The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
Libyan rebels, driving firstly one way up the road and then quickly back down it again, have called for fresh supplies of bullets for their AK47s.
We have now fired them all up into the air, said Mr Ali Baba, all the bullets, and have none left to shoot at the devil, Gadaffi. Please send us some more so that we may resume firing them pointlessly into the sky; the men love it, that and crying, crying and shouting and firing our guns at passing clouds, it's what the revolution is all about. And running away. What, engage the proper army, you must, effendi, be fucking joking, we are waiting for NATO boys to do that.
In the Westminster parliament, Britain's unelected prime minister, CallHimWinston, said that resolution 1973 was carefully worded to allow Western leaders to do exactly as they pleased in Libya. We will protect the civilians by urging them to become a fully-fledged army, the useless wog bastards, and try to get them to fire their weapons horizontally. At that time, of course, they won't be civilians any more and so what we'll be doing is protecting an army, armed by us and the Frogs, from another army, armed by us and the Frogs and so we'll have to call it all a humitarian crisis. And if that doesn't work, we'll just bomb the whole place to fuck, as usual.
What, the cost? No, wars don't cost anything, they are paid for from a contingency fund, which is just like, well, just like magic, really. And if you believe that you'll believe any fucking thing. And you do. Repeat after me, wars don't cost anything because they are paid for from a contingency fund of special non-existent, magic money, not taken from taxation or anything. So, as a matter of fact, we can have as many wars as we want, as many as the situation demands, the more unpopular we are, the more wars we can have. It's quite simple, really, don't see what the fuss is all about.
Field Marshal Flashman. Double First and military expert.
A late comment on the post SAS CAPTURED, ANOTHER COALITION TRIUMPH.
Leif Goodwin says: The fact that you use the unfortunate events in Hague's private life to make fun of him is disgraceful and sickening. Your constant use of the terms nig nogs and other offensive terms for foreigners is offensive. Your articles are not even funny, although a school child might be amused. As far as I can tell you do not reveal your identity. It is all too easy to publish such attacks on people when done anonymously. Do you have the balls to make those remarks face to face with the people you abuse? I bet not.
We have our four-yearly festival of comeptitive promising going on here, just now, as we elect, or don't bother with electing, another tier of bent mongrel bureaucrats to another palace of vice and greed and the entertainment comes, not from the Tribesmen's Alec Salmond,
It's ma North Sea oil, all of it.
or from JockLabour's iron-jawed idiot Commissar Gray
- the LibDems, under Mr Tavish McHooter
are rightly hiding away in some public convenience, somewhere,
awa' back tae yer con-stit-ewencies and prepare for fellatio
- but from Miss Annabel Trousers,
the ghoulish matron nominally in charge of Scotland's, no, don't laugh, Scotland's Tory party. In one of the seats which the Tories might have won under our cute wee PR system, the candidate, Mr Malcolm Macaskill, has been deselected - dumped - and replaced by a lady described as one of Miss Goldie's close aides.
Ruth Davidson, a BBC hack, has often insisted that many at the top of the Tory party, around Ian Duncan Smith and William Hague are gay,
it takes one to know one, she smiles
Not as pretty ay specimen as, ah, young Christopher,
or indeed any of my usual, ah, rentboys, I mean consorts, I mean special advisers,
but there you are, ah, mr deputy speaker,
buggers can't be choosers. Did I mention that my wife, Ffffffion,
has had many miscarriages, From me fucking her. Which proves that I am not gay.
I believe I may have done. But the truth can stand repetition. Even when it's a lie.
and that it is no impediment to their careers, (editor's note: as if) and she has singled out Miss Goldie as being particularly supportive of Highland dykes, like herself. Unmarried, Miss Goldie is a member of that most distinguished renegade band, the Scottish lawyers, thieving, noncing, lawless brigands and degenerates. Brooding and misanthropic, Annabel is an I-Know-Bester from the Gordon Brown school of bully-politics, a dour, lacklustre, grumpy old boot, harrumphing and Now, look-ing all over the shop, hectoring and tut-tutting. Goldie owes her leadership to the fall from grace of previous JockTory fuckwit leader, David McLechie, another thieving lawyer bastard who, tragically, was forced to resign after having done nothing wrong, except fiddle his expenses, billing us for the taxi fares to his mistress's gaff, doubtless he felt his extra-marital fucking was part of his parliamentary duties, like Tories do.
Mr David McArsehole, Tory MSP, fucking my mistresses for the people of Scotland,
at your expense.
I have done nothing wrong.
The gossip, anyway, in the Filth-O-Graph - when it is not begging the govament to please not tax rich people a penny more, they simply cannot bear it - is that the erstwhile Glasgow PPC, Macaskill, was dumped in order to create a shoo-in for the elfin Ms Davidson. Miss Annabel Trousers, of course, denies all knowledge of any such machinations, after all, the Glasgow list seat was one of the pitifully few the Tories might win, why on Earth should the leader concern herself with who is - or is not any longer - the candidate? The Filth-O-Graph's man in Scotland, tedious, beardy gabshite, Alan Tory Cochrane, insists that Goldie is a wee woman in a big man's job.
Ranting Tory loony, Lunctime McBooze.
See this beard, Jimmy, makes me a hard man.
Suspicion over Ms Davidson's fortuitous selection looms the larger because it is widely believed in Scotland that Miss Annabel Trousers will be dumped immediately after the election, that is if there is a Tory party left in existence for her to be dumped from, and that fixing things for Davidson is her last hurrah for the brogues sisterhood.
