigned concern for his fellow students as a stepping-stone to a highly lucrative career as a politician, no, do let me finish, because this is very important.  Can you imagine British politics without the likes of, well, me

A young Mr Jack Torture as president of the NUS

and so all I woild say to your listeners, and many of them are not as clever as me, is that Mr Porter is in the great tradition of myself and Trevor Phillips and David Aaronobitch, you know, the fat bloke with the nonce's beard and my good friend Mr Charles Fatty Clarke  and lots of other rotten, stinking hypocrites and I think that's worth many people getting beaten up by the police for - if you and your listeners will forgive the split infinitive - which, I understand, is happening even as we speak, and those great professional  British bobbies are doing it with  great commitment, even though most of them have, for some reason, forgotten to put their ID numbers on,  just like  we tell them to. I am sure that Mr Porter has a glowing future ahead of him in one of the political parties, which, as I'm sure listeners will know, are much the same. Obedience, that's the thing. Obedience and Torture, served me well."

CAPTION CONTEST ITALIENNE

THE BLAIRS' WOP PIMP FRIEND ACCUSED OF SEX 

WITH SECOND UNDERAGE GIRL.

GOD, DON'T LET HIM DIE.

WORLD'S GREATEST LIVING PARTY-GIVER MAY DIE

WHOLE LOTTA FAKIN' GOIN' ON.

Fuckwit, airhead celebrities the world over are distraught at the news that their favourite host, Papa Nelson, was, at 92, not likely to live much longer. I am utterly gutted, said David Beckham, it was one the greatest honours wot I ever was given in my career as an advertising man. Mr Nelson gave me so many opportunities to be seen wiv uvver celebs and I simply can't fank 'im enough and I'm gonna call my next son after 'im, Horatio Beckham. Me too, screeched Mrs Beckham, a celebrity in her own right, I'm so to'ally and u''erly gutted that I'm gonna write a song about 'im, on my new album, which'll be out soon.

Naomi Campbell and Imran Kahn were too coked-up, I mean choked-up with distress to make a comment, although Ms Campbell's bruised spokeswoman said she would sue any fucking bastard and throw shit at them if they denied that she was Mr Mandela's secret grand-daughter and should, therefore,  inherit Africa off of  him.

In London, a spokesman for Lady Thatcher, who is also no longer partying, said the old boot was thrilled that she might outlive the nigger terrorist, whom, said  a simpering Sir Bernard Fag-Ingham from his mistress's bedside, she would've hanged and no mistake, bloody coon.

Since coming out of jail, Sir Nelson has had a distinguished career as a party-giver and will be much missed by the  international  jetset.

Plans for his funeral are well underway, David Dimbleby is to cover it for the BBC, whilst former US President, Spunky Bill, will make the graveside oration, if they pay him enough money. Killin' niggers  is plumb wrong, said Bill, earlier, unless they're EyeRackis, or Goddamned Afghanese or Somalese or PakiBastards, as they call 'em in Limeyland.  I will be honoured to speak at the funeral of Senator Mandela, a man who I was genuinely pleased to call nigger, I mean friend.

All over South Africa, ordinary people were hunkering down by the kraal, crying into their mealie beer, whilst the women get on with the hard work, as usual.

N'kose sikkelele Africa, sang disgraced labour clown, Pete Fingers Hain,  in the Pontypridd Labour Club, I truly loved him, he was the Father of my nation, not this one, my real nation, Africa, where I haven't robbed any banks..

And I shall write a book about my courage and vision, said former UK unelected prime minister, Mr Gordon Snot, I mean his, wossisname's, the darky.

LADY SIR ELTON JOHN'S FASHION PAGE.

NEW SUPERMODEL THRILLS FASHION LOVERS.

(shaved her legs and then he was a she)

Andrej Pejic as femme fatale in Jean Paul Gaultier's autumn/winter 2011 menswear show, and as the bride in Jean Paul Gaultier's spring/summer 2011 haute couture show. Photo: REX/Getty

My wife, David and I, writes Sir Reg, are simply too divinely thrilled by Jean-Paul's gorgeous new model; he has simply raised the whole frock thing to a new level. Andrej Pejic is simply too much. And the best thing about him is that even though he's a catwalk thriller to die for, he's a nineteen-year old boy. We always thought that women, although we adore them, obviously, just get in the way, what with their tits and their smelly old fannies.  Now that fashion is finally revealed as the preserve of bitter and twisted gay men we must all celebrate and my husband David and I will be throwing a HUGE party to celebrate. Fags only, darling. I suppose Andre is too old for us to adopt.

.

Mrs Sir Reg embraces the women-hating Jean-Paul.

On other pages.

The Coalitions's frock czar and pretend minister, Straight Simon Hughes, tells us where he buys his dresses.

FROM THE BBC. AND NATION SHALL SPEAK SHITE UNTO NATION

THURSDAY 11.35pm (12.05am in Wales and N Ire)

Greg Dyke, Mary Ann Sieghart and Imelda May

Tonight on This Week:
Thursday 27th January

On me 'ed son! … We're sticking the boot in to sexism! Yeah!!

So, we've coaxed a couple of comely bits of stuff onto the This Week sofa.

Former Cabinet Minister Charles Clarke will be joining Michael Portillo for a girlie pillow fight! ...stand well back.

Ladylike media queen Greg Dyke will be telling us why the phone hacking investigation is ruining that cosy old sisterhood between the papers and politicians.

And Mary Ann Sieghart is turning her hand at rat-catching in her vermin-infested roundup of the politcal week.

As if that wasn't enough, rockabilly queen Imelda May will be here to explain why sexism isn't music to her ears.

So, come on sistas! Kick off your comfortable shoes and join us!

We are on live - after Question Time - at 23:35 in England and Scotland - and 00.05 in Wales and Northern Ireland. If that's too late, catch us on BBC Parliament on Friday at 18:00 or later on the BBC iPlayer.

We've been enjoying your tweets. Keep them coming via the hashtag #bbcthisweek and click here and come and Twitter with us on our site.

