Tuesday 29 November 2011


Thanks to my forty pounds a month superior broadband connection courtesy of Avanti communications I cannot engage with those   chiding my antique liberalism.  Avanti are Europe's premier providers of broadband to remote areas but unfortunately their expertise does not extend  to keeping it going in the wind, of which  we currently have a good deal, although not the hurricane force which we sometimes enjoy, here, in the best part of England.  They are sending an engineer, who, if he is anything like the last one, will be confounded by the idea of lace-up shoes.  Avanti are the approved - and only -  choice  of the Scottish govament, as they call themselves, members of which will of course have their broadband provided freely, or, more accurately, by me.

Monday 28 November 2011


A footballer died, in the arcane  phraseology of CoronerSpeak, by his own hand, he took his own life, as officialdom routinely says.  In simple language, he hanged himself.  Always seems an unequivocal rejection of les joies de vivre, not what you would call a cry for help, stepping off a ladder or a chair with a  rope around your neck.  It's not a George Michael kind of event, hanging yourself. It's not a staged, Lady Sir Elton John tantrum.    What shocked me was hearing one of the skymadeupnewsandfilth gabshite soccer pundits hyperbolising that when he heard of Mr Speed's death he thought the report  was some sick and twisted joke.  Now, I know the premiership is filled with nancyboys and gangrapists and drug fiends and creatures, like Sir Alec Ferguson, of an entirely different species but surely they don't make jokes like this, especially about one of their own., This prick, of course, didn't actually think that, it was just another variation on sick as a parrot, to'ally and u''erly gutted;  scratching about in his cliche box, this was the best he could come up with - I thought it was some sick and twisted joke.

In the feverish coverage of celebrity reaction all expressed disbelief that a man so successful and happy could top himself, especially after  having, shortly before, broadcast, himself, some of that dire telly punditry,  the clunking, half-growled Hansenisms,  the chirpy cheese'n'onion flavoured Linekerisms, how could anyone so blessed top themselves, it is almost as though there was panic in the troughing ranks of ex-footballing bletherers,  'Appen tomorrow, bonnylad, might have mused the repulsive Shearer, 'appen tomorrow, oo knows, mebbe Ah'll be toppin mesen.

No-one in football was able to articulate the simplest of truths - in the midst of life we are in death,  who can know a man's mind, no-one was sophisticated enough to acknowledge  - and fuck me it's not asking a lot - that we each of us, every day of our lives, wear a mask that few if any, including ourselves,  can see behind.

God rest his soul, I am sorry for his family,  that was the proper response, not some showbiz, Victor Meldrewesque IDon'tBuh-lieveIt!  What's not to believe?  He's fucking dead isn't he? Instead, what they showed, clearly, beyond question, one after another, was that they didn't know Mr Speed at all.  All they knew was the moronic,  self-congratulatory charmed circle of professional football and that its septic bubble had briefly burst. If Mr Speed had really enjoyed an extensive network of really close and supportive  friends one would think that he' have confided in them, rather than stepping into thin air, with only the rope to break his fall. Empty-headed, vain, posturing egomaniacs, wankers all.  Never mind, lads, it'll all be back to normal next week;  talk on, talk on with hope in your hearts and you'll never talk alone.

 Britain's ever-popular salty snacks ambassador, Mr Gary Potato.

Saturday 26 November 2011



The OECD, a respected economic forecaster, whatever one of those is, and where have they been this past fifteen years, has reported that after Christmas the UK will be in double-dip recession, due to, well, due to everything being shit  and being run by an international kleptocracy.

The OECD has also said that in order to make matters no worse than they inevitably will be due to the Euro and all that nonsense, the UK must develop a Plan B, including a drastic slowing of public sector cutbacks.  The chancellor, below  and his economic team consisting of the foxtrotting, elderly  nitwit Vince  Cable and the former skis monitor in the Cairngorms National Park, Master Danny Alexander, have all said that there is no alternative to what they are doing.  That's what they were elected for. Even though they weren't.

Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr George Osbo, 
prepares his Autumn budget statement.