Publicly, Goldie insists that she is InItForTheLongHaul and that, poor cow, she has, what is it now, CallHimWinston's full support and confidence. In London, they think I'm doing a great job of work, she growls, hollowly.
Will ye no' come back again, David?
Not on your fucking life, you old witch
Mocked and taunted by some splendid members of the public, yesterday, Goldie's public launch of her election campaign was a disaster as her handlers moved her swiftly from place to place, trying unsuccessfully to shield her from the ribald voices and placards of the people; not the expensive security operation which follows Mr Clegg around, as he delivers freedoms to us, the cunt, rather more Keystone Cops, like the Scottish parliament itself.
The election result is uncertain, Salmond may bribe his way back in; more likely, defectors from the Toiletmen, together with a revival of its core vote will see JockLabour barging into office, in its cheap suits and ties, trumpeting its phantom principles. Cameron, it must be assumed, has already written-off Jock Toryism and is considering ways to stuff independence down our ungrateful throats. A Labour victory, therefore, North of the Border, whilst regrettable, is probably just what the doctor ordered.
We must spare a thought, at this time, for Tearful Tommy Sheridan, playing footba' and keeping hissel' fit fer the struggle, behind Capitalism's bars.
Snarling for the people, Ruin's catspaw, Sheridan.
If it hadn't been for Tommy, his dick and his gob, there might still have been, in Scotland, a radical, left of centre movement to shout the odds in parliament, to barrack the shameless, po-faced No-alternativers, to oppose the rapine, the barabarism and the greed of the political establishment, Labour, Tory or Toiletmen. As it is, short of us learning to think for ourselves, here, in Scotland, as throughout GlobaCorp's realm, we must learn to become the new Third World.
Bonjour, mes amis, I 'ave today been pleased to award myself le Croix de Guerre, Presidential Class, for my bravery in Libya. 'Avin my jets incinerate ze wogs down below 'as required of me ze greatest courage ever seen by a French 'ero, since we all bent over for 'Erman ze German in ze last war and 'elp eem with rounding-up ze Jews, oo is, after all, only another form of nig-nog, n'est ce pas, an' sending zem all off to get gassed or shot or woddever, maybe experimented on, pour le medecin. You know, people say zat ze French was cowards in ze last war - and even, zut alors, ze one before zat - just turning sharply on ze heel and running like ze fucking Devil was biting at one's arse but ees not so easy to be brave when ze enemy is shooting back an' maybe can 'urt you but een Libya thees ees not a problem as zey ees all driving about in ze clapped-out, rusty old bag of nails and good for fuck all ees, never mind firing at invisible Mirage jetfighters up in ze sky. Ees easy for French Air Force to kick nig nogs up and down ze Benghazi highway. Everybody should 'ave a go. I 'ave plenty of medal and can give to M'sieu Il s'appelle Dave an' to ze bald poof, 'Ague an' 'is world-famous misfiring Madame Ffffffion.
An' also, eet does me no 'arm at all with zee National Front Francais voter, to be strafing zee wogs, especially after we 'ave deportez-vous les gippoes, merci beaucoup and fucked zem all off back to Gippoland. Ees an election in a year or two an' fuck me, mes amis, ees looking pretty much merde for Nicolas, an' me an' Madame Sarkozy might be out on ze street, her singing on street corners an' me doing whatever eet ees zat 'omeless dwarves do. Maybe can go in Ireland and get a job as official leprechaun, non?
Any'ow, zis guy, Gadaffi, 'e 'as to go, ees in ze interest of 'is own people. And mine, too. You know 'ow eet ees, when ze people don't believe all zat enemy within shit, ees time to find an enemy outside, preferably a weak one, an' kick ze bastard in ze arse, an' zat ees exactly what we are doing, me an' Il s'appelle Dave, an' every other fucker oo ees deep in le merde at home.
PRESIDENT NICOLAS PATS COLONEL GADAFFI ON THE ARSE
An American soldier has been sentenced to 24 years in prison by a military tribunal after pleading guilty to murdering innocent civilians in Afghanistan. Jeremy Morlock admitted to being part of a gruesome "kill team," and is testifying against his fellow soldiers as part of a plea bargain.
The first soldier from the so-called "kill team" in Afghanistan has been punished for his horrific crimes -- and he will now testify against his former comrades in court.
Jeremy Morlock, a 22-year-old army specialist, is part of a group of five soldiers accused of killing innocent civilians out of pure bloodlust. The unit was part of the 5th Stryker Brigade, which saw heavy fighting around Kandahar, including at the Forward Operating Base Ramrod. The soldiers carried out the crimes between January and May 2010 by using guns and grenades to make it appear they were under attack in order to justify killing civilians. The soldiers then took photos of themselves grinning while standing over their victims as if posing with hunting trophies, as well as taking gruesome mementos including bones and severed fingers.
SPIEGEL has obtained a significant number of photos and videos taken by the troops.
The men are also accused of taking drugs while on duty and beating up a fellow soldier who complained to superior officers.
Killing out of Pure Bloodlust
Morlock, described as the right hand man of Staff Sergeant Calvin Gibbs, 25, an overbearing personality who has been accused of being the driving force behind the murders, testified before the court that he and his comrades had been planning the first of the murders for weeks before it actually took place. "The plan was to kill people," he told the hearing. Military prosecutor Andre Leblanc described the crimes as being of "unspeakable cruelty." The indictment accused the soldiers of killing out of pure bloodlust.