Or see what viewers think of the latest This Week show - or send in your own thoughts, just keep them clean, short and include your name and town please.

And the highlights will be on our web-site . 

MaryAnn Shitbag, Mr Ratty AND Fat Charlie, not to mention Playboy Jock  - he went to grammar school and university, you know -  and  La Portilla.  AND none of them will be wearing a tie! The things people have to do for a measly grand. Fuck me, I don't know if I can wait.

YES, BUT TO LIVE OUTSIDE THE LAW YOU MUST BE HONEST.

BIG BROTHER STAR JAILED

McBonnie and Clyde.

The dapper, serial fornicator, gabshite, bully, sexist pig and class traitor, Mr Tommy Sheridan, was jailed for three years, today. Mr Justice McSlag said Sheridan had, through his legislative efforts, materially and historically altered the fabric of Scottish society, both through his organised resistance to the poll tax and, in parliament, by the abolition of forced bailiffs' sales, or poundings. Didn't matter a fuck, though, said His Honour, and he was right, Sheridan put former friends  through  years of anxiety and aggravation, damning former comrades as slags and gold diggers whom he was determined to destroy, merely because they would not lie on oath, on his behalf. Triumphalising after his defamation hearing victory, Mr Sheridan, frothing at the mouth, vitriolic, fists waving,  resembled Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, any number of ranting demagogues; that he retains control of a threadbare and ridiculous Solidarity Party, which may yet see Mrs Sheridan listed into the Scottish Parliament, says something for the gullibility of the poor, something not very nice.

In a fifty minute plea before sentence, Sheridan played the family-man card and in truth one has some sympathy for any family sundered by a jail sentence, the judge, in sentencing him to three years, seemingly took account of Sheridan's contribution to public life and did not impose a swingeing or - as Sheridanites had feared - vindictive sentence. The Sheridans themselves, however, insist still  that Tommy has done no wrong.

Skymadeupnewsandfilth  can pursue Mr Sheridan for costs estimated at over a million pounds, effectively bankrupting him. Knowing how they work, though, one would not be surprised to find a Tommy Sheridan column in the News of the World, sometime next year,  the same self-obsessed rhetoric which saw Tommy in court fighting Murdoch, now used in justifying his redtop  employment. The wiping-out of the Left in Scotland and an unnecessary  victory handed to the Murdoch Empire of Filth. Sheridan, eh?  The man's a slag.

 Team Sheridan plan an appeal and are firing-off writs at the Met and Mr Coulson and anyone else they can think of.

Tommy Sheridan case: Lord Bracadale's summary

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"On any view you were a highly effective and hard working politician. You supported individuals in the community; both in the parliament and in the street, you were able to use your undoubted powers of oratory to press home your cause; you led the Scottish Socialist Party to considerable electoral success; and your contributions to the anti-poll tax campaign and the abolition of warrant sales will become part of the fabric of Scottish social and political history.

"By pursuing, and persisting in the pursuit of, a defamation action against the proprietors of the News of the World you brought the walls of the temple crashing down not only on your own head but also on the heads of your family and your political friends and foes alike.

"You were repeatedly warned by the comrades that it would come to this.

I have considered the various cases to which you have referred me. These are helpful, though in considering them it must be borne in mind that each case turns on its own facts..."

"In your case you embarked on an action in the Court of Session knowing that for it to be successful you would require to tell lies under affirmation. You went on to commit perjury in the course of successfully pursuing that action, as a result of which you were awarded a very large sum of damages. In these circumstances the only appropriate sentence, as you yourself recognise, is one of imprisonment.

"I leave out of account your previous convictions which I do not regard as relevant.

"I take into account the terms of the social enquiry report; everything that you have said today; and the references which you have produced. I take account of the significant reduction in the scope of the charge against you. In all the circumstances I impose a sentence of three years imprisonment."

MAKE SURE YOU GET MY GOOD SIDE.

OR I'LL SUE YOU,

FOR SOMETHING.

SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH: DOWN WTH SEXISM. AYE, RIGHT.

Mr Andy Gray, of SkyshitSports, a typical Murdoch employee, going about his normal  work,

before being sacked for crudeness.

It's good, this, SkySport sacking one of its bloated, fascistic, overpaid arseholes for being sexist.  Seems that Andy Something, a football commentator, in an unguarded moment, was slagging-off a female linesperson, or assistant referee, failing, like Mr Snot, to notice that his 'mic was still switched-on. What's the game coming to, he grunted, split-arses as officials, or something like that.  Even though it wasn't broadcast, the clip was posted on the internet and Rupert or his brat, anxious to show willing while the BskyB bid is being cooked-up by Jeremy Cunt, culture minister, suspended the horrible,  fat pig-in-a-suit and then, fuck me, he goes and virtually waves his dick at a female colleague, come and adjust this, he joked, the wag.  That was it, Andy was down the road, muttering.  Here at skymadeupnewsandfilth we don't put up with that sexist crudity, said sky afternoon anchorwoman, Ms Kay Burley, below,

 

it's political correctness gone mad, said the horrible old  witch, and you better print that,  she continued, or I'll bite your fucking face off.

Absolutely intolerable, said Sky grandee, Mr Kelvin McCunt, below, it's political wossaname, gone mad.


Next thing is we'll be 'avin teenagers flashin' their jubblies on page free of the newspaper. Yes, and lurid, made-up stories in the Sunday 'papers, fuck me, what sort of organisation do you fink we are? Sexist cunts or summink?

Mr Jeremy Clarkson, another employee of skymadeupnewsandfilth, at the Times newspaper said,  It's political correctness gone mad, that's what  it is;  it's worse than speed limits.

Mr Jeremy Cuntson, the popular Murdochite populist,

the paunchy boy-man in jeans who can't quite

hide his contempt for his audience.

And why, indeed, should he?

Next thing they'll be making you wear safety belts in your own car and forcing you to stop at red lights. Well, you, maybe, but not me, because like Germaine Greer and Billy Connolly, I go everywhere with a camera crew, apart from Birmingham, which I hate,  and I am quite amazingly rich and  can, therefore, do as I please. You know what I like best about Top Gear, apart from the money, it's all those dickheads standing in the studio waiting to applaud cars, as though they were people. Tossers.

