Sunday 31 July 2011


Oliver Letwin
Oliver Letwin says he is determined to 'instil' fear among public sector workers to push productivity. 
Oliver Letwin, the coalition's policy minister, has revealed the government's determination to instil "fear" among those working in the public sector, who he claimed had failed for the past 20 years to improve their productivity.
Letwin, architect of the coalition's plans to reform public services, told a meeting at the offices of a leading consultancy firm that the public sector had atrophied over the past two decades.
In controversial comments angering teachers, nurses and doctors, he warned that it was only through "some real discipline and some fear" of job losses that excellence would be achieved in the public sector.

Letwin added that some of those running schools and hospitals would not survive the process and that it was an "inevitable and intended" consequence of government policy.
"You can't have room for innovation and the pressure for excellence without having some real discipline and some fear on the part of the providers that things may go wrong if they don't live up to the aims that society as a whole is demanding of them," he said.

"If you have diversity of provision and personal choice and power, some providers will be better and some worse. Inevitably, some will not, whether it's because they can't attract the patient or the pupil, for example, or because they can't get results and hence can't get paid. Some will not survive. It is an inevitable and intended consequence of what we are talking about. Only not for politicians. fuck me, no. Or bankers, certainly not. Or very wealthy people"

Saturday 30 July 2011

EVENSONG. Chet Atkins - "Autumn Leaves"


Judge Mary Jane Mowat 

 This is a most extraordinary business,  a judge  saying to a  man  convicted  of collecting pornographic images of children that she did not blame him for being attracted to children and going on to say that many teachers were so attracted but did not act upon their feelings either physically or by the use of imagery, before suspending a twelve month sentence on the former teacher.

It seems to me axiomatic that one should not, indeed cannot be blamed for being attracted to something or someone, for who knows what is at the root of such feelings nor how we are  to master them? Wiser heads than mine have cudgelled themselves to no avail in seeking  the origins of sexual attractions and most of us, I guess, are thankful that our own fall into a fairly conventional spectrum, although the definition  of what is conventional sexual behaviour  has altered most radically in my lifetime;  homosexuality, in my childhood, was a serious criminal offence, bondage, domination and sado-masochism used to be deemed shocking and repellent, now their accoutrements can be purchased in High Street stores - somebody, large numbers of somebodies,  must be buying them.  This is not to say that paedophila, too,  will in time  become legal and acceptable, it is one of those aberrations, like incest and cannibalism, which most instinctively know to be wrong, by any conceivable yardstick but Judge Mowat is correct in drawing the distinction between an aesthetic obsession and an offence aganst a minor.

There is an argument that the very perusal of such stuff  creates a market for it and hence instigates further abuse of children,  that looking at certain types of images cannot be other than criminal;  I am not sure about this, I saw some child pornography when I was virtually still a child myself and it shocked me rigid, and I have never seen any since nor even wanted to in an inquisitive, curious sense, it gave me the fucking heebie-jeebies and I expect it would most people;  those who seek it out, therefore, I imagine, are for some reason already enmeshed in that  dark obsession,  and no-one, not even themselves,  knows why.

I cannot imagine that at some stage in their lives some people say OK, I'm gonna be a beast, that's what I wanna be, I wanna look at pictures or videos of little children being buggered and worse, and if I get the opportunity or can hook-up with some like-minded people I wanna actually do some of that shit, even though everybody will hate me, I'll go to jail and get knifed and scalded and the public are gonna wanna hang me up from a lamp post and cut my balls off, one at a time.  Surely nobody in their right mind, consciously decides that - out of Life's huge erotic cornucopia - they want to devote their lives to the unspeakable, there must surely be stuff, events beyond their control, maybe in childhood, maybe in puberty, maybe in Holy Deadlock, maybe subliminally, from consumer culture,  from the great company which is skymadeupnewsandfilth, which prompt such deviance and which cannot be expunged without profound and lasting psychiatric care.  But looking at images and  the commission of  sexual offences against children are separate aberrations,  the former  may be a condition wholly involutary, originating from familial or societal pressures and influences beyond the control, beyond the ken of the so conditioned;  the physical offences, though, are the result of free will, are chosen. In the latter case we may properly say, I would never do that shit, never, but in the former we must say, well, Thank God,  there but for fortune, whatever happened to him could've happened to me.

Now your whoreson nonce, of whom I've known a few, will argue his blamelessness -  the little tart led me on, I didn't know she was only twelve or ten, she wanted to break up my marriage and so on but he or she cannot claim that they did not know they were doing wrong and Judge Mowat was, I feel, entirely correct.  She passed a sentence, not actively custodial but still of huge, restrictive, deleterious  and punitive weight which reflected a proper concern for the use of such imagery whilst ackowledging, bravely, that many, otherwise blameless, feel unnatural attractions  and are habituated to materal which is undeniably an offence against Decency and in its preparation a serious criminal offence.

The scale of offences against children - and not only by the men in frocks - is huge, in positing degrees of culpability and in considered sentencing Judge Mowat serves all who would see it decline.

Friday 29 July 2011

EVENSONG, IRISH TRIPLETS. Bela Fleck & Gerry O'Connor : Banish Misfortune / The Maid Behind The Bar



I'm sick of all this shit. Mother Payne, above, with the witch of Chipping Norton,  claims to be absolutely devastated by something or other, some of her friends at skymadeupnewsandfilth turn out to be - fuck me who'd have thought it -  filthsters, even though they helped to create her own charity and helped her get the law changed, now they've gone and absolutely devastated her, all over again. I would've thought, I do think, that having your kid nonced to death   is absolutely devastating and that, thereafter, finding out that someone had your phone number might be at most irritating, not, it seems, here, in Ruin. Totally and absolutely devastated is the immediate response to any slight, any rupture of one's amour propre.