During the hearing, Morlock described some of the details of the murders. The unit would go out on patrol in a Stryker vehicle, nicknamed the "Kevlar coffin" because of how unsuitable the slow, noisy armoured vehicle is for use in Afghanistan. Once in a village, Morlock revealed how he hid behind a wall with one of his co-defendants as an Afghan approached them. Morlock then allegedly armed a grenade and threw it towards the victim in such a way as to suggest it was the Afghan who was attacking them. The victim was then shot, supposedly in self-defense, by another soldier.
Reports have claimed the atmosphere after a killing was jubilant, with the soldiers in high spirits and excitedly regaling each other with their own versions of what had happened. In a sad irony, the soldiers were supposed to be carrying out the American strategy of counterinsurgency, or COIN, by protecting and befriending the Afghan population in the dangerous region around Kandahar.
Morlock is the first soldier held responsible for the crimes. In addition to the five soldiers accused of murder, seven others have been accused of lesser crimes including desecrating dead bodies and obstructing the investigation.
Plea Bargain for a Reduced Sentence
Morlock agreed to testify against his four comrades to obtain a more lenient sentence -- despite being given 24 years, he will be eligible for parole in just seven. The military judge, Lt. Col. Kwasi Hawks, said he had intended to sentence Morlock to life in prison but had been bound by the plea bargain. Morlock's lawyer said that the year or so he spent on remand would be factored into the sentence. As well as three counts of murder, Morlock also admitted charges of conspiracy, obstruction of justice and illegal drug use. He will be dishonorably discharged from the military.
The US Army issued a statement on Monday apologizing for the crimes depicted in the images, describing them as "repugnant to us as human beings and contrary to the standards and values of the United States Army." They will be hoping the murders will not attract the sort of global condemnation that flooded in after the Abu Ghraib torture scandal broke six years ago.
dsk -- with wires.
" contrary to the values of the united states army "
Older readers will recall that Lieutenant William Calley, hero of the Vietnam war My Lai massacre, served nearly a few minutes in custody for ordering the killings of hundreds of unarmed villagers, women and children first, before being released to a couple of years unenforced house arrest and the approval of the Merkin people.
"One of our greatest high tech innovators, James Dyson, has urged me to increase the support they get. I have listened to him, and have gone even further than he recommends." Rt hon George Spunkface, MP, Chancellor of the Exchequer.
LORD DYSON OF MALAYSIA. BUY MY NEW MACHINE, IT'S MILES BETTER THAN THE LAST ONE, BUT JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE THE NEXT ONE. THAT'LL BE MILES BETTER THAN THIS ONE, HONEST, YOU CAN TRUST ME, I'M AN ARSEHOLE.
How does he do this, year after year, this vacuum cleaner shit, and not feel embarrassed?
The Shakers were one of those religious nutter sects which fled England to found Uncle Sam's lunatic asylum, across the water. Shaker dwellings, textiles and especially furniture have become stylistically iconographic; blessed with massive forests of walnut, oak, ash, cherry and pitch pine the Shaker settlers crafted austere, ultra efficient and durable pieces of furniture which these days change hands for tens of thousands of dollars and their designs are widely reproduced by craftspersons all around the New and Old worlds. Shaker homes and furniture were a celebration of the covenant which timber represents between man and nature, a celebration peculiar inasmuch as the Shakers practised celibacy and have now, pedictably, died out.
As well as repudiating their own reproductive urges, the Shakers hated dirt. Around their rooms, at shoulder height, they fixed pegrails on which they could hang stools and chairs and stuff,
whilst they swept out the rooms, chastising their polished floorboards with bezam brooms, brushing living's detritus straight out the door. No carpets for them, fuck no.
My Shaker carpet moment came years ago, long before I knew about Shakerism, when, as a young man, in the kaleidoscopic embrace of lysergic acid dyethelamide, I dropped on the floor a tiny sliver of cannabis resin with which I was hoping to ape the Saviour on the Mount and build a joint which would stone the five thousand - or at least the handful of people in the room, it was an immeasurably small fragment of dope, its retrieval almost requiring an entry into the sub-atomic universe. Down on my knees, I went, fingers carefully parting the aforestation of carpet fibres, Jesus, there was some horrible stuff living in there, all manner of bits of shit and filth, rotting food, dust and vast herds of nasty, dangerous insects, little armour-plated bastards, waving claws and fangs, sawbills and sabretails, snapping and hissing, multi-legged, with eyes on stalks. Fucks sake, lads, we're under siege here, get the fucking vacuum cleaner out. After what seemed like centuries of earthquake-noisy hoovering I got down again, prised the fibres apart again and it was all still there, the snarling carpet universe. I don't believe I was hallucinating, you only need to think about carpeting for a moment to get the horrors; the Japs and the Chinks and the Muslims all take their shoes off indoors but we don't and even if we do just the very construction of carpet, it's woven density, will swiftly make it home to stuff you'd rather not think about, and life being what it is, shit survives, adapts, clings to its environment.
Never been happy with carpets from that day to this and generally manage to throw the fucking things out and clean and polish the boards; twenty coats of varnish'll do the trick, two or three a day, a light wire wooling and a wipe with white spirit between coats; a week to empty the room and sand and stain the floor and a week to varnish it. And then you can just mop it over with some gentle detergent, a gleaming, natural, vermin-free surface you could eat your dinner off of. For me the fitted carpet is as desireable as the Ahn Sweet bathroom. A shithouse in the bedroom. Aye, right. Luxury.