It's political correctness gone mad, said Mr Michael Spit-Gove,MP, 

Gove the Apologist.  Never mind him, he's just a poor, wee waif, 

busy fagging for the Bullingdon Boys, apologising to Mr Balls and

dreading the reshuffle.

who used to work for Mr Murdoch at the Times and now works  for him in Mr Cameron's Toilet Coalition, I mean, frankly, if young girls want to get their tits out for a few quid, well, that's no concern of the education  seckatry (me), my job is to privatise the education system, so that the children of ToryDem voters get a good education, at the expense of the other lot.  And that our friends in the City make a nice few quid.  Respect for wimmen, that's nothing to do with me. If you ask me, it's political correctness gone mad, that's what it is. Buy the Sun, if you love freedom.

WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN.

This was posted by a commenter on the Simon Heffer Comment on Coulson, at the Filth-O-Grap. Anyone know anything?

emmiem

15 minutes ago

Recommended by
1 person

Latest from Egypt. Twitter reports that workers at Heathrow have spotted Mubarak's wife arriving. There is speculation about whether she has brought any tonnage of gold with her.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

update from the Guardian.

Tens of thousands rioting all across Egypt.

• US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has said Mubarak's government is stable despite the demonstrations. Mubarak is an important US partner in the Middle East. Which is what they used to say about the late Mr Saddam Hussein, before his unfortunate necktie party.

 

Photograph: Mazen Mahdi/EPA 

 

5.16pm: Hillary Clinton, the US secretary of state, has urged all sides in Egypt to exercise restraint in the wake of today's protests. She said she believed the Egyptian government -  a  thirty-year old dictatorship -  was stable and looking for ways to respond to its people's aspirations.

We will make big donation to your - remind me again - your Clinton Foundation.....

Yes, the Clinton Foundation,  and we'll keep sending you people to torture for us.

OK, Bismillah, Oh  - and just a reminder for your own safety - we stone carpetmunchers to death.

Allah akhbar, Mr President, God is great.

But not as great as money, eh, bitch?

--------------------------------------------------------------------

From SIFY News:

Cairo, Jan 26 (IANS/AKI) Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak's son who is considered as his successor has fled to Britain along with his family, US-based Arabic website Akhbar al-Arab reported. The plane with Gamal Mubarak, his wife and daughter on board left for London Tuesday from an airport in western Cairo, the website said. The report came as violent unrest broke out in Cairo and other Egyptian cities and hundreds of thousands of people reportedly took to the streets in a Tunisia-inspired day of revolt. The protesters want Egyptian government to end its 30-year state of emergency and pass a law preventing a president from serving more than two terms, and want the interior minister Habib al-Adly, to resign. Protests in Egypt broke out after opposition groups waged an internet campaign inspired by the Tunisian uprising. Weeks of unrest in Tunisia eventually toppled president Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali earlier this month. A police officer was killed in clashes Tuesday in central Cairo, Egyptian daily al-Wafd reported. Over 30,000 protesters gathered in Cairo's Maidan al-Tahrir square to take part in the 'day of anger', the spokesman for Egypt's '6 April' opposition movement, Mohammed Adel, said. 'Police used tear gas and water canon to break up our protest and they arrested 40 of us, but we don't have official figures on the numbers of arrests across Egypt,' said Adel. Supporters of the '6 April' movement, the opposition al-Ghad party, the outlawed Muslim Brotherhood, the al-Wafd party and supporters of former UN nuclear watchdog chief Mohammed El Baradei took part in the protest. Al-Wafd daily said police arrested 600 people during Tuesday's protests in Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said, Tantan, al-Mahala, Asiut, al-Bahira and al-Quium. More than 200,000 people took part in protests in these cities. US secretary of state Hillary Clinton said Tuesday Washington believed the Egyptian government was stable and urged restraint on both sides. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- I suppose that since we beg the banker spivs to stay here, we'll play host to any old dictators; can't wait to hear what William I'm-Not-Gay Hague has to say about this one.

NINE BELOW ZERO. YOU DON'T NEED A WEATHERMAN TO KNOW WHICH WAY THE WIND BLOWS, A HARD RAIN'S A-GONNA FALL........ TAKE YOUR PICK.

 

 DOWNHILL RACER, GEORGE SPUNKFACE,MP

Skanky Sarah Palin's people, the Eskimos, have variously twenty seven, three hundred and twenty or several thousand words for snow. Our own loathed and detested skanky Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Spunkface, however,  has only one word for the failure of his so-called policies - weather. It's the weather, he bleated, and the weather, it's the bad weather. It's not that I'm a vengeful, hate-filled, poisonous little cocksucker,  whoring and bitching for GlobaUsury Inc, that's not the reason the economy is fucked, it's the weather. And the weather is quite clearly the fault of the party opposite, they had thirteen years to fix the weather and they failed, Mr Tiny Speaker, they failed and they failed and they failed. And now I have to clean up their weathermess. What a cunt.

The analysts and senior economists and advisers are shitting thenselves, trying to do Mr Pangloss on this growth failure, this  obvious, logical, unavoidable and predictable stage of Ruin;  if it was half a per cent the other way they'd be advising us that  sunny uplands beckon, borrow more money and spend it and then borrow some more, even before you've paid the first lot back, and never will, consolidation they call it, freeing-up some equity from your over-priced house; now, blustering and lying, they say Oh Fuck Me, Gullible and Obedient Citizens, nothing to get hung about,  the figures are probably wrong, we can readjust them, when all the information's in, see, we'll make it all better, 'sobvious, you see, what we do is throw lots of people out of work and growth will go up, and in a shrinking global market, where our exportees, like Uncle Sam, are even more fucked than we are, then their not buying our goods will also propel Growth upwards, and the cutung back of public sector projects will also drive Growth in the construction industry, Growth, Growth, Growth,  that's what we're seeing, even though we're not. Only believe. That's all, just believe and we'll all be rich. Or I will, anyway.

