Monday 28 February 2011



Famous for his roles as torturer, arsonist, child killer, bomber and mass murderer, Gerry gave a moving speech on receiving his award from the people of Louth.

It's all about the little people, so it is, and I wouldn't be here without them, so I wouldn't, grinned the man who starred in the deaths of three thousand people and the maimings of tens of thousands.  There's just so many of them, so there is, there's them wee lads in Warrington, and all them people in the Birmingham pubs, aye, and there's that wee woman I buried alive, not far from here, and your man, Captain Nairac, I starred opposite him in Torture of an Officer, directed by my good friend, Marty Kneecaps, he really brings out the best in me, Marty, you shoulda heard yon bastard scream, as we sliced him to pieces;  it was a great piece of performance art, even though it was real, so it was.  I am just so grateful, so I am, to the people of Ireland for finally recognising the work I have been doing all these years and I promise to dedicate myself to keeping my noncing brother safe from prosecution by giving him a starring role in the ongoing marvel that is Sinn  Fein, and where nobody can touch him. A final word of appreciation to our dear friend and fellow Man of God, the right reverend Tony Blair of Libya, without whom this great award wouldn't have been possible, so it wouldn't.  And I would have been in jail where I belong, so I do.

In London, the pretend Chancellor, Mr George Osblow, said that Mr Adams' honour was all the more reason that money stolen from Bristish taxpayers should be funnelled to  financial terrorists, aka the Irish Banks.  Ireand is a great friend of ours, having bombed us unfailingly for nearly  forty years and supported Mr O'Hitler in the last war; we must, therefore,  support their bankers just as  staunchly as we support our own;  eight billion pounds, after all,  in the scheme of things, is fuck all.

Sunday 27 February 2011


Sgt Ross Wimp, I mean Kemp, 2nd battalion, 
Queen's Own NancyBoys Regt, (The Gay EastEnders)

Sergeant Ross, a recovering spousal abuse victim, led a daring attack on the costume department of skymadeupnewsandfilth, resulting in him being able to nancy-about on camera like a proper he-man, which he isn't, fuck no, not by a long way. 'Swot ya do, innit, if yer from the EastEnd, like my character is, apples an' pears, apples an' pears.  They wuz like family, them geezers out there, in the oil camps, woddever, end-of, 'ang abaht, whachoolookinat,  and so we hadda geddem out, like, geddit saw-tid. Nah, dunmenchunit, all in a day's work, fer a NancyBoy soldier.

That bizness, wiv Rebekka, my ex, right slag she was an' no mistake, knocked seven kindsa TomTit outa me, she did, busted me 'Ampsteads right up, mince pies was black an blue for weeks after an' fuck me, me 'Enry 'Alls  was aching like a bastard.  I tell ya, I was off down the ole Frog an Toad right sharpish, back into the regiment, where a man can be  'isself, dress-up like an 'ero and 'ang about wiv 'is mates, playin' soldiers.

Next week Ross stars in another  gritty cockumentary, in which he goes head to cock, I mean head, with some of America's toughest gangsters/prisoners/cops/female impersonators. And watch out for Ross's starring role in Take It Like A Man, The Raoul Moat Story, coming soon to a skymadeupnewsandfilth channel near you.

if you  are a gay man with muscles and  a shiny, bald head and have been affected by any of the issues in this piece, contact and talk to other, like-minded closet fairies.

Friday 25 February 2011


In New Zealand, fears were raised that senior British politicians might become involved in attempts ro rescue trapped earthquake victims and make matters much worse.  Kia Ora, mates, it's bad enough down here without those fuckers trying to lend a hand, said Mr Bruce Cobber, the Kiwis' HeadMan Minister.

Mr Cobber in his ceremonial body-recovering  from earthquake robes.
Christ, made a right gurgler of the place, it has, the 'quake, everything fucking falling down but we'll manage without any help from that fella, Cameron; Jesus, just look at him, Middle East going up like a beachside barbie and he's there trying to sell them firelighters. Man's a prat, couldn't win if he started the night before, musta got his degree out of a CornFlakes Box.

And his offsider, the gobby bald bloke, he's an iron hoof, ain't he. Y'know, him with a face like a bush pig's arse.  Now don't get me wrong, nothing wrong, per se, with pushin' the brown wheelbarrow, some a me best  mates is travellin' on the other bus but they don't crack on like they was married, that's enough to make a decent bloke chunder 'is guts up,  queers and normal geezers alike, 'Strewth, nobody likes people like that Hague bloke, bit of a fuckin' freak, you ask me, double dodgy. And couldn't organise worth shit. Even a simple matter, getting a plane a few hundred miles, it all goes to custard on 'im, must be crook in the head, mate. It can do that to you, stirring the muesli with the wrong spoon. I mean, y'only gottas look at him to know he's radio rental. Foreign Seckatry? 'Saboutright,  as foreign as it gets, mate.

Nah we'll manage, bro, no worries, she'll be right, without any  drongos comin' down 'ere and fuckin things up like they do in Pommyland, sellin' everything off, to Messrs Spiv & Co. Get Dave and his boys down here and the whole fuckin' gaff'll submerge undert he waves, quicker'n a fart-sniffin' cabinet minister can get his head under the duvet, knowaddamean?