And so the vacuum cleaner strikes me as the most useless, redundant piece of junk you can own. Even the Kirby one, the one that costs over a grand and is made out of some intergalactic heavy metal that you can't hardly lift, even that one, a thousand horsepower hoover can't clean these little fuckers up. At least they last a lifetime, though, the Kirbys, don't jam up, chew up their belts, refuse even to do all that whirring and wheezing that the Dysons do. Just go down any council tip in the country, the section where they put the tellies and computers and printers and fridgefuckingfreezers that they pretend to recycle and there'll be platoons of those fucking Dyson things, purple and yellow and grey, standing to attention, fucked and useless, clapped-out, shiny, plastic, planned obsolescence, worn-out, right on schedule; junk, good for fuck all.
First they sold us, at exorbitant cost - on HP, even - intrinsically filthy floor coverings that we didn''t need and then they sold us shitty, noisy bits of junk to keep them clean, even though they didn't, couldn't; Hoover beats, as it sweeps, as it cleans. And now Dyson, having shipped his business out to the Far East, where folks work for fuck all, bombards us, year after year, with variations on his pointless, plastic theme. He needs one shoving up his arse.
And Mr George Spunkface, smirking and coughing his way through his non-budget dragoons this clown, Dyson, to his cause, as though he was a hybrid of Michaelangelo and Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Brilliant inventor, James Dyson, says I should do this or that and this or that that is what I am doing. Aren't I clever? And I commend myself to the house.
Trains and boats and planes, we used to make, from needles in Redditch to ocean liners on the Clyde and everything in-between. Now, we lionise the City's financial terrorists and govament kowtows to tax-dodging, sweatshopping rag traders at M and S and TopMan. Seems quite appropriate that Dyson, peddler of worthless, plastic junk, should be whispering in the Chancellor's ear. High-tech innovator, right up there with the large Hadron particle collider, that's bagless vacuum cleaning. Dyson, the modern charlady's best friend.
Urgent appeals were being made to the UK's broadcasting authorities as former General Sir Mike "Mike" Jackson threatened to over-run the airwaves. It only needs a couple of coons having a punch-up in Dar Es Salaam and he's all over the shop again, gobbin' away in his deep brown voice, said Mr Wayne Prat of the skymadeupnewsandfilth viewers club. Slobbing about in his pullover and crackin'-on like he was Alexander the fucking Great, an old soldier like me shouldn't have to put up with this arsehole, said former lance bombardier Dusty "Dusty" Miller, 83, formerly of the Desert Rats, they should declare a No-Jacko zone and enforce it with extreme prejudice. Yeah, the minute he opens his trap they should bayonet him, said former corporal, Chalky "Chalky" White. I mean, I was in the desert with a proper general, Monty, bent as a nine-bob note he was, Monty, like most of them presbyterian Ulstermen, but you wouldn't catch him in front of a teevee camera, I-know-besting, in his deep brown voice, like this cunt does. Most of us have had enough of generals, one way and another, and if they don't declare a No-Jacko Zone sharpish there's no telling what might 'appen. I mean I don't pay my teevee license to see this cunt popping up every five minutes, his hand out for money, he should have enough money, greedy fucking bastard, dunno what the world's comin' to, me.
Lady Sir Elton John and his husband, Mrs David Furnish, were today said to be inconsolable over the loss of their dear friend, Mrs Betty Taylor, an old slapper and fag-hag, I don't know if Elton will be able to continue, said Ms Furnish, what with Diana, the two fashion designers, the nutter, Whacko Jacko and now this mad old crow, the poor man is beside himself with grief, quite unable to rewrite Candle In The Wind, breathing new life into this great number and into our joint bank account. I expect he'll have a lot of tantrums but we must all be grown up about things, now that we've, quite naturally, bought ourselves a son. You know, actually, we in the heterophobe community believe that buying a child in one's sixties is actually more normal than the way straight people do things. Me being an independent film maker, maybe my husband will allow me to make a film about his grieving process. Ms Taylor was married many times but, a child star, she was, like all of them, too far up her own arse to make a go of any of her marriages. Or films. We shall not gaze on her like again. With any luck.
The first in a series of exclusive interviews in which famous Japanese people tell us how they are feeling about the terrible events back home. The famous avant garde artist and shithead, Ms Yoko Ono, reflects on common, unartistic people, drowning and being crushed alive in her homeland.
Herro to all my fans. Yoko is with you. As I say in my song, Let It Be, when I find myself in time of trouble, mother Yoko comforts me. I am thousands of miles away but I can feel your pain and for an artist like me, distance is non-existen, you can buy my works of art online. And I would just like to say that if my darling John was alive we would both be concerned to make an artistic contribution to my fans in Japan, now that they are in such difficulties. As an artist my fans are very important to me and their money keeps on adding to the enormous fortune I have earned from my art. I think that is so important to an artist. Writing all those Beatles songs with John was the early flowering of my creative genius. And when I hear that Yesterday is being played publicly on Japanese public sector broadcasting I am touched to think that John and I wrote it together about our love, one of the times he was beating me up. Although I do hope the Japs are paying the right royalties to me. It is not, as any artist knows, about the money, it is to do with protecting the artistic integrity of the Ono-Lennon brand. And the money. I mean, if people could hear Beatles music for free it wouldn't be worth anything, would it?