 LAY DOWN YOUR WEARY TUNE

Mr Mervyn King, the City's Village Idiot.

Inflation, yes, it'll be two per cent, or five per cent  or twenty-five per cent,

of something or other, what the fuck do I know? 

Two twos are seven,  three sevens are nine, nine sevens are twenty-four.

Households, whined Merv, must now pay the inevitable price of the financial crisis;  households, you understand, not the spiv bankers , who caused it. How I long for someone to stride up to this prat, this piece of shit and punch him in the gob;  he never gets up this way, unfortunately.

PETTY CRIME DOESN'T PAY.

TWENTY YEARS OF PUBLIC SERVICE.

It's such a tiny amount, eleven grand.  It's a small fortune, of course, to many people but it's not enough to risk going to jail for.  A hundred grand or a million would  seem more like it but eleven grand in dribs and drabs is neither here nor there. He would have received these monies in six separate amounts, about eighteen hundred quid a time, not even amounting to a salary, in lieu of which  he claimed it to be. And what did he do, anyway;  I watch these things as much as the next anarcho-plumber and I don't recall Mr Taylor being prominent in Lords' proceedings. Probably, like  most of them, he will have used the premises to  eat and drink like a lord and to host personal business meetings - troughing, pimping and hustling,  the real business of their Lordships' House.  The idea that eleven thousands pounds over a couple of years was an informal salary is, by any appraisal, preposterous,  that a QC would run it as a defence is utterly bizarre.

As a lawyer,  Mr Taylor must have visited clients in jail, must have smelled the piss and cabbage and despair, clocked the  screws, smugly sadistic peak-capped morons, posing about, tattooed and smirking, nasty, brutish and of course coldly, efficiently  racist.

It seems inevitable that he will go away, the trial judge, Mr Justice Slag and he were learned friends, once over, back in Birmingham,  and it'll be Failing In My Duty To The Public, BreachOfTrust, DemandsA Custodial Sentence, all that stuff that nobody ever says to the bankers, the permanent seckatries, the chief constables. Arriving at a sentence - my guess, between 18 & 30 months - Hizzoner will have to consider Taylor's previous good character - Christian, public servant, legislator, petty thief and now clown.

Leaving aside the sense of entitlement, the  institutional criminality of the Great and the Good, which Taylor, in his feeble, simpering way illustrates, this case underlines how utterly stupid these people are - lawyers, MPs and peers. Is ut any wonder we're fucked and ruined, people like Taylor at it in the legislature?  

Disowned by hostile releatives, mocked by white supremacy, derided by his fellow peers, foolish and ridiculous, one is tempted to say that John Taylor is punished enough; an unabashed right-winger, himself, though, I guess he will nevertheless  now properly learn the meaning of the bitter jailyard jibe - If you can't do the time, don't do the crime. Amen.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY: SNOTTY HACKED BY SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH?

Exclusive: Snotty asks Scotland Yard to investigate if he was hacked

Murdoch flies in for high-level meetings as Yard faces new questions about its conduct

By James Hanning and Matt Chorley

Sunday, 23 January 2011

reuters

Andy Git leaves No 10 after resigning as David Cameron's director of communications on Friday. Two days ago, Mr Git said he was quitting as David Cameron's director of communications after allegations about his time as NoW editor threatened to overshadow the Government's work. He denies having any knowledge of illegal practices during his time in charge, but said continued coverage made it "difficult for me to give the 110 per cent needed in this role".

Downing Street strenuously denies claims that his resignation was demanded by the prime minister's employer,  Rupert Murdoch, who owns the NoW. Mr Murdoch's arrival  in London by private CoffinJet, is expected imminently, as is, all around the world, his death.

Gordon Snot has asked the police to investigate whether he was the victim of phone hacking, The Independent on Sunday has learnt. Mr Snot has written at least one letter, on SonOfTheManse notepaper,  to the Metropolitan Police over concerns that his phone was targeted when he was Chancellor, during the latter stages of Andy Git's reign as editor of the News of the World. Mr Snot's aides (are we paying for them, too?) last night declined to comment. It is understood that Scotland Yard sought clarification from the former prime minister after his request.

Sources have told The IoS that Tony Blair, his predecessor as prime minister, had also asked police some months ago to investigate whether messages left by him had been the subject of hacking (he did not have his own mobile phone until after he left No 10). Mr Blair and his wife, Imelda, were notably keen to preserve their privacy during their time in Downing Street, especially when it came to shredding the expenses receipts  - both of them lawyers, how were they to know that you should keep them?  Blair's solicitor, Graham Atkins, of Atkins Thomson, declined to comment yesterday, but late last night the former PM's official spokesman denied the story, like they deny everything. It is unclear if the taxpayer will fund any action brought by Tony and Imelda. But probably. Blair's Warmonger Foundation has not received any multi-million dollar bribes for a while now and when you're retired, every penny counts

The news comes as growing criticism of the Met's investigation into widespread mobile phone message interception by the News of the World is mounting. This week, senior Scotland Yard officers are expected to come under fire when they are questioned about the hacking row by London's police authority. MPs will separately take evidence for a parliamentary inquiry into the scandal and the DPP is to meet top Met officers to discuss existing and new evidence and see how they can, in the interests of justice,  make it all go away.  It is not known if Mr Starmer, the DPP, is also an employee of Mr Rupert Corpse. But probably. Mr Starmer has previously given all these cunts a clean bill of health when even the dogs in the street know that Mr Git is a slag.

Speaking on the matter, Big Al Campbell, drunk,  depressive, pronographer, liar and dossier merchant said that he had just published another selection of his diaries which he expected to sell like shit cakes, I mean hot cakes. No, I mean shitcakes.

Scotland Yard, a branch of NewsCorp,  today faces serious criticism from Chris Huhne for its handling of the case – and its "astonishing" use of undercover officers to target eco-activists. Mr Huhne, the Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change, and as much use as a chocolate kettle, told The IoS that the recent suspension of the NoW executive Ian Edmondson had "dramatically changed the situation, and clearly the police and the Met in particular need to get to the bottom of this". I am a very important fellow you know, and, like a true Liberal Democrat, living with a lesbian.