Elsewhere in the Pacific,  doors were being shut in the face of incompetent, bungling Old Etonian laughing stock, Mr Flashman and his ladyman foreign seckatry. G'day mates and Christ on a fucking rope, said Aussie premier, Mrs Sheila Cobber-Bruce, below,

formerly Miss Ugly Adelaide. 1961,

ain't we got enough shit without them comin' here,  actin the goat, fulla piss and wind and all over the place like a mad woman's breakfast? Fuck me sideways, one minute the whole fucking place is on fire and the next it's under fucking water, last fucking thing we want is Cameron and his in-house backdoor bandit; couldn't fart into a botle, neither of them, if one a them bastards bought a kangaroo it wouldn't hop,  Jesus, they wouldn't last a round with a revolving door. Seen them all marching into Downin' Street this morning , all dressed up like a pox doctor's clerk,   all carryin' their red folders, like fucking prefects at a girls 'school. Dunno how you Poms put up with them, Christ, it was bad enough, before,  with that snotmunching arsehole, him with a face like a yard of tripe and a kangaroo loose in the top paddock,  but these jokers, only got one oar in the bleedin' water, they have.

EVENSONG. Richie Havens "License To Kill"

Thursday 24 February 2011


The Miscarriage Kid is tough and strong,
the Miscarriage Kid just can't go wrong.

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Well you may mock, you old Tory people but I assure you
that when you are all dead I will succeed in making the country
- and myself, the laughing cock, I mean stock of the world.

Wednesday 23 February 2011

EVENSONG, RAGA WITH DOGBLOKE, Ravi Shankar with his other daughter, Anoushka Shankar, sister to Ms Norah Jones.




Now listen to me, world, as I have some very important things to say. To be honest I couldn't, myself, win an election against a certifiable madman  but even so, we are where we are, and clearly, at the end of the day,  y'know, the bottom line is that  I am the duly not elected prime minister of what was once the United Kingdom. But we're gonna change all that, third world banana republic, here we come.  I want you to pay close attention to me. My father paid for an otherwise  perfectly genuine First for me from Oxford,  although not in history, obviously, or geography, or adding up, just as all decent not hard-working parents like mine should do for their children, only  not those who can't afford it, not being the descendants of whores and robber barons, or the best families, as we call ourselves.  And this, if I may digress, is the very crux of the education dilemma facing little Mr Gove, poor people wanting degrees like mine, wanting to go up to Oxford when they can't even afford a little ridiculous, Gad, Sir, Hellfire Club posturing, like myself and most of the Cabinet and Mr Dimbleby.  But, as I say, we are where we are, or I am, anyway, so fuck democracy, and  what I want to tell you is that all the things we have said and done up to now, we Tories and the other lot, they were all wrong.  And now that we've been found out we have to do some highly principled smooth talking, which is what we are very good at, or,  in my case quite good, not, as we've said, election-winning good  but you know, that doesnt matter any longer, or it won't by the time we've changed all the boundaries. Every thing we have all said up to now was wrong, not everything, exactly, I mean, cutting everything, especially the Navy, that was clearly right, otherwise my employer, Mr Murdoch would have shouted at me, maybe even sacked me. And the bankers, Gosh, imagine if we had taxed them properly, they'd have gone in a proper sulk, I shouldn't wonder.  But cosying-up to dictators and unelected riff-raff, that has to stop. Only not, obviously, Mr Clegg, or, for that matter, myself.

British citiens being protected, well, let me take my coat off to answer that one.

The first thing is that just because we have no aircraft carriers and few planes and have sacked all the pilots, anyway, it doesn't mean we can't protect Britons abroad, even though we can't.  The Big Society, that's the thing, volunteer regiments of sacked dinner ladies, they'll sort it out. The main thing for you all to remember is that Mr William Hague is Foreign Seckatry, and that he has great experience in these things; it is just, after all, a bloody, heavily-armed revolution,  heading to civil war, just  like speaking to an after-dinner gathering of drunken Rotarians, at which, as we all know,  he excelled.

On top of that, Mr Hague was, and may quite soon be again, a director of Messrs JCB, the bulldozer and earthmoving people, from which prestigious post he moonlighted as an MP.  There is a lot of sand in whereveritis and sand needs earth- or sand-moving equipment, all the more prescient of Mr Hague to take all that money from JCB when he should have been serving his constituents. All in all British citizens abroad need not worry about their safety as nor will Mr Hague. And, finally, I would just ask British people in Libya to recall how very protective Mr Hague was, recently,  of the privacy of his wife's womb, which he all but opened up  with a speculum for public inspection, when people suggested he was sleeping with a pretty young man half his age. Which, perfectly normally, he was. No, I feel that under me and Mr Clegg's  and Mr Hague's steady hands British citizens abroad are as safe as their jobs and services and expectations and rights are at home. Which is not at all safe, although that is exactly what me and Mr Clegg came into politics to do.  Bismillah, as we statesmen say, it is the will of Barclays.

SUGARBABES. LADIES SING THE BLUES. Bonnie Raitt & Norah Jones~Tennessee Waltz


"For us, he is a personal family friend. I first met him around four years ago at Number 10. Since then I've met him several times in Libya where he stays with my father. He has come to Libya many, many times."

Thus spake Saif al wotsit Gaddafi, the Colonel's jumped-up thieving bastard son, of his friend Tony Blair;  is "personal family friend " the same thing as being on the dictator's  bloody payroll?  Might Tony and Imelda now spend even more time airborne, suffering the international criminal's well-known Fear of Landing?

 Got any free stuff? Her Honour Judge Booth-Blair.
Cheerleader for the Iraq Invasion and rich men's groupie.

The best that can be said for the former first couple of Cool Britannia is that pimping for Gaddafi is not quite as bad as pimping for Dubya. Not much of a ringing, historical endorsement.

And where is Mandy, cocksucker-architect of NewLabour and close friend of Saif al wotsit al wotsit, tiger-keeper, playboy and more recently ranting demagogue.