If John was alive today we could take some naked photographs of our front bottoms and sell them to the Japanese people for, oh, say just ten dollars apiece, just imagine how that would lift their spirits. They could just focus on the photos and breath, in a cosmic sort of way. They would very soon find that they were feeling better about the radiation and losing their homes and everything. It was photos like those, of John and I,
From the Ono-Lennon album, Two Tossers.
which helped end war in the world. You know, things were different in the 'sixties. My message to my slope-eyed fans, concerned about radiation sickness? Buy my new album, it rocks. And even if you can't play it because you are living in a muddy tent with no power, don't worry, just look at the album, it's every bit as good as listenting to it (Better, Sir P McCartney, Liverpool and New Hampshire but mainly New Hampshire.) The main thing is that, like me, they make some sacrifice for their art. John and I, for instance, had to sacrifice his first wife and son on the altar of our love. But it only made them better people. And John did give her a hundred thousand pounds, after all, to last the rest of her life.
Yoko Ono was talking to Jonafun Woss; for the full interview, in which Jonafun asks the eighty-year old if she takes it up the Gary, see the currrent edition of the Radio Times. Yoko's hot new album, Etudes, A Cat Screams As It Is Skinned Alive, on Sony records, is available in a signed, limited Edition, price £999, order your copy now to avoid disappointment.
To keep soldiers safe we should confine them to barracks, let them march up and down the Mall, but send them to Belfast or Helmand and some of them are going to get their arses blown off, no doubt about it. Somehow, recently, this obvious outcome of warfare has been subtly transmuted into a question not of the fundamental nature of armed conflict but of logistics.
Whenever - rarely - an officer dies, the Filth-O-Graph goes into hyperdive, his death is so much more poignant, his wife and kids so much more beautiful and noble in grief, his loss the more unbearable, his life more filled with potential; in short, he was worth so much more than the members of his platoon, his company, his regiment. This is the British press, snobbery and stupidity in equal measure and nowhere more vividly illustrated than in the corpulent, putrid form of Simon Heffer at the Filth-O-Graph.
We had it - the It's Worse When An Officer Dies schtick - full-on with Colonel "H" Jones in the Falklands, awarded a VC for putting himself and his men in unnecessary danger and we have seen it recently with the death in Helmand of Colonel Rupert Thorneloe, killed by one of those pesky IEDs which Ahmed, in a frankly ungentlemany way, plants in the paths of our troops, the filthy wog.
Thorneloe had been a high-flyer in the MOD before taking command of the Welsh Guards in Afghanistan. One of those officers who led from the front, by example, put himself out for his men, Thorneloe had complained that there were insufficient helicopters to properly convey his men into their theatre of operations, the armoured cars which they were forced to use were insufficiently armoured and when, atop one such, manning the machine gun, pour encourager les autres, Thorneloe was blown in half by an IED explosion, the Tories, quite disgracefully, laid the blame at Gordon Snot's door; he had insufficiently resourced our brave lads and lassies. Well, maybe he had but, as we see, the Tories would have done the same, worse. But the point is that it is the going to war that gets people killed. Uncle Sam has the best equipped military machine in history, yet he lost thousands in Iraq, tens of thousands in Vietnam. In war, people run out of ammo, their vehicles fail, their planes crash, they mistakenly fire on one another, communications break down; war is not the parade ground and any number of unavoidable shortages, failures or errors might have killed Colonel Thorneloe; had he, in fact, been flown to his operation by helicopter as he wished to be, he still could have stepped on a mine, been shot by a sniper, napalmed by the US Army Air Corp and his loss would have been no easier for his familty - or, indeed, his men - to bear, he would still have been just as dead.
This blaming of the govament for resources shortfall, this bean counting, more than anything else, undermines the esprit de corps so necessary among comrades facing death together. War is shit and pain and chaos, not an exercise in managerialism - which is why we should not do it unless we are under threat of attack, in which case it is right to ask people to die for Queen and country. But Thorneloe and hundreds more have died in a futile conflict engineered by GlobaCorp, planned in the shadows by spooks, the notional enemy armed and paid bizarrely by us; in Kabul a puppet government of pimps and gangsters playing both ends against each other, rigs the elections which our troops die to facilitate.
In their weekly episodes of melodramatic mawkishness, the people of Wootton Bassett have done their level best to sanctify and legitimise this wicked slaughter. Puffed-up with morbid self-importance, these wretched burghers, instead of protesting the pointless deaths of teenagers, have acted like professional mourners in a comic opera, casting their single, hearse flowers as though hoping for a BAFTA, an Oscar. And now, by Jingo, they have one. No business like showbusiness.
The invasions and occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan have been costly bloody failures, supported by Labour and Tory alike; that they are crimes, also, against humanity, is the judgement of many, including your correspondent. To my knowledge no minister from any party has formally attended the so-called repatriations or the funerals of service personnel killed during these misadventures, indeed, there was a time, past now, when Bob the cunt Ainsworth or Geoff Hoon risked being torn limb from limb had they so ventured forth. But no matter, the celebrity ghouls of Wotton Bassett have relieved government of any such embarrrassing appearances, standing-in, voluntarily, for those who should have hung their heads in shame, their limbs intact, their kids safely at Oxbridge, their gold-plated pensions assured, Hoon, Reid, Brown, Ainsworth, Blair, Howard, Brown, Cameron and Fox; no need for them to face the Dead, fuck no, not when these coffin junkies'll do it, for free. No wonder the Establishment makes royalisms of such stooges; a pox on them would be my award.