Father of 7/7 victim snubs the

press inquiry 'hijacked by celebrities'

Unhappy: Graham Foulkes has rejected the chance to speak at the Leveson inquiry
Unhappy: Graham Foulkes has rejected the chance to speak at the Leveson inquiry

The father of a man killed in the July 7 terror attacks has refused to take part in the Leveson inquiry because it has been ‘hijacked’ by celebrities.
Graham Foulkes was told by police that – following the death of his son David – his phone had been targeted by a private investigator working for the News of the World.
Appalled by the discovery, he said he initially wanted ‘retribution’ and had hoped the Leveson inquiry would focus on the media’s treatment of victims of tragedies.
But Mr Foulkes, a magistrate, said he had now decided against offering evidence – despite having testified to the July 7 inquest.
‘My objection to the inquiry is that I believe it’s been hijacked by so-called celebrities and they’re using it for their own purposes,’ he said.


Mr Chris Who, family man,  they're all family men, the LibDems.
  Even Mr Oaten, the shit eater; Mr Kennedy, the dispso; Mr Straight Simon Hughes, the famous gay  homophobe, Mr Jeremy Thorpe,  the gay dog-shooter and Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown

"Yes,  these are tough times for all of us. But we are all in it together. We all took a cut of five per cent when we came into govament as ministers."  Question Time, BBC1, 24th November 2011

Trans: Voters are a just a mass of  stupid cunts for whom I have nothing but contempt.

We pay Chris Huhne's public sector salary of  £145, 492, per annum and his untaxed benefits will include first class travel and a car and driver  at his constant call, should he be sacked for misconduct we will pay him £17, 000 in compensation. Claiming that a five per cent cut in over a hundred and fifty grand plus expenses represents  a sharing of the hardship felt by the sick, the old, the cold and the lowpaid is contemptible, somebody should give him a punch in the gob. On a daily basis, Or eighteen months in jail.

Huhne, a millionaire, in 2006 claimed £15,000 in expenses.  This was for items which most of us have to pay for ourselves,  including groceries, yes, groceries,  travel to work, a £120 trouser press, so that he might look smart for work - shame they don't do a mouth press - fourteen pence for stationery and five and a half grand for painting work in his garden.

As well as being in an illegitimate mandateless govament of buffoons, chancers and redneck fuckwits, Huhne is also under pressure on two fronts;  his haggard wife,

Ms. Vicky Two-Places-At-Once Price,
a faster driver than Lewis Hamilton if Huhne is to be believed,

claims she accepted penalty points for speeding when he was, in fact, at the wheel, and she was at the LSE in front of hundreds of people,  and his  haggard bisexual totty,

I give great access. 

  lobbyist, Mr or Ms Carmina Burana Trimingham,

is deemed to have overstepped the bounds of what is acceptable in parliamentary lobbying.  The cops  and CPS are taking forever to investigate the former - probably trying to wrest some advantage in exchange for a No Further Action  and some toothless cover-up committee will be examining the latter. Nick the Gimp detests him. Normal people detest him, too.

David Dimbleby, though, lets him shit in our faces.

Friday 25 November 2011


Posted by Picasa
Bless you, my children;  in the beginning was the Gove.


One of the Coalition of Shit's non-millionaire arseholes,  the saliva-exporting Micky Gove,  is  sending to schools copies of the King James Bible, with a new foreword by - honest, not invent - himself;  spit-flecked, holy book flyleaves will, we must assume he imagines,  carry his grimy little name forward into history, long after the govament which he champions is swept away on a wave of popular realism.  ( a reader writes:  Will that be next week, mr ishmael?)

This gesture will cost half a million pounds of disability benefit but future scholars, he imagines, will  learn to revere the name of Spit, conflating his squeaky, Uriah Heep existence with  those of the great scholars who originally translated and  wrote the influential work - if not, actually with God, Himself.

Vanity publishing at public expense, now,  that's wot I corl educayshun, Coalition-style.