It is, of course, the Colin Parry Syndrome, in which anyone unlawfully bereaved  is entitled to be front and centre, demanding this and that, as though we had no laws, no law enforcement, as though their loss invests them with the wisdom of Solomon, unable to grieve in private and make what adjustments as one can, the modern victim requires not just the quiet sympathy of the rest of us but a howling, shrieking, demanding celebrity. Colin Parry famously wangling a radio programme for himself after his son, Tim, was killed by Kneecaps's bold volunteers, famously name-dropping that As I was saying to Princess Diana only this morning, famously seeing his Mrs, also bereaved, walk out on him, pigsick of his  lust for celebrity.

I never cared for Sarah Payne and her campaigning;  rightly, we don't have victims' justice and those who, whipped-up by the likes of the foul Rebekah Woods, demand it are the same sort of people who would burn paediatricians out of their homes, are those whose currency is neglect and stupidity, are those who, at one level, manage to blame an entire police force for their own dismal parental neglect, those who shout the loudest being themselves the emptiest vesseels,  the cracked bells.

It's almost an adjunct to the absurd posturing of the multiculturalists, this public, celebrity victimhood, people who haven't a pot to piss in starting their "own" charities, as though they were poncing on the Civil List like Charlie and the rest of them and had to find some means to justify themselves.  Of course in the case of the loathsome Gerry and Cilla McCann  the charity wheeze usefully paid off the mortgage and sent the family off around the world, first class; I doubt Sarah Payne is in their league of devilry and is as much sinned against as sinning,  the weirdo Brooks peddling compassion and sisterhood as glibly as she peddled tits and tittle tattle.  Even so, she and other unfortunates, cruelly bereaved need to learn the value of the phrases No Comment  and This Is A Private Matter,  they need to grieve in private or, like the relatives of those murdered on the Moors, spend a lifetime being egged on, having their hatreds stoked, living a life of no return, truly, a life totally and utterly devastated. If Mother Payne has any  proper friends they'll tell her to shut the fuck up.



He's normally half-way there, of course, but in this outing for the BBC, in which the horrid little prick played scientist, instead of wacky racer with Cameron's buddy, Clarkson, he achieved full penetration.


It's bad enough that a supposedly cash-strapped BBC sends proper scientists, historians and art critics all around the globe at my expense, when they could just as easily present their theses from a static studio, sending Hammond to the depths of the ocean - and bringing the little monster back - to California, Iceland and fuck knows where else, is an extravagance  offensive to all license payers,

There was a great cop and motorcycle film in the '70s - ElectraGlide In Blue - and the opening sequence was of a diminutive cop strapping himself into the various bits of leather,firearms accoutrements and sunglasses which made up his Harley-riding uniform;  the scene was reprised in this load of old nonsense, with Hammond clicking and zipping and snapping the various parts of his SCUBA gear onto his tiny frame and then a cut to him pipsqueaking his way through an underwater crack in the continental plates, all flippers and bubbles and  his dreadful tinny little voice, metronoming on and on, some shit about Machine Earth;  it was like  Michael J Fox playing David Attenborough, on helium.

The central motif of this geology for infants programme was a virtual Earth, apparently a hundred feet high, around  which Wheels Hammond, veteran of a thousand rigged motoring adventures, piloted a cherrypicker, up, he went, and then up some more, skilfully operating the hydraulics just like a proper man, draining the oceans with all the panache of Peter fucking Snow on election night.  Look, he squeaked, as he emptied the Pacific, a ring of volcanoes, Look, he exclaimed, the deepest, deepest place ever.

It was actually worse than I describe it, the whole programme merely a vehicle for the pint-sized, gibbering  egomaniac, pointless and trivial, the few sprinklings of geological information revealed being  eclipsed by Hammond's repulsive, cheeky chappie wisecracking;  one is tempted to believe that the wretched little oik really does do his shopping down at Morrisons, with Alan BigBoy Hansen.... is it Hansen??? That Scottish gabshite, the one who sounds like a protection racketeer but you know he's a big fairy.

It is one of Ruin's milestones, that the BBC more and more panders to the idea of a presenter's brand supremacy, and it being interchangeable, across all subjects,  believes that we would watch the thicko, Adrian Chiles, discussing heart surgery, current affairs or football and watch him with equal enthusiasm, regardless of his overwhelming unsuitability.  And they are right, the boyish Alan Titmarsh in his jumpers, fronting first gardening, then natural history and then the fucking Proms;  Fiona Slut-Bruce doing news, that fucking crimewatch rubbish, antiques and now art. It's alright with lightweight frothy trivia but passing mediaslag Hammond off as some sort of geophysicist is awful, the dwarf himself is obviously too far up his own arse to  be bothered by the fraudulence of this tacky endeavour but  anyone tuning-in and expecting an informative progarmme fronted by a knowledgeable presenter would have been disappointed to find himself watching broadcasting at the Blue Peter level.  Still, fuck 'em, as they say on Feedback, the viewers, they only pay for it all.

Wednesday 27 July 2011


 Mr William Miscarriages Hague, the British Foreign Seckatry, 
who today announced that he was opening  a British Libyan Embassy in London.

We want Colonle Gadaffi to go and that's the bottom line but he can stay if he wants, said Mr Hague about the fuck-up he finds himself in.  And that is why the Prime Minister and I agree that General de Gaulle should come to Britain and form a govament in exile. This is definitrely not taking sides in a civil war, which isn't what's happening in Libya anyway, it's just one half of the country fighting the other half and doing it with our help, which is the best way to stop civilian casualties, if you don't count the three thousand or so caused by NATO bombs, and we don't.

My official wife, Ffffffion, has not had any miscarriages for a while but when she does I shall certainly issue ay press statement via one of my pretty male young assistants at the Foreign Office, who, if I am sleeping with them, it is only to save money and perfectly normal behaviour.


Hello, Norway und Heil Hitler. Seckatry Kissinger here,

butcher of Laos und Cambodia und Vietnam 

und Father Confessor to asshole president, TrickyDicky Nixon und all-around sex god.