Just a thought, but should Ahmed - as he now may - pay a visit to Royal Wootton Bassett, hefting his Magic Rucksack, we must all hope that the people of this benighted and wilfully misinformed hamlet do not receive a sharp illustration of what it is that they so enthusiastically celebrate. Colonel Thorneloe didn't fall sweetly to the floor, you see, a bullet through his chest but died gazing horrified and uncomprehending as blood spurted from where his legs used to be, as his corporal, assuring him that he would be alright, struggled vainly, for a few eternal seconds, with a tourniquet.
Who would wish this inglorious butchery on his fellows? Well, William Hague for one, scurrying from public miscarriage to rentboy to wordy cock-up, David Cameron, too and the dwarf pimp, Sarkozy, spoiling now, for their own wee war, in Libya but not in Bah-rain, against the workers at home, but not against the financial terrorists strutting the globe. Never mind doling-out royalisms to fuckwits, there's only one place for these people, Up against the Wootton Basset wall, motherfuckers.
My wife, Cilla, and I know all too well what it means to lose everything, just like these little yellow bastards. Once we had it all; we were on all the best breakfast tee-vee shows, feted by the tabloids and even the prime minister, Mr Snot, would jump when we snapped our sticky fingers. Now, we can hardly get arrested, well, not in England anyway. Even the home seckatry, Mrs May, has fucked us off, declining to become part of our never-ending roadshow. So, in a very real sense, our world, too, has been swept away. Thank goodness that charitable donations, from very sensible people, have paid-off our mortgage and funded our world travel and we have put a little aside to help us cope with the loss of our celebrity, I mean our daughter, wotsername.
At this time, people will be wanting to donate to Tsunami Relief - well, those whose granddads weren't tortured on the Burma Railroad will - but I would just like to remind them that charity begins in Portugal, I mean at home. It would be helpful in my judgement - and I am a clever doctor - if people moved to donate would just take ten per cent of their donation, send it to the Nips, and forward the remainder, the ninety per cent, to the Keep Gerry and Cilla out of Jail Fund (a registered charity run by myself and my brother) this way Cilla
Dr Cilla, tireless campaigner for neglectful parents.
and I will be able to fend off any impertinent enquiries about why we are such a pair of shits.
Thank you for caring, we are the real victms in all this and every penny you send will be spent on us, I mean the search for little wotsername With best wishes at this difficult time from Gerry and Cilla McScam.
Divorce? Certainly not. Gerry and I are united in guilt, I mean grief.
More miserable and pitiful mountain music from a strangely guitar-free stringband; newgrass is what they call it. Bluegrass, schmoograss, what does it matter, so long as yer married to yer first cousin.
News, eh, you couldn't make it up, except that they do.
One minute it's the stubbly, hysterical ladymen of Lebanon, shooting their rifles in the air, like children, that's the story we all wanna hear, beardy blokes, shouting at the camera, waving placards and then, the next, all Hell breaks loose on the Pacific Rim, Mother Nature clears her throat and the works of man - and his Holy StockMarkets - come tumbling down, washed away in a roaring tide of shit and corpses.
Pity the poor filthsters, running around in their news studios like headless chickens, fancifully feigning knowledge of the Middle East and Africa, of New Zealand and now of the Land of the Rising Sun. Not only that but Kay Fright and Emily Stringbean are also asking the Questions that Really Matter, the Questions to which viewers Want Answers - fuck the Japs, is this nuclear shit gonna blow up and make us all glow in the fucking dark? Quick, find some meltdown experts, some buildings experts. There must surely be an Experts Agency somewhere, making a fortune, You want somebody to talk shite, knowledgeably, for six minutes, answer all the questions, sort of, and not pick his nose on camera? Here at ExpertsUlike - but not very much - we gottem. Yesterday, for instance, we had Professor Brian Gob of the University of Great Yarmouth, who specialises in Buildings Falling Down Studies.
Brian, what can you tell us about events in Japan?
Well, clearly they've had an earthquake which measures whatever it is on the wotsaname. Look, here's a bit of graph paper with some heavy lines on it, heavy shit, eh, Kirsty?
Yes, but whaddabout the buildings, because people at home, watching their skymadeupnewsandfilth screens, will be keen to understand the physics of it all.
Quite, Emily, well Japan is quite a long way away but what I can tell you is that clearly some of the buildings have fallen down and some of them, clearly, haven't; clearly, of course, some of them are just leaning over a bit, a case of neither up nor down, rather like His Grace the Grand Old Duke of York (sings) O-o-o-oh....the grand old Duke of York, he copped ten thousand pounds, and gave it to his slapper wife, so she could go on the town.......
Yes, thank you, but the Japanese, they live with the constant threat of earthquake and tidal waves, or Tu-Sunamis, as we are now calling them on the BBC, as though we were all language scholars, what can you tell us about any special preparations they may have made, buildings-wise, to cope with this....this....ah...this Tectonic Plates shit happening?