Mr Huhne also said he and Vince Foxtrot, the Secretary of State for Business Only Not Murdoch's, will write to the president of the Association of Chief Police Officers plc,  Sir Hugh Gob, after being told they were added to a secret police database of criminal suspects after speaking at a green protest. He also suggested that the police have "invented" the threat posed by green campaigners to justify ongoing resources. 

Scotland Yard is also still trying to contain the fallout from the revelation that Mr Johnson's surprise resignation from the Labour front bench was triggered by his wife's alleged affair with his former police bodyguard. As if anybody gave a fuck about that.

Sir Paul Gob, CEO of the Met, said that he had no intention of resigning, my officers may well be crooks, liars,  sadistic, cripple-bashing  bullies and cock-waving nincompoops, who couldn't guard a church fete but all this is in the finest traditions of the service. And Boris Johnson can't sack a second Commissioner can he, not if he wants to keep on snorting coke and fucking other blokes' wives. I expect Mr Murdoch has some pictures, somewhere.....he usually does.

the unabridged report is at the IoS, and good stuff, too.

EVENSONG: JUST LET ME HEAR SOME OF THAT ROCK'N'ROLL MUSIC.JACKSON BROWNE SINGS WARREN ZEVON.

Jackson Browne is a sort of Warren Zevon-lite. Friends and collaborators, Browne had the massive commercial success, while Zevon's darker, more sardonic stuff played to a cult audience, including me. This was recorded by Browne around the time of Zevon's 2003 death from cancer, aged 53. The Devil wants  his own beside him. The extended Zevon 12-string version, on Learning To Flich is superior musically - Zevon studied with Stravinsky - but not as funky as this. Mr Browne seldom puts a foot wrong. In this life, anyway.

LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION: "PUNISHED TWICE FOR THE SAME OFFENCE, EVEN THOUGH, OF COURSE, HE NEVER COMMITTED THE FIRST OFFENCE, IN THE FIRST PLACE"

 Leave it to me, prime  minister, I can lie for you wholesale.

Flashman, floundering about desperately, "punished twice-ing", the clown, defending his catastrophic stupidity and arrogance in appointing the slag, Coulson, as his PR wallah, he has seldom looked so stupid, so shallow, so insulting.  The longer this overprivileged oaf is in pretend office the more one must roar with laughter at the money wasted on his education, one wonders if he can wipe his own arse, or is that one of dopey Michael Gove's tasks;  Oh yes, Prime minister,  I am dreadfully sorry that I have to keep apologising to the house of commons, Whoops, there I go again, aplogising, and so the least, the very least I can do for you is wipe your arse; now, would you prefer paper or tongue, prime minister?

An imbecile in a coma could see that either Coulson is lying in his teeth when he says that he knew nothing of regular illegality by his fellow slags at skymadeupnewsandfilth or that he is a thick as a fence post for not knowing  and that either should keep him firmly out of Downing Street. The view here, in Ishmaelia,  is that Coulson's presence in govament was Murdoch's price for supporting, firstly, Dave's warring ragbag of prats and chancers and braying, pinstripe hoodlums like Michael Fallon and then, when Dave couldn't even beat the most hated politician in living memory, this Coalition of the Unwholesome, this gang of nasty pimps and toilet-creeping, shit-eating hypocrites.

The view of the Lobby cocksuckers, in the form of the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson of the BBC,

is that Flashman, dimly aware that he is an inbred, fish-faced mutant with more money than sense,  and a defecit in the IQ department - I don't give a fuck about his First in PPE, anyone ever listen to his tutor, Victor Bogbrush, the Tory Speak-Your-Weight-Machine? - needed the slag, Coulson,  to make his case to the lower orders; surrounded by public school millionaires, said Robinson, without any irony, the PM needed Coulson's "finger on the pulse of the common man "  the better,  one supposes,  to persuade him that we are all in this together.  This was one of Slaphead Robinson's  career defining reports.  The prime minister is clever, you are all stupid, hence the need for a bent toerag like Coulson to lie to you.

That the prime minister, half of his front bench and senior serving and former  officers in the Met are in the employ of the Praise God, soon-to-be-dead, anti-democrat, Murdoch

 

CEO NEWSCORP.

escaped Mr Robinson's fabled incisive scrutiny, It's because he's a cunt, Robinson, good for fuck all.

HM GOVAMENT. ALL HUMAN LIES ARE THERE.

If there are still poor, sad, benighted  citizens out there, bleating that we should give the unelected, gerrymandering, Coalition of Degenerates a chance; if they are  still barracking Brown, as though he was here, as though he gave a fuck, as though he religiously read the posts at the Filth-O-Graph  and The PizzaHouseOfBlood and felt sorry about all his madness;  if they kneel before their beds at night praying that dinner ladies be thrown out of work in order for the bankers to avoid regulation,  that highly skilled nurses  make a career change to being shelf-stackers at Tesco or jumper salesladies at M and fucking S, praying, in fact, for anything which maintains Rupert Murdoch's exemption from paying UK tax, then what they should do is shout loudly for a friend to come and help them pull their heads out of their arses.  On the other hand, perhaps they should leave them there, HeadUpArseMiddleEnglanders. Too stupid to come out in the daylight,  too stupid to know even  when they're being fucked.

JOHNSON SHOCK UPDATE: NOT MY COCK SHOCK.

Mr Alan Cuckold, former shadow chancellor, singin' the blues.

Mr Tiny Speaker, I would just like to inform the 'Ouse that it's not my cock that I was talking about,  earlier, but Old Bill's cock, on which, I understand, Mrs Postman Number Two has been doing a First Class delivery service. All the rest of my earlier remarks are true. I won't be making any further comments. About anybody's cock.

 Apart from that it's a right old to-do, when even an 'Ome Seckatry can't leave his missus alone with the police without  them taking liberties. I think they should all be held in custody for ninety days and then deported.