I just vant to say sank you all vunce again for giving me ze Nobel Peace Prize und a million dollars of cash.  

Giving zat award to a person like me goes to show zat ze committee truly has its hand on the pulse of global whatchamacallit und it also spelled the end of satire in Amerka because all ze funny men said zat zis was so shit zat it was beyond satire, zat zey couldn't make up shit like this. Und I vood say to ze Norwegian peoples zat a good way to purge zis unhappiness is to take a few ragheads up in ze helicopter and throw zem to fuck out.  It wuz srategy like zis vot helped me secure my historic victory in SouthEast Asia.  Zat vill be twenty sousand dollars, bitte. Oh, und don't forget zat I brought peace in the Middle East,too, und so can I have anudder prize?

The Mayor of London, seeking to milk the Norway business for all it's worth, has offered the entire Metropolitan Police Service to Oslo, at a knockdown price.

They're jolly good chaps, what, blustered the albino charlatan, and if the Norwegians want stuff covered-up, want evidence ignored and if they want an investigative team which will spend it's time on freebie piss-ups with international criminals then there is no better body of professional, dedicated law enforcement officers anywhere in the world. Any faults they may have are of course due to my good friend the unelected prime minister and not to me; you know me, good old Boris, never one to take things too seriously, especially when they're codswallop. Not, of course that an island full of dead sardineheads is codswallop, or even sardineswallop,  but as we say in showbusiness, there's no such thing as bad publicity and anything which diverts attention from my accomplishments in policing has to be simply spiffing,,So come on you Olympics-hungry Londoners, let's all stand together with the Oslovians in forgetting all about Sir Paul Gob and that other cove, wotsisname; see, I've forgotten him already. And so should you. And so, if he knows what's good for him, should  Assistant Commissioner Yates.

My fellow Nordic motherfuckers. I join with you tonight, in sorrow, and Michelle and I, and our two robokids, sit here in the White House, eating sardines on toast, out of a sense of solidarity, yes and kinship. It's not widely known but my great grandfather, Sven Obamasensen, sailed those icy Northern waters all the way across the Atlantic and founded Amerka, the greatest and most indebted nation on Earth. So, your loss is my loss and if you want some of Amerka's peace-loving, democracy-loving, crewcut, psychobastard, mommasboy, gangraping troubleshooters to come over there, wherever the fuck it is, and kick some ass then all you need to do is ask and we'll come and set up some secret bases and secret prisons and surveillance systems and make you pay for them.  Just like we do with our British subjects, I mean friends. No, I don't, I mean subjects. Those Brits, they can be subjects of Europe and Amerka, why the fuck not?

And let me thank you, once again, motherfuckers, for my Nobel Peace Prize, which you sensitive, caring Norwegians so kindly gave me for stopping the wars and shutting down Camp Freedom, or Camp Guantanamo, as it has been known.  I will be doing these things, of course, just not now, because   in the meantime we have some other wars to start, regimes to change and suspects to torture.  Never forget that the price of Freedom and Peace is a police state and permanent,  total warfare. Thank you and God bless Amerka.


Aye, that's right, so it is. And as First Minister of Northern Ireland I know that I speak for  my fellow Mick, Father Blair and my good friend Mr Gerry Nonce, when I say that we deplore acts of violence against civilians, anywhere and anytime;  they are totally unjustified, so they are.  Unless it's us who's doing them, But in this case it wasn't, so it wasn't, and so I say to the people of Norway:  If this slaughter leads to the release from prison of hundreds of murdering scum,   like me,  then it's a price worth paying in what we call conflict resolution terms, so we do.  And by the way, we took a dim view, me and Gerry, so we did, of youse pofaced Presbyterians giving the Nobel Peace Prize to that Davy Trimble and not us, so we did. And youse better remember that I haven't put my Black and Decker beyond reach, so I haven't.  Next time youse're giving out a Peace Prize, bear that in mind.

Tuesday 26 July 2011

FROM THE WHITE HOUSE.In Performance at The White House Bob Dylan


It is a rather scrawny sacred cow, the one  that says we we don't do deals with terrorists,  for  acts of terrorism against British forces and citizens have resulted in the deals which led to the  creation of the state of Israel, to the getting out of jail free of hundreds of Ulster terrorists,  the abolition of the provincial police force and the eventual reunification of Ireland.  The Stern Gang and the Irgun didn't fuck about, happily hanging British soldiers and attacking US warships but the hardmen batallions  of Gerry Adams and Marty Kneecaps were more equivocal  on their targeting strategy, maybe because they were funded mainly by East Coast US citizens; if they had really wanted to win their war swiftly they need only have wandered into one of those May Balls in the quadrangles of Oxbridge and Cambridge and slaughtered a few dozen of the children of the rich and powerful, a Bullingdon Club membership, perhaps, and they'd have been dancing down Belfast's Royal Avenue, waving the Tricolour faster than you could say SinnFein Rules, OK? They had a go, of course, with the attack on Mountbatten's boat but he wasn't quite a civilian, was he, and though he was of the elite,  he didn't have a father in the cabinet or an uncle who was a permanent seckatry of this or that mandarinate. Had Kneecaps & Co blitzed Kings College or Balliol perhaps the struggle, as they called it, would have been foreshortened.  It may well be the case, of course, that even in this dirtiest of wars there was a gentlemen's agreement between the senior participants, not to kill each other's families; so whilst it was terror, Jim, it was not as we now know it

And imagine the reaction if, after bombing the buses and trains in the seven/seven attack, whoever perpetrated it  also placed a few guys in white coats at the hospitals receiving the injured, and imagine these guys, in the confusion, entering the triage stations and the operating theatres and   detonating some of those  suicide waistcoats among the injured and the medical staff.  And then imagine, a week later, some more suicide bombers joining the mourners at the funeral, or just on the streets, as the hearses went by and blowing up themselves and a coffin or two, a funeral limo full of grieving relatives, maybe;  that would be proper terror, fuck me, wouldn't it just, an attack on civilians, an attack on the hospitals in which they were being treated and then an attack on the funerals. Way to go, Ahmed.