                                                      Both have holidayed together, once with the ghastly Mr George Osbum and Saif describes Mandy as " a killer of a man." Shooting  animals together - how very NewLabour -  at a weekend do,  thrown by famous humatarian, Baron von Rothschild von Cunt, the two are said to have discussed  the fate of  fitted-up Libyan, Mr al Megrahi, although Mandy's spokesperson insists airily that the conversation only lasted a few sentences.

 And what about royal cretin number two, Andy, aka Duke of York, a regular visitor to Saif?  The useless gobby fuckpig of a prince has entertained Gaddafi junior more than once, in Buckingham Palace. Probably in the national interest.

And finally, for now, what about this gang? Salmond, to be sure, can count on directorships with a grateful Donald Trump, to whom he has gifted a Scottish site of special scientific interest and an even more grateful Brian Souter of Stagecoach Travel, to whom he has delegated Scottish transport policy;  does he really need a bung, also,  from Gaddafi, not, of course that he is now likely to get one ?

Straw is a bumptious, worthless lying turd, so far up his own arse that neither daylight nor truth can illuminate his dark doings, torture and infanticide, lying, with his cock out, before the entire United Nations, Jesus, how do they sleep, these people? Justice minister McKaskill is or was or will be again a member of the law firm instrumental in quoshing all interest in the Hollie Greig Establishment PaedoRing, Socttish lawyers the scum of the Earth. What really went on here, with Mr al Megrahi;  would one believe a word that any of these people said about their various dealings with Libya, with GlobaCorp, even with each other?

As events unfold it gets harder and harder to peddle the old line that politicians have to deal with nasty people and it becomes clearer that, especially with our recent and current crop, politicans are the nasty people.

The Blair confection has been melting now for some time, the mayhem in Libya has resurrected images and positions which can but embarrass him further. But he did not act alone, nor in a particularly partisan way, Blair never, in any event. served party, just Greed.  As Ruin slithers away from it's servant, Gaddafi, we must follow its slime trail; it may yet lead to the Hague, and an imprisonment, at least, of the Vanities.

Tuesday 22 February 2011


Mr Lewis Hamilton, a prominent sandwich-board man.

Well, of course I love England, it made me what I am and everything, and me dad and everything and all the fans and everything, it's just that I don't want to pay any tax there. And so I don't, all quite legal, Patriot? of course I am, I read the Daily Filth-O-Graph.

 Mr Sir Max Miller, head of sado-masochistic development for Formula One was interviewed yesterday by Mr Hugh Heffner,  on Radio Playboy:

Maxie, baby, tell Uncle Hugh about those whipping bitches,  they hot shit? Well, Hugh, as one playboy to another I can tell you that I am deeply disappointed by the decision not to hold a race in Bah!-rain.  The region, as I am sure you will know, being a filthy degenerate, like myself, is home to many European Nazi-thinking and Nazi-dressing young women, only too keen to discipline older gentlemen like myself with a variety of straps, whips, scourges, crops, ropes and canes in exchange for money.  I was so looking forward to making their acquainance and urging them to beat my scarred old bottom until it lit up the night sky all over Arabia. Seig Heil. And if my wife finds out about this I will sue everybody.

a psychiatrist writes: it's because he comes from a family of fascists - whips, gloves, boots, big shiny cars. Surprised they let Lewis Hamilton in, really.


Now listen, I would simply say this. I only took the million F1 pounds from Lord Ecclescake in order to stop him spending it on weapons of mass destruction. Now, as it turns out, he wasn't going to buy any anyway. But, listen, I simply say, which of  us knows these things at the time? And I answer myself, none of us, save for He who will judge me, up in Heaven. It's all very straightforward and recorded in the minutes which Imelda has carefully shredded.  Mr Cakes wanted to be able to carry-on advertising fags which I, as a concerned prime minister, had banned. What's it worth, shortarse, I despatched Mr Lord Levy to find out, from Mr  Cakes.  He's good for a mill, no questions arsked, said Lord Levy on his return. Just as long as 'e can keep on advertising the gaspers  And the WMD? Nah, he won't be buying none a them.  And that's all there was to it.  The very best of reasons.  I took the million pounds out of a sense of national duty.  Now, if I was misled by Mr Lord Levy, well, that's just because I am too trusting and, in fact, now that I am earning proper money I barely see the creepy little JewBoy. And in the end I gave Lord Ecclescakes his money back AND allowed him to carry on advertising the fags.  Can't say fairer than that. Govament of the rich, for the rich and by the rich, what Labour was founded for. I won't apologIse for ridding motor racing of Weapons of Mass Destruction,  that's just the kinda guy I am. Even if there weren't any.

That's all the F1 News for this week but Jeremy Fatso is doing car stuff on the Dave Channel. All the time, world without end, a fucking men.



 Actually, your Pharoahness, I am an important Prince in my own country, far away in big iron bird. At the last election, ninety eight per-cent of the people voted for me to be their SunKing, and we can help you achieve the same sort of democracy, here, in your own, well, your own and America's country.

And the other two per cent, you shot them, right?

Oh, absolutely, or we will next time.

Well, it's a very good question and I'm happy to take my jacket off and answer it. What the fuck am I doing in Cairo? Well, I ask you, if you were stuck in an office with Nick Clegg all day long, listening to him banging-on, about Ree- form and Change, like he does; if you had to stand in the House of Commons with him at your elbow, nodding his fucking head off, if you had to shit on your own by-election candidate, just to keep Clegg from being eaten alive by his ragbag of shit-eating, sandal-weaving,   DogShootersCo-operative members, and then, after all you've done for him, he goes and fucks off at three o'clock, because he's tired, well, wouldn't you fancy a few days away, playing at being a world statesman?