COCK, SORRY, SHOCK RESIGNATION.

I would just liike to say that I am resigning for deeply personal reasons to do with my cock and members and right honourable members on all sides of the house will know how very personal these matters are. I would like to thank Ed Wossaname for making me the petty cash monitor, even though my adding-up is shite.  But during my time in govament I feel I have left my mark, mainly as Helf Seckatry, where, had it not been for me, many thousands  who are now, at no cost to themselves, dead,  would not have been; so distinguished was I as Helf Seckatry that they even named a disease after me - AlanJohnson'sDisease (lazius filthius bastarditis lethalis) - and while Home Seckatry, another surprise appointment, I presided over further dismantling of civil liberties, a matter which we, in this house, are all equally dedicated.  I now retunr to the backbenches to serve my cock more diligently, I mean my constituents and I will not be making any further statement on my cock. Well, not to you lot, anyway.

see update

TOWARDS A GAY POLICE STATE.

FREEDOM FIGHTERS; AYE, RIGHT, TOSSERS.

'When we booked this hotel we just wanted to do something that thousands of other couples do every weekend - take a relaxing weekend break away,  do some poppers  and shove our fists up each others arses," said Mr and Mrs Martyn Hall and Steven Preddy, " that these two old hypocrites were more concerned about their laundry bill than my civil rights is just typical of the attacks on gay people which are all too common.  I mean, a bit of shit, maybe with some blood in it,  it doesn't bother us, why should it bother them?"

Mrs Hall had booked a room in a Cornish guest house for he and his civil partner and were astounded when, upon arrival, the Christian owners declined to honour the booking, saying that they wouldn't even allow unmarried heterosexual couples to sleep together and do some fisting and buggery.  It was just their faith,  they felt that only married people should sleep together and that, quite clearly, two screeching arse bandits, like these two, whatever they say, are not married. The visit by Preddy and Hall was orchestrated by Stonewall who had given notice to the guest house owners that their tiny business was an affront to everything that was decent and proper in the fisting community.  Stonewall then sent these two slags along, itching for a court case.  Now that the police service is seen as the biggest closet in the country, our two complainants were confident of a police intervention in this entirely trivial matter.  The cops were called to the hotel and spent some time - honest, not invent - finding Mr and Mrs Cocksucker alternative hotel accommodation, obviously no smugglers to catch in Cornwall, these days, PC Trelawney, sitting around on his pert arse, instead, gelling his hair, just waiting to fight hate crime.

In Bristol County Court, Mr Justice Slag ruled that the hotel owners Mr and Mrs Bull, elderly and in poor health, must pay the screeching bitches nearly four grand in compensation.  Their religious beliefs are shit, compared with the rights of these two revolting hypocrites, he said, even though they offered the claimants two single rooms  and were not at all rude or unpleasant towards them, just a bit eccentric, they are clearly in breach of the  relevant ShitOnTheSheets (permission to)  legislation..

Mrs Bull has argued that even her brother and his female partner were not allowed to share a room in her house due to her strict religious beliefs. And they don't even do any of that Shit-love shit, as far as we know. Or sticking their fists up each other's arses.. Nipple clamps and cock rings, they don't so any of that shit, either. 'Our double-bed policy was based on our sincere beliefs about marriage, not hostility to anybody,' she said. The notice on the Bull's website read: 'We have few rules but please note that out of a deep regard for marriage we prefer to let double accommodation to heterosexual married couples only.' Ben Summerskill, a career gay activist from Stonewall, and a complete waste of space,  enthused over the ruling, hissing spitefully:  'You can't turn away people from a hotel because they're black or Jewish and in 2011 you shouldn't be able to demean them by turning them away because they're gay either. 'Religious freedom shouldn't be used as a cloak for prejudice.  Smearing shitty anal lubricant on the sheets can no longer be seen as an impediment to a stay in a small, privately-run guest house.' Right, Ben, you know best. Cunt.  Earlier gay activists, truly bold,  entrapped and brutalised by the very same Old Bill, battered and courageous, will be spinning in their graves at this fucking nonsense.

WORMS, YOUR HONOUR.

It's all very interesting, in a morality play sort of fashion; eminent QC and peer of the Realm, Lord John Taylor of Warwick at  Southwark  Court.

"....shitdrops keep falling on my head..."

and eminent QC and peer of the Realm, Lord Peter Goldsmith,

I know nothing, I am just a lawyer. Stupid. An imbecile.

at the Chilcott IraqFest.

Taylor, facing jail for false accounting in relation to his expenses, says that somebody told him it was alright, even if it was wrong, for him to invent a second home and claim for its upkeep and his travel to and from it, even though he didn't live there and therefore didn't go to it. He fell, he claims, among noble thieves, and who can doubt it;  Lord So-and-So told me it was alright, he bleats, through his own QC. And I'm only a lawyer and a QC myself, how'm I supposed to tell the difference between right and wrong?  If someone tells me something's legal, that's good enough for me. And another thing, I gave up a promising career, as a pisspoor lawyer, to come and work here for the Tory party without any wages;  they forced me to do it, give up being a lawyer and become a thief, I had no choice, why shouldn't I claim for something  I'm not entitled to; it's not as though I had any form of income, apart from the broadcasting and journalism. Lord John also told reporters that he had been living in the West Midlands, caring for his sick mother, when, in fact, she had been dead for six years. How'm I supposed to know when my mother's dead or alive, I'm only an eminent QC? His Not Guilty plea really does beggar belief.