It seems that the first proper, rational terrorist of the modern age, though, is not a Marxist Irish Republican, not a muslem Jihadist, but a Norwegian, a white man, a Christian and a Freeemason. I know that McVeigh, of the Omaha bombing  was a WASP and everything but his was the archetypal one-bang attack,.Anders Breivik's one-man blitzkrieg was altogether more comprehensive - firstly, an attack on govament buildings, then a systematic, broad daylight  culling of the young elite and finally a calm as you like surrender to the cops;  no cathartic execution by marksmen, no Allah-bound suicide, just a Here we are, chaps, whaddaya gonna do, now? It was an Insider's Mayhem he wrought, no language problems, no visa or passport issues, no borders across which to ship his explosives.  And surrendering alive, native and to the manor born he keeps his preoccupation front and centre for the foreseeable future. Unless they mysteriously kill him.

It  was a brilliant achievement, as these things go - Norway, bizarrely, in news ratings terms,  outguns Somalia, Washington, Afghanistan, Libya, Murdoch  and even druggy chanteuse Amy and her ghastly father; all this the work of just one man   and who knows where it will lead?  I don't know about anyone else but I have swiftly grown irritated by the mannered, patient, reasonable know-it-allism of the SardineHeads, giving reasonable, worthy   interviews, in their wretched,  quizzical English. Such a pain in the arse are they that you can see why matey would get pissed at them as, in his mind's eye, he saw Saladin and a scimitar-waving host sailing up the fiords and sacking Oslo,  and everybody smirking about the place, in their neat suits, being fucking reasonable and tolerant.

In the corridors of sleaze the worry must be that  these events set a new temper  for the countless millions, all across the white world, quietly, permanently  enraged by what Mad Melanie Phillips calls  the Londonistan phenomenon.  Indeed, Sarkozy the dwarf pimp, has already responded to this constituency by launching one of those sneaky, Frog pogroms, against the Romany, to start with, but as Madamoiselle le Pen gains in stature, who knows which group he will attack next?

 I share  Andy's rage at the gobby, ineffective, cowardycustard middle class because that, for my sins,  is my own natural milieu but now and again I have drank and dined and ranted in different homes, places where people were never consulted about the multiculturalisation of their country, a drastic overhaul and reworking of their way of life which they never chose but had thrust upon them, by career moralists, by inverted racists and by  politically opportunistic shits like Jack Torture and  Roy Hatterjee.  The Race Relations Act was never going to resonate with Colin and his sons, Lee and Wayne and Scott,  they didn't give a fuck for all that shit;  they weren't deranged bigots or fascists, they just were very uncomfortable at being over-run and over-run by people who they  perceived as being wily, ill-mannered and over-indulged; Mosques and halal butchershops all over the inner ring road. Maybe they would have  worked towards assimilation, Colin and his family, if the newcomers had adapted, just a little bit, but they didn't, hardly at all. And it was no good me saying to Colin, Listen mate, you have to give these things a coupla generations to settle down, not when all he had, really, was his little bit of white working class culture or, as the clever  people  impudently  called it, his racism.

I remember, twenty years ago, driving through Washwood Heath in inner-city Birmingham and thinking, Christ, this is a different country, how has this happened?  It didn't matter much to me because I didn't live there or anywhere near there, but if I had I would've been aghast, estranged and frightened, living in an alien ghetto, garish, smelly and lawless, in my own city.

I know nothing about Andy, only what nincompoops like Jon Sopel say, on tne telly, and that's worthless, sensationalist, sentimental bollocks - did you think you were gonna die, did you text your familiy to say goodbye, d you think je should get more than the maximum sentence, more Sun than BBC, Sopel.  But I do know about Colin, an ordinary bloke,   unschooled, unread but like many of his generation and class, a bit of a Zen Master when it came  to his trade, no use for letters but  he could hone a chisel to laser sharpness, replicate a complex, ancient architrave moulding with his battery of moulding planes, his beady eye and his steady hand, Colin could insert a square foot of mahogany into a damaged tabletop and you'd never see the join - worth a hundred Darcus Howes, a hundred Trevor Phillipses and a thousand Boris Johnsons, an English tradesman, in  short, for forty years, now, further and further down the food chain, his neighbourhoods, his jobs, his schools, his assumptions, his country and his parliament demolished before his eyes;  the likes of Beardy Git, Robin Cook, telling him that the English National Dish is Chicken Tikka Masala;  the likes of CallHimDave cast-iron promising him a referendum and then reneging on his word, like a proper Etonian cunt.

And I know that in Colin's house and in millions of others, people will be saying about the Norwegian, Well, fair play to him, somebody has to stand up for whatever it is, else what's the point?

It is not for me to condone or condemn wotsisname -  I am with the anti-death penalty campaigners - you can't judge a person  on the basis of the worst act  he or she ever committed, such would see us all fucked, by God and man, alike, but I have lived through his genesis and his fertilisation, seen him, like a slow train, coming up around the bend, and said very little, frightened, like the Norwegians,  of giving offence to multiculturalism's lurking, vengeful, antagonistic watchmen.  

It is not possible or desireable to - what is it - repatriate, millions of non-indigenous people, nor is it right to attempt to treat any of us as second-class citizens; it must be possible, however, to engineer  some basic, inclusive standards of citizenship to which all must adhere;  the eternal cruelty inherent in all of the Abrahamic religions presents  a tougher problem, be it demonstrated by the Bible-Thumping Hangmen of the MidWest,  the  Zionist babykillers  banging their bearded heads on  Jerusalem's WailingWall   or the HeadChopping Ayatollahs of Saudi Arabia;  maybe we should hang a good mixed handful of the hateful bastards, or at the very least come down on them like a ton of bricks, bang 'em up for ninety-nine years, the very first time one of them calls for Jihad or Crusade  or the infinite expansion of the Holy Land.