Well, as I ah said  previously, I had no ah con-crete ah information that Colonel Wotsisname had gone to Bechuanaland but I had ah seen such information or heard it and like a foreign seckatry should,  I ah shared it with the ladeezangentulmen of the ah press. If, in fact it turns out that Mr ah Wotsisnmane is not, in-fact, in ah Bechuanaland well that is hardly my fault, now, is it? It's not as though I came right out and said I fancied him, is it?  I do try to keep the ah press informed and to do so in the ah inimitable style which has served me so well, if I may say so, on the after-dinner circuit,  where Northern Rotarians have paid good ah money to hear me pontificate in my dribs and ah drabs style, so ah reminiscent of how, when you are having a piss, sometimes, after a man's customary sixteen pints of bitter, you think, your head leaning against the Armitage tiles above the ah urinal, that you have wrung  and ah shaken the very last drops of  yellow nectar from the ah Old Man, you put him back in your underpants, zip the ah zipper up tight and then ah fuck me, if there isn't another small torrent of warm drips goes running down the inside of your trousers, leaving unfortunate ah stains which no amount of rubbing with toilet tissue or leaping up and down in front of the warm-air hand dryer will ah remedy and so it's back into the Rotarians' Dinner,  hoping that they are all too pissed on Theakstons and self-regard to notice but of course they ah do.  I think that ah fairly accurately sums up my uniquely personal style of ah public speaking, piss dribbling down the ah inside of one's ah trousers. At Oxford, in fact, it became my nickname and friends and colleagues in the Young Conservatives could be heard chuckling, Look Out chaps, here come Hague, the Human Trouser Stain.  Be that as it, ah, may, when my official wife, Mrs Fffffffiion Beard-Hague, heard that I had been accused of saying Colonel Gaddafi was in Bechuanaland when in fact everybody ah knew that it was Venezualaland which he wasn't in she was so hurt that she immediately had a miscarriage. And when I tell you that she wasn't even pregnant that will ah prove how so very not gay I am. It is the sort of mature ah political marriage which so strengthens me in my role as  the ah nation's geograpy teacher, she has the miscarriages and I sleep with the pretty, young men, half my age, and all at the public's expense.



Now, just look here, I was a proper foreing seckatry, not like that slaphead tart, Hague, hanging around the gym with Sebastian Coe, like a lovestruck puppy. No, proper ladies' men in my day, at the FO - myself, with my deep brown Edinburgh voice, Peter Carrington, Douglas Hurd, well, maybe not Douglas, went to Eton, y'know, swing both ways, they do. And as for Hague, doing  all that bleating about his beard's plumbing, well, the grubby little bastard needs horsewhipping, that's the view in the party



Mr Jon Job-fer-Life Sox'n'Ties

 Mr Jon Sox, strongman of Channel Four News has insisted that he will fight to somebody else's death to remain  anchor man of the crap show.  Look, said Sox,  in his familiar, annoying, clipped,  urgent, newsy voice, this is my show, what part of that don't you understand? We have  a regular wog bint, and Krishnan, the prat, to read out the showbiz news but the main stuff, that's me, that's Channel Four News, geddit?

It's me goes to Washington. And Moscow. And Cairo. Without me, there's simply no Channel Four News.  There are other members of the tribe, certainly, there's Peter Sox, formerly of the BBC, and his prattling son, Dan Sox, and they make junk, history-lite shows, pair of tossers, Battle of fucking Bosworth, who cares, when there's Channel Four News happening, right here, right now, newsily, urgently and, most of all, Soxily.  But there's only one Jon Sox, and that, viewers, is me, I'm here and I'm staying here, It's your money pays my salary, how dare you get sick of the sight of my dreary face and the sound of my dreary, urgent, newsy voice after only forty years?   I used to fuck Anna wotsit, you know, Ford. And I'm descended from David Lloyd George, like many other bastards.  That's it. I'll be back tomorrow night. And the night after......

Monday 21 February 2011



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Formula One fans all over tellyworld are disappointed but relieved but also disappointed tonight at the news that the planned race in Bah!-rain is to be cancelled.  The season will start, instead, in Melbourne, Australia, which doesn't want it. Load of Dingo's kidney's, cobber, said the drongo in charge of the city - is he a bint, like the Aussie premier?  How do you tell, out there, they're all shirtlifters, ain't they, ladyman capital of the Pacific, Australia - Nah, we don't wannit no more, it was alright when it started but it's bloody shit, now, costs the city a bleedin' fortune and no bastard turns up to watch the mad fuckers drivin' round and bloody round, a thousandth of a second here, a thousandth there, who gives a rat's arse about that. If you ask me, they're all on drugs, need to be off your bleedin' trolley and no mistake. We definitely won't be renewin' the contract when it's up, and the little dwarf'll have to find somewhere else to play racecars. That Mrs of his, though, looks like she'd bang like a shithouse door in a gale, no wonder she slung 'er 'ook, I mean, he looks like he's got one foot in  the grave. She could come an' blow my didgeridoo anytime, mate.

Speaking from Redditch, a swampy outpost of Birmingham, England,  Mr Mel  Butler,   a retired librarian, birdwatcher and F1 devotee said he didn't know what to do;  he had been looking forward to watching the Bah!-rain  race on his new forty-inch plasma screen telly  and now he might have to go shopping with his wife, Linda, also a retired librarian and birdwatcher, instead. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love Linda, dearly, it's just that I'd rather watch F1. It's not that I want Lewis Hamilton or one of the other chaps to crash and be all burnt to death or anything, or fly into the crowd and kill dozens of people who can afford to be there and not just watch it on the telly, like I have to,  but I do.  I have been putting a bit away ever since the Leeds Liquid Gold adverts, back in the 'eighties, but even so, jetsetting over to the Gulf in the hope of smelling a bit of burning blackman is a bit beyond my means.  Did I mention that there is a pair of greater speckled grebe scowlers nesting in my garden?