If Taylor had any sense he would throw himself on the mercy of the Court or plead insanity; dissembling badly, like the rotten lawyer he is,  will see him inside;  the first black peer, in jail,  Jesus fucking wept, what a legacy, a dirty footnote in political history, a vindication,  they will insist,  of all who damned his blackness in Cheltenham, years ago, called him coon and wog, unfit -  his friends, in the Nasty Party. There is a position from which one can say Serve him right, up his own arse, Uncle Tom-ing, what does he expect from the Establishment but that if there's someone to be thrown to the wolves, it'll be him, Darky. A wider, better-tempered view would be that doubtless many deserve to be in Taylor's position, and aren't, and that his scapegoating is deliberate and will assist those bent on niggering their fellows, just like they always did.  I knew Taylor was  a fool within ten seconds of meeting him, so would anyone;  lawyer, doctor, banker and politician fools, though,  tend, normally, to get away with their foolishness, Taylor, in his rush to be Inside, hadn't realised that even first class  fools play with a deck stacked against the  second class likes of him. He's threatening to robustly question his fellow thieving peer, the one who told him it was OK to steal from the taxpayer, but who now denies saying any such thing,  should be interesting, peers and probably lawyers, falling out. Odd, how the same culture which permits Mr and Mrs Kinnock to sign-in to the Euro parliament  for two minutes, whilst the taxi is waiting outside to ferry them to a cheap flight home, for which they will claim an expensive, full-price reimbursement,  the rotten slags, also, out of the blue,  forbids poor Lord Taylor from claiming  a tiny fraction of what the Kinnocks so eagerly troughed.

Rather less pathos attaches itself to Blair's legal bumboy, Goldsmith, former Attorney General and now million pounds a year solicitor, barrister, advocat, member of an international lawyers' cartel, desperately trying to wash his hands of his former mentor, Tony Blair.  He kept me on the outside, whines Goldsmith, I didn't know what was going on.  How was I to know? If I had known what was going to happen I never would have said it's OK,  legally, for two members to defy the rest of the United Nations and just go marching into another country and steal everything and kill hundreds of thousands and torture people to death. Of course I wouldn't. I'm a lawyer for goodness sake. I guess I was just too trusting. I mean, I knew Tony, and he made me Attorney General, even though I was rubbish, and because of that, now I'm earning all this Hoon-money. And I definitely don't want to lose it, And so if the Enquiry, or anybody, really, wants me to say that Tony Blair is a mad, lying, thieving bastard who misled the commons,  is congenitally estranged from the truth and who, with his arse-companion, Big Mad Al bi-curious Campbell, cooked up a whole massive fiction about Weapons and shit then that is what I'm gonna say, I'm a lawyer, after all.  I do so solemnly swear.

If this keeps up, poor Mr Blair may come to feel like a latterday General Pinochet, ill at ease in the UK,  fearful of arrest, his dreams, which should be so leisured and peaceful and Godly, fraught, instead, with visions of disgrace and shame and humiliation and prison, bless.

WOTSONTELLY: SPECIALITY OF THE HOUSE

HOW TO KILL AND EAT A TV COOK.

They're everywhere, useless fucking bastards, cooks,  in the bookshops and all over the telly. Used to be cops, doctors, lawyers, cowboys and Panorama, now it's fucking cooks, although they call themselves chefs, even if, not counting  souffle and saute, none of them can speak a word of French, apart from the French fuckers.  Why don't those fucking Roux brother bastards stay in France,  if they're so good at la belle cuisine.  Frog wankers. Probably wouldn't get a job washing the pots in a French transport cafe but pop over here on Eurostar  and people're falling all over themselves to pay hundreds of pounds for their fucking rubbish,  Ees zee apple pie, 'ow my Mama used to make eet, Ah, I can steel smell zee apples and zee cinnamon, eet ees tres deliceueueueueuese, zat weel be twenty five pounds, s'il vous plait, you Anglaise pig, Non, ees not for zee 'ole pie, ees for zis tiny leedle portion. Time  to kill the gobby fag bastards, and eat them. Frog, English, Spic, Wop, Dago or Chink, take your pick. What sort of a job is it, for a bloke, fucking about with egg whites? Country's hurtling down the toilet and you can't turn on the telly without some fucking mouthy  cook with an Equity card, larging it, with fucking  fresh chilies, is it chilies or chilis, I don't know, not the sort of thing a decent Britonshould know. That fucking Ainsley Harriot, what a cunt.

 

 

All a bloke needs know is how to do a traditional barbecue with chicken and burgers and sausages, maybe  a few nicely browned onions  and some proper white bread and tomato ketchup,  the rest of it is for women. And poofs.  Balsamic vinegar, where'd that come from, what's wrong with decent malt vinegar, you can't put that Balsamic shit on your chips.

You won't catch one of them in a proper kitchen, they all hang around  the TeeVee studios.  Just go into one that smells of burnt fish skin, garlic and lemon juice and you'll find that infuriating, campaigning bastard and Mockney git, boy-man,  Jamie Oliver,

Luvvly-Jubblying over some revolting burnt offering, wiping his fingers on the arse of his filthy jeans and saying,  Oh My Lord and That Is Gorgeous and This Is What I Feed My Kids.  You just walk up to him saying 'Allo Jamie, my son, jus' come to shake you by the brass band,  grab him by the Barnet Fair, pull his head hard down on the chopping board, breaking his Marie Rose if you can,  and using a big triangular cooks knife, chop his head off  and throw it in the bin.  This might take three or four attempts, because he's closer to ape than man,  but just keep hacking away, it'll come off in the end. It'll probably keep chuntering on about flavours and herbs and Oh My Lording for a good five minutes but pay it no mind, pepper just loves strawberries,  that's the sort of shit he talks and ginger just loves Sea Bass. Stupid fucking bastard.  What you do then is you pull his clothes off and discard them, make a neat incision in his stomach and pull all the guts and nasty bits out, you can wear rubber gloves if you want, but I don't bovver, just wiping me hands on me jeans when I'm done. Wash me 'ands?| Nah, you can 'ave too much elfansafety, innit.  And then you just chop 'im all up into bits, rub 'im  all over wiv garlic and lemon zest, best mates, they are, Jamie an' lemon juice and season 'im wiv a bit a salt and a bit a pepper and frow it in a big pot wiv some good olive oil from Sainsburys and some coriander, or you can use parsley or mint or dill, or any a them herbs, or even some cabbage'll do, if you got any lawn clippings, just bung 'em in, to be dead honest wiv you I don't fink it matters,  they all taste the same to me. If you ain't got no 'erbs or no vegetables then a  good handful of weeds from the garden is just as good.  Boil the bastard up for an hour or two, correct the seasoning, stir in a good dollop of creme fraische, a handful of chilies and serve wiv some creamed potatoes wiv butter on 'em.   Geezer and Mash au buerre, as we call it in the trade. It's cheap, common, plentiful and nourishing, only not very.  And it makes you retch. Just like Jamie.