Power doesn't  care to admit it but there will be many like Oslo's Bold Marauder, many of them armed, many of them with police or military training, none of them giving a flying fuck about the Newsnight/Question Time  phony sensibility. We do do deals with Terror, better that we do it now, whilst he slumbers, biding his time,  than see a platoon of tooled-up Aryans, marching across Bradford or Birmingham or London. Or Oxford,  Cambridge and le Sorbonne.

Sunday 24 July 2011


 Doughty TeeVee campaigner found dead whilst watching adult channels.

The world was rocked last night by the news that Mary Whitehouse had died while watching sordid telly programmes.  The BBC has learned that Mrs Whitehouse had led a double life, pontificating about the nation's morality yet often watching back-to-back episodes of  the seedy and squalid Emmerdale Farm, Heartbeat and All Creatures Great and Small.  I understand that the latter showed scenes of men with their arms up cows rectums and such like, said the nation's spiritual leader, Dame Mother Superior Anne Widdicombe,

and I am absolutely disgusted to learn that my dear friend, Mary, regularly debased herself by watching such depravity;  I  can let you have some Pizzas at a very good price, continued the wretched old cow, and they have been blessed by the Holy Father, Pope Nazi, himself, Dominus Vobiscum everybody. Only not Michael Howard, obviously. You can buy a boxed set  of my Strictly Come Lurching  appearances at all good retailers.


The world of showbiz was also rocked to its core, celebrities such as Dame Joan Bakewell-Slut 

expressing sorrow on behalf of the House of Lords. I never much liked Mary's music, said the dreadful old boot, much preferring Bartok and Shostakovich myself but Showbiz is one big unhappy family and of course we mourn her loss.  Some of us make our way by moralising, like Mary, and others by fucking their way through the arts and BBC Establishment until they wind-up here, in this noble house, like me, Said Dame Slut.

And whilst I hope to add a meagre scintilla of erudition to this noble place I will shortly be making another TeeVee series about my specialist subject,  men's cocks; it will be very academic.

Yeah, too right it will, you scrawny old bitch, added Dame Professor Germaine Greer of Oxford Unversity and Screw Magazine.

Mary lived life to the full, sometimes watching the tube until , Oh, half-past-ten, before rolling into bed with her old man Dennis for some hot reading of the gospel of Matthew, which was one of her naughty little treats. Y'know, cobbers, people say that it was Dennis who got her into hard telly but I'm not so sure, we all have free will don't we?  My new book, Strewth, I can't even remember what it's called, I've written so many but it'll be about sex in some form or another, will be out soon and you can read me in the Telegraph, in my blog, on FacePage  and Twitter. Should you wanna.

Britain's unelected prime minister. Mr CallHimDave, joined in the eulogies:

Today is a good day to bury Amy Winehouse, I mean Rupert Murdoch. And Andy Coulson, lamented a visibly moved Flashman. Look, let's be clear, clearly, in the coming days, the thoughts of the British people will be with Ms Winehouse's family, clearly, in the days to come, the British people will want to stand by the Norwegians and not with their own  jobs, their elderly, their pensions, their rights and everything they hold dear but Me and Mr Osborne despise as, clearly, they divert national resources from where they should be going, which is, clearly, to us. And clearly, to anyone whose father sent them to Eton. As we observe these twin tragedies, let us be clear that I did not come into politics to worry about poor people or dead people, least of all some drug-crazed, caterwauling taxi driver's daughter. And that is why I am now off to Sunday tea with Mrs Woods and Mr Clarkson.

A raddled-looking Seckatry of State, President Hillary Rodham Trousers

said  that she, President Obama and the American people deplored acts of Amy Whitehouse and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Norwegian people in ignoring the potentially millions of people thirsting and starving to death in other parts of the world, whilst one nutter ran amok and killed a handful up there in Sardineavia, or wherever the fuck it was.

British opposition leader, Mr Ed Moribund, joined in the tributes to the dead junky.

I am not calling for Mr Cameron to go. I am simply saying that if Amy Whitehouse and Milly Dowler were alive, they would want me to be prime minister.

Saturday 23 July 2011





Aye, wahay, bonnie lad, Toilets Maguire, here, on t'television  'an Ah can 'onestly say, like, that Ah've never bin one for that hackin' shite. Up North, where Ah come from, d'ye ken, we canna mak' head nor tail of all they numbers, so Ah can  reet 'onestly say that all my stories in't Mirror, Ah mek em all up mesen and dinna be botherin' wi'  other folks mobiles. That Piers Morgan, though, 'e's a reet cunt an' if you get 'im for this ye'll get him, too, fer yon insider dealin' he done, and let the other poor cunt go to jail. Aye, reet, bonnie lad, Ah'll 'ave a pint a heavy, if yer buyin', an' a large whiskey.

sings: An' the fog on the tyne, 'sall mine all mine, the fog on the Tyne 'sall mine.

Friday 22 July 2011


The Beatles, it says, in a historical footnote to this clip, were bigger than Cheeses; judging by this piece of doggerel, that seems about right.

Norway, eh, who'd have thought it? Still, all you need is love. And body armour.


You can get all sorts of side effects with diabetes and in thirty years on insulin I've had a few and  one of them, anyway, was playing up, not responding to the usual stuff.  It was a Saturday and doctors working outside of a few hours a day, for a few days a week is unheard of; all those facilities lying idle,  labs, clinics, x-ray suites, operating theatres deserted, while Doc and his Mrs are playing golf, or trawling the antique shops, or maybe off for a weekend in some fabulous resort, courtesy of PharmaCorp.  Amazing how something so inherently acute, so seven-days-a-week,  operates only on a  nine-to five, Monday-to-Friday basis.  Bastards. So I strapped myself into the Citroen rocketcar and roared off to the town.  The McPharmacist was behind the counter.  This stuff, it's not working any more;  is there anything else? Aye, you need such and such.  Okay I'll have one, emmachisett, as they say at the car boot sales. Och, nae charge I'll put it on the minor ailments thingy, you're well eligible, just sign here.