Well, as you know, Oprah, they have great experience in this sort of thing, what with the terror bombing campaigns of the 1945, culminating in them all getting their faces melted off by the Freedom Atom bombs so they kind of take it all in their hobbling little strides, bowing and scraping and hissing at one another, grovelling about, doing their company exercises, singing their company hymns, saying their company prayers. And let's not forget that since the war the little blighters have been gangraped and brainwashed into believing that Consumerism is the new Bushido. Gone from feudalism to corporate slavery in a couple of generations, they have, from shovelling shit in the rice paddies to making digital cameras. Clearly, they're all Buddhists, of course, which helps.
How's that, Brian?
Well, clearly they believe in some reincarnation shit or other, ancestor worship, that sort of thing; so, clearly, it doesn't really matter if they get washed away and ground up into tiny bits, they're all going straight up to Samurai Heaven; it's why they were so keen to chop the heads off British POWs in the last war.
What, because of the earthquakes?
No, because they're horrible little yellow bastards.
That was Professor Brian Gob, talking to us there. But what about the nuclear problem, I mean they're going off like fucking Catherine Wheels, aren't they, those reactors? Well, I'm joined here in the studio by Professor Trevor Gob, of the University of Shepton Mallet who lectures on Nuclear Meltdown Tectonic Plates Studies. Professor Gob, what can you tell us; are these things safe? Well, yes and no, Kirsty, it's very much a case of suck it and see, in a very real sense, at the end of the day. At the end of the day, the Devil, as ever is in the detail. You see, if you have a level playing field and someone moves the goalposts then the bottom line is gonna be that it's time to wake up and smell the coffee, at the end of the day. It's all down to the procedures. They have 'em in place, the Japanese, like no ofher nation in Earth, which isn't surprising, really, considering.
Considering what, Trevor?
Well, Kirsty, considering all them mutants they got, walking around with two heads and no fucking arms, and arses where their ears oughta be, you know, eyeballs in their armpits, albinos and cleft palates and cloven fucking hooves where their feet should be, all those descendants of the survivors of Hiroshima and |Nagasaki. Now, as to whether they are safe, that's really two questions. I mean, they might be safe. And on the other hand, they might be dangerous as fuck. No point asking me, I used to teach woodwork, when we were still a polytechnic. Before that fucker Blair went and fucked everything up. I mean, half the country with degrees, what's that shit about, every other fuckwit in the land, smirking, banging-on about how his girl, Chardonnay or his lad, Ethan, is off to Uni, to read hairdressing studies. A city and guilds in dovetail jointing, or welding, that was something to be proud of, but they give degrees out to people who can't spell their own fucking names. No use, Kirsty, the BBC trying to educate them about nuclear fission in Japan, not when they couldn't change a fucking three-pin plug, not to save their fucking lives. And as for Stephanie fucking Flanders rabbiting on, the silly fucking cow, about how all this fire and fucking brimstone shit in Japan is going to affect the footsie one hundred and maybe cause a double-dip recession, about how the fucking Nikkei stock exchange is faring; well, she may as well be farting out of the window for all the difference it makes. Now, there's a thought for the viewers, eh, our Steph, in some mad porno re-write of the Wife of Bath's Tale, her arse hanging out of Broadcasting House, breaking wind in time to the Shipping Forecast. She come s from a showbiz family, doesn't she? Couldn't be any worse than all this shit you keep serving up about Japan. And fucking Lebanon. And Egypt.
Well, you know, professor, we have to be relevant and up to the minute, if we were reflective and thoughtful and intelligent we might be accused of straying into the realms of journalism and clearly we don't do that; news, that's our business, news, and filth.
That was Professor Trevor Gob there for us, on the very real potential for something newsy and urgent happening in the town of Fuckyoufissionama.
In other, non-Nip news, Do we want a rogue state, with a tinpot dictator, festering on Europe's Northern border? We look at David Cameron, stamping his foot in a nearly empty House of Commons. How can a pampered, inbred wastrel like Mr Cameron, incompetent and illegitmate, come to the House, day after day, and pretend to be the font of all wisdom when he is a global laughing stock? I'll be exploring that, but not too deeply, with our political editor, Michael Cock, I mean Crick, you know, the little fat fucker in a scarf, the one who is always so pleased with himself. Prince Charles will be telling us why it's OK for his friends, the Saudis, to invade Bah-rain; why it's OK for his friend, Stephen Fag, to use cocaine, and why it's OK for his brother to hang-out with nonces, and generally act like a cunt. And we'll be looking at the first editions of tomorrow's 'papers with Toilets Maguire and Mrs Ian Cardigan.
The weather now with Sarah Tits.
Thanks, Kirsty, and it looks like a shaky start in Japan with some flooding and maybe some very bright and determined heat.
Thanks for that, Sarah, you silly fucking bimbo. And now, to play us out, the most useless foreign seckatry in history.
One minute flogging arms to despots, the next begging for their overthrow, the UK's unelected prime minister lurches from one embarrassment to another, European leaders rightly pissing on his fuckwit plan to corral Gaddafi by military inervention; still, he's as well raving in Brussels as raving in his own bed, he'd only fall out of it. What DOES he look like?
bring Freedom to Libya, announces the retention of Uncle Sam's
offshore concentration camp.
Uncharged, untried, hoisted off the street in their home countries by bounty hunters,
Gitmo detainees make obeisance to their captors, Freedom's ambassadors.