For a special treat and to kill three cooks with one stone, so to speak, try this imaginative three cooks in one Sunday Roast, or, hang the Sunday Roast,  keep it for a mediaeval feast, like they do on River Cottage, with all the neighbours dressed up - by Channel Four -  as churls and serfs and minstrels, drinking mead and wassailing. Just tie the Jamie bastard up in a nice parcel wiv some stuffing  and set aside. Then, catch Hugh Fearnly-Wanker - if you just stand there with a camera, he'll march up to you and start trying to make you feel guilty or stupid or both, for not being a pretend farmer and pretend restaurateur, like he isn't, at least not without a C4 production crew of scores - seedsmen,  food technicians, gardeners, labourers, drivers, all perpetuating this myth that clever. resourceful, industrious and ethical  Hugh does all this, just him and his  ghastly family and his pretend neighbours, the horrible fucking bastard.

and tie him by his lank, greasy hair, the dirty fucking bastard,  to a centrifuge, spin at 5,000 rpm for three hours, until he's dead.  If you want to hit him with a big stick as he spins around, that's all very well and will help tenderise the meat. When he's dead, chop off his arms and legs and head and throw in the stockpot, this makes a really good mediaeval stock, if you add enough OXO cubes and monosodium glutomate, put all his guts and organs in the bin for the dogs, and leave him to marinade in a mixrure of  fennel and beetroot  and freshly picked privet leaves and   store in a fridge until required.

Next, catch  Anthony Wobble-Thompson, he'll be outside, having a crafty fag, because the anti-smoking killjoys don't fool him, grab him by his nasty wee nonce's  beard

and beat the obnoxious bastard to death, taking great care to hit him full in the face with a housebrick or other culinary implement of choice,  even if he's not quite dead just  remove the head limbs and guts as before anyway, the smarmy little bastard deserves to suffer and it will improve the flavour. Spatchcock the bastard and with a cleaver held sideways, batter him out flat, taking care to rub lots of garlic and chilli into the flesh, to spice him up a bit;  place the pre-stuffed Jamie Oliver in the centre and securely tie  the  Hugh Fearnly-Wanker around him, making sure to drizzle some really good olive oil between them, along with  a good handful of garlic and chllies. Repeat with AWT  around the other two and replace in the 'fridge. When it's time to cook, roast in a hot oven until the juices run clear, or it's all burnt to fuck, like Jamie does.

Finally, to make the gravy,  look online for Nazi Scientist Re-enactment Associations and locate Heston Blumenthal

and kill  him by alternately dipping him in icy water and roasting him with a blowtorch.  Use a precision-made Krupps  thermometer shoved up his arse from time to time to check the temperature, it should fluctuate rapidly between freezing cold and roasting hot, it is best to gag Blumenthal during this process as the bastard just  can't fucking shut up;  when he's dead, hang him upside-down and drain the blood out, set aside and reserve for making ice cream a la Heston. For this you will need a helicopter, a JCB, some ice flown in from the Arctic Circle,  the band of the Argyll and Southern Highlanders, a half-kilo of uranium, a chainsaw and an industrial-sized, fully-staffed laboratory craned into your back garden.  You will also need 400 litres of double cream, a gallon of Napoleon Brandy, two dozen plovers eggs, a side of smoked salmon, ten pounds of pork sausages and a large bottle of HP sauce. Check the website www.hestonisamadcunt.com for the full recipe.  To make the gravy, simply chop Heston up and throw him in a low oven overnight, in the morning pour off all the fat and the madness juices,  boil up the remaining bits, throw in some chillies and some garlic and some ginger and some paprika and some cayenne pepper, blitz it all up and dress with leaves from the garden or if you haven't got a garden, from the nearest roundabout or motorway verge.

Just pull off some chunks of the HughanJamieanAnthonyRoast wiv your bare 'ands, making sure you get a bit of all of 'em and put it on a piece of floorboard, I like to serve it on summink rustic, and  make a pile of mash wiv an 'ole in the middle and fill it  wiv hestongravy and then drizzle it wiv olive oil and sprinkle wiv some gravel. Or nice bits of glass. You can finely shred some bits of the Sun or the News ov The World  and just sprinkle it, artistically. Oh My Lord. GeezersanMash. Them's what you call Bold Flavours. It's really, really good an' interestin' ingredients  an' contemporary an' exciting. Just you serve that up to 'em and your friends are gonna fink you're the dogsbollocks.

Next week: We make a trifle featuring bits of Delia Smith,  Rick Stein and the late Fanny and Wanky  Craddock.

SAFETY NOTICE: On no account try to eat Gordon Ramsay, kill him by all means but just put him, whole, in your next door neighbour's wheely bin

 wanker

Screcching Gordon is  unwholesomely just full of shit - veins, bones, tissue, heart, brain, all of it, just shit, bubbling away. Your correspondent worked, once, in the kitchens of a five-star two hundred bedroomed hotel and anyone acting like this cocksucker, be he chef de cuisine, sous chef, chef de partie, commis chef or kitchen porter would have got a brass-handled, copper-bottomed sauteur in his face, arsehole. Ramsay is to the catering trade what John Prescott is to the labour movement

On our sister  channel it's Gemtime and on offer at the moment is a fabulous combination necklace, brooch, wristwatch, steamcleaner and sewing machine made of pure Craponite in a Tinzanium setting,  there must be at least a quarter  carat of Craponite and very nearly two grammes of purest  Tinzanium,  yours for only twenty easy payments of sixty-nine pounds ninety-nine, plus p&p. A little bit over  a grand to own this remarkable wotsaname. I don't believe it. How do we do it?