How very civilised, I thought,  the knowledge of the minor ailments scheme coming back into my mind.
If you're sick, anyway, and you get some pisssant little complaint -  sore throat, sore arse, boils, whatever - you just go and see the chemist and he or she  gives you some stuff, gratis, or for free, as we say, here in  the land of linguistic ruin.  I guess the thinking is that a) it will save a  more costly visit to some useless, greedy, indifferent doctorbastard and b) it may well prevent something minor becoming something worse.  Now, we are not rich here in Ishmaelia, even so,  I could easily have paid for that medication but there are many, further along the have-not  shore, to whom  an unbudgeted-for five or six quid is  significant.  It cheered me up for the rest of the weekend, knowing that we had reached a stage  at where  the state had taken some of the sting out of illness and people won't be in pain or irritation or fear, waiting for doctor to open up for his miserable few hours a day, won't have to go and sit in some shithole waiting room, reading doctor's cast-off Country Life magazines,  tyrannised by gargoyle, misanthropic, sour-faced harridan-bitch receptionists, with wheezy people coughing  germs all over them  but can just wander into a chemist's and get a bit sorted. Mr George Bernard Shaw remarked that all professions are a conspiracy against the layman, and he was correct but anything which breaks the stranglehold that GPs have over people's lives, even if it means switching to the mercies of another over-rated professional, is to be heartily applauded.

There is something so liberating, so egalitarian,  about a quick, discreet consultation over the counter, as opposed to sitting, stiff-arsed, for an hour  in a waiting room and then creeping into doctor's  grumpy, wee cell, like a supplicant, knowing full well that the horrible know-it-all bastard hasn't washed the hand that he's just had up some old geezer's arse and if you dare ask him if he has he'll strike you off and no other fucking doctorbastard will touch you ever again.  I'd hang one in ten of them, see what happened to their work to golf ratio then. But in the meantime, if I possibly can,  I am only going to have minor, free market style ailments, and I'm going to be the chemist's best customer. Fuck it, they get paid, don't they, just not as much as Doctor Shit does.


 It is widely known, or at least it should be,  that abused children often fall into the hands of the wicked, that often those purporting to  comfort such children are worse than the original abusers. The noncing monsignors - although child abuse is multi-denominationaly rife, Methodists like the late Brian Duckworth being as darkly adept as any Irish Cardinal - the "  muscular"  social worker, the Barnardos career nonce and the grotesque, tattooed, moustachioed  mr screw in the young Offender Units all prey on those they are paid to protect and such children, through absolutely no fault of their own,  often find themselves not only physically and mentally abused but also incarcerated, friendless, in one of  our stinking prisons or holiday camps as the likes of gutterslut Kelvin McKenzie would call them, bellowing for ever more punishment  for those already punished beyond imagination, from infancy.

There was a time, recently , when no-one woild believe the word of a buggered child over that of a right reverend or a teacher, and the abusee would suffer the further humiliation of his or her painful testimony being ridiculed by a dark conclave of nonces, cops and lawyers and up-their-own-arses magistrates, Things are now marginally better, althougn attempts at child protection are often decried as political correctness gone mad;  that there is a degree of over-scrutiny and total risk aversion in some legislation  cannot be denied  but throughout history the balance has ever been skewed against the victim and in favour of the nonce. It has been one of our traditions that we bugger the children, place them in the hands of other buggerers and then put them in jail, just for luck, and call them names, thereafter.

I have often heard home seckatries - of which there hasn't been a halfway decent one since the late Woy Jenkins - bleating half-heartedly that we send the wrong people to jail, whilst raising sentences to satisfy Kelvin and increasing further the over-reach oif the criminal law.  It would be too much to expect a worthless, warmongering, bullyboy turd like Jack Torture to scream from the front bench, In the name of God, we must stop banging up those whom we have permitted to be tortured by their parents or those paid to care for them, this is a national scandal which eclipses all other national scandals. The truth is that nonces are in high places as well as low,  the truth is that there are no skymadeupnewsandfilth plaudits in charity and decency and kindness;  the truth is that we don't care about abused children, I bet she led him on, the filthy little tart, is far easier to mouth than Fuck me, these bastards are everywhere. But of course they are.

This little tale, from the Filth-O-Graph, highlights, underscores  the comments of  Lady Justice Smith-Slag, who chaired the Shipman enquiry, in which she remarked that for far too long people had been too frightened to complain about wrongdoing by doctors;  her words, of course, have had no effect, either upon bullied patients or upon the medics' trade union, the self-policing shower of greedy bastards, the BMA.

Doctors abused adopted children

Middle-class doctors were left free to abuse adopted children in a "reign of terror" because social workers were intimidated by their professional status, a review has found.