(another reader writes:  dear mr ishmael, given the super-abundance of Bibles in the world - Gawd strike me down if you ain't a-fallin' all over the blessed things dahn the frift shops and in the 'ospickals and the 'otels, not to mention the bleedin' Jovas bangin' on your door and the Sally Ann rattling their bleedin' tins and blowin' their fucking trumpets and then there's that silly old beardy git, wotsisname, Williams and his gang of shirtlifters and lesbos and Pope Nazi and the  noncing monsigniors; I mean,  'Strewth, Christ on a fucking rope, 'snot as though there's any bleedin' shortage of the 'oly Word of God, now, is there? - given, as I say the super abundance of bibles of all types in the Western world, might it not be incumbent upon one rejoicing in the title of Education Seckatry to send the pupils,  just for instance, a copy of The Origin of the Species? yours, Professor Lady Doctor Sir David Starkey, of the BBC and professor emeritus of self-publicity studies at the LSE)

Thursday 24 November 2011



 Strikes, man? Theyre bad shit.

Well, Hey, look, man, let's be cool about things.  My good friend and fellow public schoolboy, the prime minister, mr. shiny face,   has just, like, laid it on you, all about  all these, like, nurses, and teachers and other riffraff who're all gonna just down tools next week and how that's really bad shit because in private companies we don't allow people to have, like,  any pensions, apart from the senior people,  who work so hard. But what really blew me away, man,  was when my good friend and fellow public schoolboy, mr squeaky, the chancellor and I were, like hanging out together, he said that this was gonna cost a half a billion pounds.  And all I wanna say on the subject is that I'm really pissed-off, you know, when all's said and done, this is money, another half a billion that the govament coulda given to me.





Counsel to the show,  Mr Anthony Chevenix-Beard:

You need no introduction from me, Ms Crow, you are one of the most famous businesswoman in the world….

JKC:  Actually, I am a businesswoman…..

ACB:  Yes, that’s what I said…..

JKC You need to be careful or else I’ll put my lawyers on you.  Or my publishers.  Or my PR team. You know, I just simply fail to see why you would ask that question…..

ACB: I haven’t asked any questions, yet.  But do you think you might confirm your name…?

JKC:  Yes my name is JayKay Crow. And I’m very rich.  Not that it matters.  I live a fairly normal life, running my megabusiness and suing newspapers.

ACB:  Yes, quite, and if we could turn to paragraphs one to five hundred and three in your witness statement……

JKC:  If I could just say that we businesspeople are not like other people, not that there’s anything wrong with other people.  It’s just that me and my husband, who is private, and my publishers and  my marketing team and Warner Brothers  and the BBC all just want  to bombard every child in the world with my brand and make their parents buy my product and all the franchised materials, whether they want to or not.  Nothing wrong with that.  But when people start bombarding me with questions well, that’s a different thing.  I don’t make any money out of it, for one thing.  And, well, that’s enough.  I should be able to walk down Prince’s Street in Edinburgh where I sometimes live, although you may not broadcast the fact, I should be able to walk down Prince’s Street dressed in thousand-pound notes if I want to and not have  people  asking me  just how  the fuck I get away with all this shit?

Lord Levo: I am conscious, your ladyship,  that you have given up your time to come here, so if you would like a ten-minute break to confer with your lawyers about whether anyone has printed anything about you today, that will be fine by me.   And actually I could, myself, do with a Tom Tit  and a snort of the old marching powder.

All rise.

Wednesday 23 November 2011


Isn't it funny how, after less than eighteen months, mr shinyface has turned into himself ?

Before he elected himself prime minister, if you squinted you might perceive him  as just some ordinary PR wanker on the make, empty-headed, amoral and full of grammarless shit.

Now,  he looks every inch the bloated, arrogant, conceited, inbred and congenitally stupid bully that he always was;  he and his sires the very model for Flashman.

 I cannot help but think that the times demand a sharper mind than that contained in Cameron's one-track,  doctrinaire numbskull. As well as being  rotten to the core he is as thick as pigshit. 