They must hate us fiercely in occupied Palestine, the Gaza Strip, scene of Jewish, this time, Lebensraum;   in Lebanon they really must wonder how we, self-appointed Ambassadors of Democracy have sat still, for years, on Israeli blitzkrieg-atrocity;  the Egyptians have been lectured by us for years that Hosni Mubarak, tyrant, bandit and gangster was  a great man,  this, only a few weeks ago was Hillary Trousers' gabshite refrain. In Iraq, we have distinguished ourselves with indiscriminate bombing, shooting, beating, torture and gangrape, we have seen, even here, in these inconsequential pages, Uncle Sam's helicoptering Wild Bunch shooting civilians to bits with their clever guns, whooping and hollering like Hollywood rodeo riders.

And it's not just the US;  who can forget the unspeakable Geoff Hoon, since revealed  for the cheap, poxy hustler that he always was, announcing that Iraqi women would thank him, one day - when they were as wise as he -  for the death of their children;  who can forget the wretched, dipso bullyboy, Alastair Campbell, all over the airwaves like a madman, inventing a cassus bellus, cooking up evidence, validated, in exchange for a promotion, by the shitbag John Scarlett.  Michael Howard, the smirking, oilybastard hypocrite, nodded  sagely at the need for fiery war on an innocent nation;  the Internationaliste class warriors of NewLabour, marched through the lobbies in favour of WarCrime,  their cheerleader the lumpy, gobby, greedy, shameless Supermum, Imelda Blair, already up to her cavernous Scouse kisser in  Hindujah greed and graft, now sucking Satan's semen like a good 'un, a Haliburton babe,  the filthy, racist baggage.

The fact that so many of these were, time after time re-elected, or remain, like Campbell, celebrated,  suggests many have forgotten or more bleakly that many, most, didn't give a flying fuck. People applaud Campbell, on the telly, it's like post-war  Germans applauding Goebbels.

 Col. Muhamar Gaddafi, street fightin' man.

And best of all, who can forget, who, for God's sake, could invent  the ruinous,  antic,  megalomania of the grinning, intellectually lopsided  and morally counterfeit  pretty, straight guy, himself.  From his triumphant blanket acquittal  of IRA massacres, tortures, embezzlement, racketeering, drug-running, arson, extortion - and calling it a Peace Process - to the welcoming, doubtless for an oliy  post-retirement  consideration, of the monster Gaddafi - Saddam Hussein had to go, Colonel Gaddafi had to stay, and be welcome at the top  table; 


Blair's skewed and impenetrable  bogus morality a mystery to all, save his employers, and they're the ones who count. Quite arbitrarily, one tyrant hangs and his country is holocausted, yet others enjoy billions of aid pounds and dollars to stash with those nice, neutral, high-priced  Swiss cocksuckers, while they continue with starving and torturing their own. Realpolitik, is what the political shits call it, skating now, like whiny spoilt, speech-impaired prat, I'm Not Gay William Miscarriages Hague, on the thin ice of a  regional popular uprising, not a fucking by-election in Richmond, not a lucratuive after-dinner speech to a bunch of drunken Rotarian wankers.

Too little, too late, from the gabshite marionettes of GlobaCorp. Ah, we knew all along that, ah, Mr Mubarak and Colonel  Gaddafi were torturing you but we thought it was the, ah,  best thing, considering our investments, you know, all men of the world.

People chide me here,sometimes.  It's the economy that counts, the defecit, money makes the world go round, you're wrong, it's not really your cynical trickle-up scam, the few pennies of the poor being hoisted into the already bulging strongrooms of the rich, it's not really like that, we need the wealth creators, because otherwise we are too stupid to do things for ourselves. Aye, right. Tell it to the Libyans, the Egyptiansm the Tunisians, the Yemenis and please God , those under the lash of The House of Saud, worshipful brethren in crime to both the House of Bush and the House of Windsor.
Colonise it as they may try - the imbecile Cameron numpty-shirtsleeving hastily in Cairo, We can teach you all about seedy, stitched-up democracy, and Obama Wrongfoot  sending democracy consultants whilst beggaring his own working class for his masters in Wall Street - spin it as they will, this is nothing short of a crisis of Global Capitalism,  that it sparks and crackles in Arabia and Africa should make us wince here, at home;  the new ragged trousered philanthropists, fretting dutifully, like scolded children,   about an imbalance in Greed's profit and loss account. 

Saturday 19 February 2011



My own weight goes up and down, medications and fitness effect it,  diabetes, too, and I am two stones over what I like to be  and I know that some people struggle, doesn't matter what they eat, they pile it on, other people can eat any old shit and stay slim. It's not fair to criticise  people just for beng fat, Heffer though, probably compressed into his suit by an army of servants,  like some  Asian potentate seem to delight in, flaunt his avoirdupois,  wears his jowls and belly like a medal of honour, the fat fuck, as  though it signified wealth and status, and lent philosophical, logical weight to his fourth-form rantings-for-money in the Filth-O-Graph,  as though babbling, now and again, inexpertly, about Wagner portrayed, or hinted at, an inner svelteness, a clandestine athleticism, when, in fact, he is, in spirit, too, the greasy, self-satisfied,  bloated, Goeringesque fuckpig, whom, once seen, is held forever in contempt. Today, he described his fellow fat fuck  robbing Tory bastard spiv, Mr Eric Pickles, as Big Eric,  the good for fuck all pot calling the good for fuck all kettle good for fuck all; for once, a chuckle from the useless fat bastard's obnoxiously vindictive, contemptible column. 