 Doctors abused adopted children
Dr Nicholas Newcombe and Jill Newcombe-Buley  Photo: Manchester Evening News
Three adopted children ''rescued'' from their drug addicted parents went on to suffer a decade of systematic abuse and neglect at the hands of two doctors which was ''predictable'' and ''preventable'', accorind to the serious case review.
Some professionals in the case were swayed by ''perceptions and assumptions'' about the couple's social class, professional status and high academic qualifications, the review concluded.
Research scientist Dr Jill Newcombe-Buley, 45, punched, slapped and smothered the children in a reign of terror which started soon after they were placed with her and her husband, Dr Nicholas Newcombe, 43, at their former home in Prestbury, Cheshire.
She also stamped on one child with a stiletto heel and hit one over the head with a dustbin lid.
Newcombe-Buley was jailed for four years in October after she admitted child cruelty while her husband, who pleaded guilty to neglect after he did not report his wife, was given a 12-month suspended sentence.
A report ordered by Cheshire East Local Safeguarding Children Board today concluded there had been ''many missed opportunities'' to detect the abuse and that the couple should never have been allowed to adopt the children - referred to as Child B, C and D.
Report author Chris Brabbs said: ''The children went from being 'rescued' from the exposure to significant harm within their birth family only to end up being placed in another abusive situation where they were subjected to repeated and systematic physical abuse, emotional harm and neglect.
''The specific nature of the abuse, and the manner in which it was carried out, by adults who chose to adopt vulnerable children, is hard to comprehend.
''The conclusion of this Serious Case Review was that at various stages over the 10 years, the abuse was both predictable and preventable.
''Had the appropriate actions been taken, the abuse may have been detected, and the children helped to disclose, much earlier.
''The Review has identified the many missed opportunities to pick up on the indicators of abuse, or to investigate disclosures made by Child B in particular, but also by Child C.''
He said the adoption process conducted by Stoke-on-Trent Social Services was ''flawed'' due to a number of factors such as the couple having never lived together, questions about their commitment due to work pressures and their complete lack of experience around children.
''The adoption panel allowed itself to be sucked into the attractiveness of the fact that these applicants were offering a rare and highly sought after commodity - a willingness to take a sibling group of three,'' he said.
Following the initial placement in November 1999 there was no re-evaluation of what was in the children's best interests until they were formally adopted in June 2001.
There was little agency involvement afterwards other than the schools the children attended.
Mr Brabbs said although there was evidence of teaching staff showing concern for the children, and trying to mitigate against the excess of their mother's parenting style, the ''inescapable conclusion is that the children were badly let down by all four schools who failed to record, or act on, their direct observations of a number of indicators of possible physical neglect and/or emotional abuse''.
The children had built up ''enormous resilience'' and staff struggled to make sense of the contradictory evidence of the children doing well at school
Mr Brabbs said there were 10 missed opportunities to carry out investigations of the many occasions when Child B in particular disclosed abuse from March 2009.
On many occasions Child B was returned home against his wishes and without being interviewed by a social worker, he said.
This possibly led to all three children believing it would be better to endure the abuse they knew rather than let it develop further.
Prime responsibility rested with Cheshire East Social Care and its emergency duty team but there were occasions when the police should have been more challenging of Social Care's plans and escalated their concerns for resolution at a more senior level, the report found.
It was not until September 2009 that the authorities finally listened to Child B when he was admitted to a paediatric ward after being assaulted by another youngster.
He said he did not want to return home but a social worker said he should go because there was no evidence to support his previous allegations.
He would have gone back to more abuse but for the intervention of a consultant paediatrician.
The report stated: ''Fortunately, for all the children, Child B never gave up and found the confidence one more time to tell the independent reviewing officer the specifics of the abuse he and his siblings had been suffering. In contrast to some of the earlier work, the response was immediate and responsive to the children's needs.''
The review also praised non-professionals who tried to secure help for the children at an earlier stage - especially their school friends - but unfortunately the professionals involved did not give sufficient weight to the information they provided.
It continued that many professionals struggled to maintain a child focus when faced with the ''disguised compliance'' of the couple whose social standing had also affected their judgment.
''Their approach was affected by perceptions and assumptions made regarding the parents' social class, professional status, and high academic qualifications, and the attitude of M and F (Mr and Mrs Newcombe)towards them.''
Nicholas Newcombe, who now lives in Macclesfield, was asked to meet the report author but declined as he cited work commitments and said he was ''still finding the whole situation extremely upsetting''.
He wrote that he felt the couple and the children were ''badly let down'' by Stoke-on-Trent Social Services.
He claimed they were negligent in placing three young children with two parents with almost no experience of looking after children, and that they did not provide sufficient practical and emotional support.
David Mellor, the safeguarding board's chairman, apologised to the children who he said were collectively failed by schools, social services and police.
He said: ''The nine-year period of this review - starting with a flawed adoption process - shows a series of failings by a number of agencies.
''It is clear that teachers had concerns but never recorded or escalated those concerns to raise the alarm. One of the children repeatedly tried to report the abuse, which all the siblings had suffered, to social workers and police. Time and time again they were let down.
''This has been a particularly difficult case for everyone, not least because of the disguised compliance of the adoptive parents which staff in many agencies were unwilling to challenge.
''We are taking action to ensure that failings which occurred will not be repeated in the future.
''I would emphasise, however, that this is a highly uncommon case that covers a significant period of time. We want all children - and particularly these three children - to be reassured that when anyone comes to us for help in the future, they will be listened to and appropriate action will be taken.
''I would stress that the children are now safe, being protected and helped to recover from their terrible ordeal.''

Drs Gerry and Cilla McCann could not be contacted for a comment but we may assume that their advice would have been for these two monsters to have gotten themselves a good PR team.

Je touch le chapeau a Mdm Agatha Serieux


Mr Mark Beardy-Git,  contemptuous Director General and chief benficiary of the BBC.
 The Director General of the BBC, Mr Mark Beardy-Git, has announced that the Corporation is to recall David Dimble-Git, the nation's hereditary broadcaster, in the light of the hacking scandal which means that Mr Rupert Shit won't , after all, be able to take-over the BBC, in line with Downing Street's Chipping Norton media strategy. At least not at the moment.
The BBC's Mr Narcosis, hereditary pundit and gabshite.

And his pater, Richard Dimbelby-Git.
And the Queen is simply wonderful. And the Parliament, is absolutely wonderful. And the Courts, simply superb.  And the Police, finest in the Empire. And the Church, a model of historical rectitude and an example to us all. And all you people out there, in your nasty little lives, are so lucky to be living in this wonderful country,  being patronised by a filthy old windbag, like my good self. And look at my fine sons, below.

Forward boys, swiftly now, that's the ticket, first Oxbridge and the Bullingdon Club
and then  a lifetime waffling bullshit at the BBC.