My fellow motherfuckers. Y'all'll probably remember that back in the day I was all for closing down that Gitmo shithole, an affront to human decency, I said it was, a blight on the good name of American justice, not that it has much of one, certainly not as far as niggers go, that's for sure, but Hell, that's they own fault, if'n they wasn't all idle, shiftless, drugtaking, whoremongering no-count scum, living on welfare and offa decent white folks like me then they wouldn't all be so all-fired dis-pro-motherfuckin- portianately doin' nine hunnerd and ninety nine years down there in the hole, where you wouldn't keep a dawg, much less a human bein'.
Now, I know that I said I'd be closing that place right up and seein' to it that them dudes all got a fair trial and everything, due process - me being a professor of law and everything and knowing all about that shit - instead of just rotting away down there in them cages while those crewcut cocksucking sonsafuckinbitches at the CIA figgered-out sumpn to charge their asses with. You know, torture their moslem asses with some real inventive shit until they confessed, even to killin' JFK, even though every motherfucker knows it was the FBI and the Mafia done wasted that dude. You know, motherfuckers, them hundredsa sonsafuckinbitches been down there for nigh-on ten years and we only managed to convict six of them, If we was that raghead, wossisname, Gaddafi, is it, an' we carried on like that the Yew-nited Nations'd be pissing themselves about how that ain't no way to treat folks and be calling for a no-fly zone over the US of fuckin' A.
Anyways, this bein' the home of the brave and the land of the free - only not for niggers and wogs and Ayrabs and Pakistanis and Afghanis and Palestinians and sure as Jesus H fucking Christ not for them Iraqi bastards who blowed-up the Twin Towers, nor that faggot pfc Bradley fucking Manning who sold out his country - me and the Republicans thought that the best way we could demonstrate to the world our commitment to freedom was to keep that concentration camp open indefinitely and keep on torturing them sonsafuckinbitches till they confess to sumpn. Now, motherfuckers, I know that ain't exactly what I said we was gonna do but, if you remember, we also said we was gonna nail them bankers' asses when in fact they's all running the fuckin' White House now; I said we was gonna build new green jobs but instead we got twenty per cent and risin' are unemployed, or lazy bastards to give 'em their proper name and I know we was gonna have free health care for everyone and now we ain't, not only that but the State legislatures are all just about to renege on their pension payments. Only not to themselves, obviously, just to working people. So, as a matter of fuckin' fact, when we was all busy, you, too, motherfuckers, sayin' Yes, we can, what we actually meant was, Yes, we cain't.
So, motherfuckers, it's all your fault, all this shit you got me in to, and the least you can do is fuck off and shut the fuck up, 'less I has to set the National Guard on yo asses. America? Bankrupt this year? Only the lazy people. Rally round the flag, y'all. And God bless America.
Jimi Hendrix, Star Spangled Banner.
Vastly superior to the famous Woodstock performance, this studio version remains. so to speak, something else.
The Filth-O-Graph is reporting that the Duke's family friend, the nonce, Epstein, was permitted to land his GulfStreamNonceJet at RAF Marham, the sooner, one imagines, for them to enjoy the weekend together at the Queen's - that is to say our estate at Sandringham, presumably a host of servants - public sector employees - would have been on hand in order that the Duke could see his friend entertained right royally, so to speak. Air Vice Marshal Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap insisted that the landing, among frontline Tornado squadrons was not at all unusual, was, in fact, a wizard show. It happens all the time, said Marshal Golighty-Jockstrap, how many times? Fucked if I know, old boy, but I am sure it must have. What, rename the base RAF Nonceham ? I should co-co.
Princess Sarah Freeloader,
Hangover? No, just been up all night with a couple of pretend sheiks, Okay, yah?
former Mrs Duke, said what a terrible misunderstanding it had all been, her begging money off of the nonce and the Duke making free with HM Armed Forces premises like that in return. And as for introducing little Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie to a man who might well groom them to be his sex slaves, well, people simply had to understand that she was under an incredible amout of strain, freeloading her way around the world, selling introductions to their Dad to dodgy geezers from Mr Murdoch's newspapers. I wish people would understand that I only do these things for the money, complained the greedy, idle slut, if only the Queen had given me a few tens of millions I wouldn't have to hang out with paedophiles. Or Andrew.
In Downing Street, Mr CallHimWinston, our next great war leader,
said that the only way to reduce the defecit and win the next election was to declare war on some wogs, somewhere. It is simply the only thing to do. By my unfailing support for His Royal Highness, a bent, thieving playboy, my support for the bungling fucking useless arse burglar, Hague and my stuffing the cabinet with retarded mutants like Duncan fucking Smith and his free-pensions-for-all-nonsense I have revealed myself to be even more useless than Mr Snot and my hero, Cardinal Blair. Three failed leaders in the same cabinet, Hague, IDS and myself - four if you count the halfwit, braindead dogshooter, Clegg, didya fucking see him, yesterday, apprenticeships, in loft insulation, fuck me, Jesus, must take all of half an hour to get good at that, even I could do it - 'sawonder the Brits, too, aren't storming the barracks and waging war on their unelected govament. And that's not to mention Mr Coulson, Mr Laws, the forests, the disappearing aircraft carriers, inflation, unemployment, the bankers and the cost of petrol and Christ only knows what else. Fuck me, they must all be stupid.
Yes, everyone can have a big pension.
Not as big as mine, though, obviously.
In fact I should probably say that everyone might have a big pension.
When? Fucked if I know. Ask the Chancellor.
Mr William Gay Gargoyle.
Yes, Mr Deputy Speaker, Iyam, if you will permit me,