He has an army of admirers, Heffer. Well said, Sirs and Couldn't have put it better myselfers. And they probably couldn't, hundreds of them, cowed by the facile notion that that the lardball is a salty, smartass yet scholarly homme des lettres, when he's just a worthless fat cunt. Ruin.  To think that the Filth-O-Graph was once home to Auberon Waugh's graceful, mannerly gadflying and now it peddles Heffer's bloody diarrhoea.

Were it not for his employment  by  the anti-democratic Barclay twins one wonders where Mr Heffer would earn his daily bucket of lard, there cannot be too many who would pay good money for this infantile drivel, this effete snarling. Big Eric ? Pots and kettles, Big Simon.

"Public services now exist far more for the benefit of those who work in them than those they are supposed to service. They are a socialist government’s means of creating jobs, to the economic detriment of the country."

This, whilst not disputing that there is an element of careerist fatcattery in the public sector - and nowhere more deplorable than in MediaMinster  - is  rubbish, ridiculous sloganising, unbecoming in what was once a right-wing but more or less scrupulously honest newspaper.  Mr Heffer's weekly or bi-weekly assaults on Decency are proof further that Ruin's agents, in the form of Greed and Envy and downright Stupidity, beguile and seduce with tubthumping appeals to a common,  benevolent national purpose, one  from which they are estranged.

Leaving aside the failure of  his grammar and the inelegance of his spluttering prose -  mayhap Simon has forgotten, in his eternal  affected rage, how to deploy a semi-colon, rendering his second sentence a non-sentence - his endless and tedious diatribe against decent, working people, as opposed to over-gorged, spluttering popinjays like himself, who serve no discernible, worthwhile purpose, may well assist his wealthy masters' interests but they cheapen and tarnish the public discourse, as though MediaMinster had not done enough such. C'mon Fatso,  I say, as one Old Edwardian to another,  and in the spirit of the piece, have the servants  hoist  you off the  chaise longue and respond;  no, didn't think so.

A predictably  ardent  proselytizer of the questionable and  grisly but undoubtedly vengeful  blessings of capital punishment, he should take care, Mr Heffer, that he and his, the idle rich and their mouthpiece servants, do not stir things so wickedly that they fetch up in the modern equivalent of the tumbril;  windbagging and lardy, he'd only break it, and fall out on his fat arse, bleating, I am far too important for this.

Times are hard, the  blowhard demagoguique, here, here and everywhere,  might find that his traitorous, splenetic snobbery sees him up against the wall, with the rest of the motherfuckers.
Some of this I posted on his fat blog, I doubt if it'll stay there, probably enrage his angry masturbating expatriot fan club and be moderated, as they call censorship, in the Street of a Thousand Arseholes. 


Just now and again, from the ranks of bighaired, collar'n'tied, bought-and-sold, rotten to the core US  legislators comes Freedom's cry. Congressman Kucinich, below, does everything bar enquire how come those buildings all just fell down, neat as anything, but that would be too  much to expect. We have discussed much of  his subject here but naturally without his passion.  Watching, each Wednseday, though, as worthless numbskull UK politicians soundbite cheap, shitty  platitudes of remembrance about the latest gutted paratrooper or incinerated fusilier one cannot help but feel a bit American and wonder, Wither, our Kucinich?


A Prayer for America

Editor's Note: Nine years ago today Rep. Dennis Kucinich offered a "Prayer for America" at an event sponsored by the Southern California Americans for Democratic Action in Los Angeles. The Nation is republishing Kucinich's comments, with a new introduction by the Congressman contemplating what has changed, and what hasn't, in American life and politics, since this address.

Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The anthrax attack. The Patriot Act.  Those were the themes in a speech which I gave nine years ago in Los Angeles, entitled "Prayer for America." Today  the news is about...the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, the anthrax attack, the Patriot Act.

About the Author

Dennis Kucinich
Dennis Kucinich, ranking Democrat on the House Government Reform Subcommittee on National Security, Emerging Threats...

Repair America's infrastructure, starting with New
Orleans; resettle displaced people in the city, give them construction
jobs and pay all a fair wage.
We keep circling back to where we began: One war based on lies, another war based on arrogance and ignorance of history, both eventually contributing trillions to the deficit while we cut non-defense discretionary spending.  The war machine is engulfing the rest of the government.
The House and Senate are debating reauthorization of the Patriot
Act but there will be little debate over spending another $158 billion for the wars.  We are escalating conflict in Afghanistan. We are simultaneously in and out of Iraq.
We read the US Constitution at the beginning of this new session of Congress, but what does it mean? What amnesia, anesthesia, psychic numbness has occured while we grimly push round and round the wheel of war, paying trillions of dollars for the privilege of grinding ourselves and others into the blood-soaked dirt.
We're living in a tragic version of Bill Murray's movie "Groundhog Day," where day in and day out we slumber in the arms of the national security state awakening to the color Orange.  Our physical bodies are transparent to the security x-rays, but our government is opaque.  How extensive is FBI spying? Who sent the anthrax which killed five people?  Did the FBI fumble scientific evidence?  Some fret about WikiLeaks while the lives of dutiful US soldiers and countless innocents are destroyed.  War is a masqued ball, our goverment waltzing the freedom phantom abroad and dancing with its flickering shadow at home.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.  The anthrax attack. The Patriot Act.  Pray for America, indeed.
I offer these brief remarks today as a prayer for our country, with love of democracy, as a celebration of our country. With love for our country. With hope for our country. With a belief that the light of freedom cannot be extinguished as long as it is inside of us. With a belief that freedom rings resoundingly in a democracy each time we speak freely. With the understanding that freedom stirs the human heart and fear stills it. With the belief that a free people cannot walk in fear and faith at the same time.
With the understanding that there is a deeper truth expressed in the unity of the United States. That implicit in the union of our country is the union of all people. That all people are essentially one. That the world is interconnected not only on the material level of economics, trade, communication, and transportation, but innerconnected through human consciousness, through the human heart, through the heart of the world, through the simply expressed impulse and yearning to be and to breathe free.