The skymadeupnewsandfilth scandal is a great day for  all we BBC Oxbridge parasites,  I mean democracy, the same thing, really, said Beardy-Git, himself on a salary in excess of a million license payer pounds per year and good for fuck all,  and in his customary, skilled, forensic don't-rock-the boat fashion, Sir David - with a panel of popular experts like historian Professor Sir David Gay-Git,

journalist and broadcaster  Kelvin McGit, below, with a fellow phonehacking bastard;

popular columnist and Nazi witch, Melanie ben Git, below, 

Melanie ben Git, Deputy Israeli Ambassadot.
and a couple of  verminous, shit eating politicians - will fully examine the issues and help put the nation back to sleep, assured that in the finest traditions of the BBC, Nation Shall Speak Shite Unto Nation.

From his Oxfordshire mansion, Sir David said he was very glad to be stepping into the breach at this time of weekly national crisis. And they were paying him double. Although we won't be having any questions from the audience along the lines of How come Cameron is such a cunt, and why do you all let him get away with it? Certainly not. And we definitely won't tolerate comments  along the lines of  No, Flashman, there was no need for you to bring the BrooksWitch into Downing Street because you were popping in and out of each other's houses every five minutes, not having what you call inappropiate discussions about BskyB, you worthless piece of shit.

No, actually the viewers,  i think, recognise that my late father, Richard Dimble-Git brown-nosed every single member and aspect of the Establishment which shits so fragrantly in their faces, and I'm not about to do anything to upset my position as Stooge-in-chief, who knows, there might yet be a peerage in it? Almost certainly, in fact, wouldn't you agree, panel? Let's see what they think.

Oh, definitely, David, long overdue, well-deserved, the least they can do; darling, you'll look fabulous in ermine.

Thank you all, too kind, too kind, but absolutely right.

We may let Professor Sir Doctor David Git insist as he always does that as a gay man he is the best historian in the world and that all the Kings and Queens in history were gay. And Jesus, too. most likely, no, definitely. And of course it is quite in order for the BBC, run, many suggest, by fags and dykes and  Jews or probably some combination  of all three, to give Melanie ben Nazi a Zionist platform because we don't want to forget the Holocaust now, do we? And Kelvin McCunt-Git, well, he's a bit of a rough diamond but he does speak for large numbers of British Sun readers, bigots,  retards. numpties and braindead fuckpigs so we think he deserves a platform for his racism, sexism, warmongering, greedy fucking bastardism, anti-democratic, tub-thumping ganshitery. After all people fought and died in the war so that  renaissance man, Kelvin,  could put teenage tits on page Mr Murdoch told him.

One person we won't, of course, be seeing on the panel is that little Asian bint, Swami Chakrabalti-Git,

Career Freedom Fighter , Ms Swami ChakraBalti-Git.

as she is part of the full and far-reaching judge-led cover-up  panel, along with a bunch of other tossers who would no more speak ill of their paymasters than, well,  than I would. Swami is a regular at those events when drug and drink crazed hacks give each other awards, and has collected a few such herself, so she is obviouslt qualified to scrutinise the press, on our behalf, along with Mr Lord Justice Slag. As Director of Liberty, Swami is following in the footsteps of that other greedy old crow, Patsy Leatherface,  who started her career in larceny as Director of the National Council for Civil Liberties, now Liberty, because the other title had too many words in it for Ruined Britons to cope with.

All I wanted was five grand a day for doing fuck all
except selling contacts developed at the public expense,
what's wrong with that?

Patsy, also formerly Neil Windbag's press seckatry was exposed - as if she needed exposing -  by the recent C4 sting as a worthless old slag willing to peddle her post-retirement influence to the highest bidder, currently, as former Health Seckatry, working for Boots, the chemists, among others.  The Civil Rights agenda in Britain, as with ChildPoverty is cleary, as viewers will know, managed by those ambitious for a political career and we at the BBC are keen to support those who seek a seat on the Great Latrine of State, Swami, of course, like so many other civil rights luminarties, worked in the Home Office, where her outrage at the scandals of children abused and killed in custody, of mental patients in secure units being tortured and of innumerable deaths in police custody or, indeed, at police hands whilst simply walking down the street, led her to say absolutely nothing, sweet fuck all.  Just the sort of outspoken, no-nonsense hypocrite we want on the Slag Enquiry and, indeed, on Question Time.  We can honestly, and I am sure we will, assure viewers that the various enquiries are just the thing we need, in order for things to continue exactly as they are. And if we don't it won't be for lack of trying on my part.

Thursday 21 July 2011



Hello, viewers, Lenny Henry here, famous Shakespearian ac-tor. And some of you may remember me for my fabulous career as the  funny black man,  Theophelus T Wildebeest, yes, that was me, parodying racism, that was my thing. Even from an early age, with my old mum, in Dudley. I always wanted to be white, I mean famous, and so that's why I sucked-up to dodgy ITV audiences, doing my own inimitable version of the Black and White Minstrels Show;  groundbreaking it was. Like fuck

But that's not why I'm hear, I wanna talk to you about black people, like me, well not so fat, so rich, so smug and up their own arses as me, no, proper black people, starving to death in Somalia and scarcely able to hear my interminable drivel programmes on Radio Four.  They're starving and dying, them coons are  - no, only joking, just being post-ironic - and you can help them by being prompted by me, some useless, pampered fuckwit, into sending them some dosh.  We can all help;  even my ex-wife,  Dawn French 


who ditched me because I'm as thick as two short planks, is sending some of her Terry's Chocolate Oranges out to Africa,  even though they'll melt and are shit, anyway, and she and Jennifer will probably reunite to do a charity gig;  that's the sort of people we are, in the theatre.  Remember, just a few quid can save a picaninny from  a terrible death. Only make sure you keep enough back  for a weekend in a Premier Inn. Where everything is premier except the price.And the adverts.