I offer this prayer for America.
Let us pray that our nation will remember that the unfolding of the promise of democracy in our nation paralleled the striving for civil rights. That is why we must challenge the rationale of the Patriot Act. We must ask why should America put aside guarantees of constitutional justice?
How can we justify in effect canceling the First Amendment and the right of free speech, the right to peaceably assemble?
How can we justify in effect canceling the Fourth Amendment, probable cause, the prohibitions against unreasonable search and seizure?
How can we justify in effect canceling the Fifth Amendment, nullifying due process, and allowing for indefinite incarceration without a trial?
How can we justify in effect canceling the Sixth Amendment, the right to prompt and public trial?
How can we justify in effect canceling the Eighth Amendment which protects against cruel and unusual punishment?
We cannot justify widespread wiretaps and internet surveillance without judicial supervision, let alone with it.
We cannot justify secret searches without a warrant.
We cannot justify giving the Attorney General the ability to designate domestic terror groups.
We cannot justify giving the FBI total access to any type of data which may exist in any system anywhere such as medical records and financial records.
We cannot justify giving the CIA the ability to target people in this country for intelligence surveillance.
We cannot justify a government which takes from the people our right to privacy and then assumes for its own operations a right to total secrecy.
The Attorney General recently covered up a statue of Lady Justice showing her bosom as if to underscore there is no danger of justice exposing herself at this time, before this administration.
Let us pray that our nation's leaders will not be overcome with fear. Because today there is great fear in our great Capitol. And this must be understood before we can ask about the shortcomings of Congress in the current environment.
The great fear began when we had to evacuate the Capitol on September 11.
It continued when we had to leave the Capitol again when a bomb scare occurred as members were pressing the CIA during a secret briefing.
It continued when we abandoned Washington when anthrax, possibly from a government lab, arrived in the mail.
It continued when the Attorney General declared a nationwide terror alert and then the Administration brought the destructive Patriot Bill to the floor of the House.
It continued in the release of the bin Laden tapes at the same time the President was announcing the withdrawal from the ABM treaty.
It remains present in the cordoning off of the Capitol.
It is present in the camouflaged armed national guardsmen who greet members of Congress each day we enter the Capitol campus.
It is present in the labyrinth of concrete barriers through which we must pass each time we go to vote.
The trappings of a state of siege trap us in a state of fear, ill-equipped to deal with the Patriot Games, the Mind Games, the War Games of an unelected President and his unelected Vice President.
Let us pray that our country will stop this war. "To promote the common defense" is one of the formational principles of America.
Our Congress gave the President the ability to respond to the tragedy of September 11. We licensed a response to those who helped bring the terror of September 11th. But we the people and our elected representatives must reserve the right to measure the response, to proportion the response, to challenge the response, and to correct the response.
Because we did not authorize the invasion of Iraq.
We did not authorize the invasion of Iran.
We did not authorize the invasion of North Korea.
We did not authorize the bombing of civilians in Afghanistan.
We did not authorize permanent detainees in Guantanamo Bay.
We did not authorize the withdrawal from the Geneva Convention.
We did not authorize military tribunals suspending due process and habeas corpus.
We did not authorize assassination squads.
We did not authorize the resurrection of COINTELPRO.
We did not authorize the repeal of the Bill of Rights.
We did not authorize the revocation of the Constitution.
We did not authorize national identity cards.
We did not authorize the eye of Big Brother to peer from cameras throughout our cities.
We did not authorize an eye for an eye.
Nor did we ask that the blood of innocent people, who perished on September 11, be avenged with the blood of innocent villagers in Afghanistan.
We did not authorize the administration to wage war anytime, anywhere,anyhow it pleases.
We did not authorize war without end.
We did not authorize a permanent war economy.
Yet we are upon the threshold of a permanent war economy. The President has requested a $45.6 billion increase in military spending. All defense-related programs will cost close to $400 billion.
Consider that the Department of Defense has never passed an independent audit.
Consider that the Inspector General has notified Congress that the Pentagon cannot properly account for $1.2 trillion in transactions.
Consider that in recent years the Dept. of Defense could not match $22 billion worth of expenditures to the items it purchased, wrote off, as lost, billions of dollars worth of in-transit inventory and stored nearly $30 billion worth of spare parts it did not need.
Yet the defense budget grows with more money for weapons systems to fight a cold war which ended, weapon systems in search of new enemies to create new wars. This has nothing to do with fighting terror.
This has everything to do with fueling a military industrial machine with the treasure of our nation, risking the future of our nation, risking democracy itself with the militarization of thought which follows the militarization of the budget.
Let us pray for our children. Our children deserve a world without end. Not a war without end. Our children deserve a world free of the terror of hunger, free of the terror of poor health care, free of the terror of homelessness, free of the terror of ignorance, free of the terror of hopelessness, free of the terror of policies which are committed to a world view which is not appropriate for the survival of a free people, not appropriate for the survival of democratic values, not appropriate for the survival of our nation, and not appropriate for the survival of the world.
Let us pray that we have the courage and the will as a people and as a nation to shore ourselves up, to reclaim from the ruins of September 11th our democratic traditions.
Let us declare our love for democracy. Let us declare our intent for peace.
Let us work to make nonviolence an organizing principle in our own society.
Let us recommit ourselves to the slow and painstaking work of statecraft, which sees peace, not war as being inevitable.
Let us work for a world where someday war becomes archaic.
That is the vision which the proposal to create a Department of Peace envisions. Forty-three members of Congress are now cosponsoring the legislation.
Let us work for a world where nuclear disarmament is an imperative. That is why we must begin by insisting on the commitments of the ABM treaty. That is why we must be steadfast for nonproliferation.
Let us work for a world where America can lead the day in banning weapons of mass destruction not only from our land and sea and sky but from outer space itself. That is the vision of HR 3616: A universe free of fear. Where we can look up at God's creation in the stars and imagine infinite wisdom, infinite peace, infinite possibilities, not infinite war, because we are taught that the kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven.
Let us pray that we have the courage to replace the images of death which haunt us, the layers of images of September 11th, faded into images of patriotism, spliced into images of military mobilization, jump-cut into images of our secular celebrations of the World Series, New Year's Eve, the Superbowl, the Olympics, the strobic flashes which touch our deepest fears, let us replace those images with the work of human relations, reaching out to people, helping our own citizens here at home, lifting the plight of the poor everywhere.
That is the America which has the ability to rally the support of the world.
That is the America which stands not in pursuit of an axis of evil, but which is itself at the axis of hope and faith and peace and freedom. America, America. God shed grace on thee. Crown thy good, America.
Not with weapons of mass destruction. Not with invocations of an axis of evil. Not through breaking international treaties. Not through establishing America as king of a unipolar world. Crown thy good America. America, America. Let us pray for our country. Let us love our country. Let us defend our country not only from the threats without but from the threats within.
Crown thy good, America. Crown thy good with brotherhood, and sisterhood. And crown thy good with compassion and restraint and forbearance and a commitment to peace, to democracy, to economic justice here at home and throughout the world.
Crown thy good, America. Crown thy good America. Crown thy good.
Thank you.

Friday 18 February 2011



AND SO ON........

Toothy Tory slag,  bullyboy and  ponce, David Mellor, a not-very-eminent QC, famous for betraying his young mistress, his wife and  - very publicly - his children,  and for taking free holidays from Arabs whilst a minister,  is to be made Woodlands impresario as part of the Coalition's plan to wreck everything which makes life in Britain vaguely tolerable.

Mr StinkyGob has succeeded the blessed and most holy lying bastard Jonafun Aitken as the Ayrabs' spokesman in London;  it is not known whether, like Aitken, he organises spanking parties for his employers, but he certainly leaps to their defence against charges that shooting the citizen is wrong. Snarling on yesterday's Today programme, the horrible fucking bastard told Justin Webb-Tory and Sarah Montague-Tory that he would soon sort things out. The woods and copses and thickets and forests  are safe in my hands and those of my employers, Messrs Ali Baba and his Forty Associates.  I can guarantee you that in a very short space of time I will have sold the woods off to our very important allies in Bah!-rain, Kuwait, the Arab Emirates and any other mediaeval shithole which bungs me a few quid.  No, let me finish, these head-chopping, wimmen-stoning mongrel bastards have instituted some very sound quasi-democratic institutions and if they need to teargas their citizens or run them over with tanks well, in my eminent judgement, they will have a very good reason for doing so and Mr Dave Cameron should think twice about lecturing the King of Bah!-rain. Let's face it, the King of Bah!-rain, doesn't do as many U-turns as Dave does, does he, not that he has to, being a proper tyrant and not just a pretend one, like Dave.

No, I give fair warning that soon the woods and copses and forests and thickets of Old England will ring to the sound of coked-up arab playboys exercising their princely rights and beating their servants to death, just as it should be  in a proper country.  Woodland sports, that's what I want to encourage, never mind all this walking-about, communing with nature and heritage, in my eminent judgement poor people - and that's most of you -  shouldn't  be allowed anywhere near the great copses and woods and forests and thickets of this great company. Unless it's to pass  their Highnesses the SheepsEyeball sandwiches,  chop-up the cocaine, just so, and  bury the bodies.


Honorary Sheik Dave bin ToeSuckFilthyBastard Mellor.

Tuesday 15 February 2011


People used to contend that the Readers Digest was run by the CIA, its homely little aphorisms, wide-eyed nature appreciation, its spiritual revelations, trusty adventure fiction and wise, insighftul gags the very stuff of America, a global counterweight to the  EvilEmpire, a non-spiritual Gideons Bible for wayfaring strangers, torn between filthy communism and the free market.  I have been wondering if the CIA is behind all the hideously Readers Digestesque emails which appear almost daily in my inThing  and of which this, today's, is the worst. Maybe, it's Google, generates these ghastly things, their aim, after all, is to do our thinking for us....
This explains why I forward emails. 


A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery, 
when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.

He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.

After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road.

It looked like fine marble..

At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.

When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.

He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.

When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?' 

'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered.

'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the man asked.

'Of course, sir.. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up.'

The man gestured, and the gate began to open. 'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveller asked.

'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'

The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.

After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. 

There was no fence.

As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book....


'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?'

'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'

'How about my friend here?' the traveller gestured to the dog.

'There should be a bowl by the pump,' said the man.

They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.

The traveller filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.

When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.

'What do you call this place?' the traveller asked. 

'This is Heaven,' he answered.

'Well, that's confusing,' the traveller said..

'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'

'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell.'

'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'

'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'

Soooo. Now you see, sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding stuff to us without writing a word. Maybe this will explain it.

When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward emails.

When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.

When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how.... you forward stuff.

A 'forward' lets you know that you are still remembered, you are still important, you are still loved, you are still cared for.

So, next time if you get a 'forward', don't think that you've been sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.


You are welcome at my water bowl anytime !!

If I ever meet the smug, underlining  bastard at the other end of my computer  I'll shove his water bowl up his arse.