He should watch his step, in times like these it's not just the Saddam Husseins of the world who are the principal guest at a necktie party.


I am proud to announce that from, well, very soon, now, workers will have no rights as  there is simply no place for them in the modern world.  We have done our best to put everyone in fear of their jobs, their health and their retirements but some folk still believe that they have rights at work and it is in the interests of growth that they be disabused of this. Apart from corrupt ministers, like Mr Doctor Gay Fox, and Mr David Gay Laws and Mr Straight Simon Gay Hughes, who have the right to go and sit on the backbenches, instead of to prison. Just because a member is a thief, a benefit fraudster an embezzler and a downright rotten, stinking, oily, gay-bashing hypocrite and liar is absolutely no reason  to prevent him sitting on these benches  for the rest of his life;  people seeking  more than the minimum wage, however, well, there is no place for them in modern LibDemShitEaters philosophy.( I must say, I rarely partake of the fecal banquets myself;  just everyday of my miserable life.)

The coalition, of which I am proud to be a member, has been very successful in raising inflation, unemployment and reducing growth to a factor so infinitesimally small that it isn't worth my right honourable friend, the Chancellor, even squeaking about it.  I mean speaking. And by demonstrating this finely-tuned grasp of a modern, brutal economy we have proven that as the full benefits become apparent to people we will be fully able to impose a state of martial law, with a shoot-to-kill policy should rogue elements - say, millions of people - take to the streets in boisterous celebration of their govament's triumphs.  well, not their govament, really, more like ours.

But,   as has already been remarked upon by anyone who can breath, what we have been able to do is seize half a billion pounds  worth of undeserved benefits from disabled people - many of whom have, unlike myself,  worked long and hard before becoming useless to the economy - and transfer it to Sir Richard Bumhole of Virgin Rubbish, who will very probably spend it on a nice Caribbean island, where those of us lucky enough to have been of service to him can be entertained in the style to which the taxpayer has accustomed us.  By being very careful, we have been able to retain in public ownership those parts of Northern Rock which are basically, well just full of shit, in order that the taxpayer may continue  to pay billions of pounds for the greedy and criminal excesses of my employers,  Messrs Goldman Sachs. Did I mention that I am an economist by training?

This doesn't mean that ruthless employers will be able to take people on for two years and then sack them before they can have any rights whatsoever. Although it does.

IT WAS FORTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO TODAY, JFK GOT BLOWN AWAY. jfk assassination: Secret Service Standdown

Tuesday 22 November 2011


As Elvis cropped-up in the last thread and as it was past time for some Richard Thompson, herewith a song of consumer insanity.


There may be gradations of grief and anger and sorrow relating to the loss of a child, maybe a loss to illness is marginally easier to take than a loss to murder, maybe even a loss to quick, angry murder is easier to bear than a loss to sadistic or sexual torture and murder.  It's all shit. And whatever the individual horror of child death, it must be, for most people, as bad as it gets,  a place from which there is no return;  that's certainly what it looks like in those 'photos of Blair's Iraq and Afghanistan.

Here, of course, we do things differently;  here people  do not clutch at and present  child corpses  for the cold eye of the camera. Here, child murder has learned a new, shrill, unBritish vocabulary. Accusatory and demanding, victims' relatives demand a change in this or that law, demand an extended hearing, demand their own celebrity, one poor cow even imagining a close friendship with the repulsive  Murdoch witch,  Rebekka Shitemouth.

It's hard to remain stonefaced about these people, shouting about the dead.  I do wish, though, for their own sake and for the general good, that  they would shut  the fuck up and deal with it, it's theirs to deal with, nobody else's, but I understand the lure to them of fragmentary celebrity, of anything, really, which diverts them from the necessary process of grieving  including as it inevitably does many moments  of self-finger-pointing, sleepless nights of If only I'd done this, if only I'd said  that.  

Mr Winehouse was a hoot, flying back from his recording session in New York to launch a charity in the name of his dead dipso daughter, to speak Estuary wisdom to the press about issues of dependancy. Just a shame he didn't speak to poor Amy a wee bit more forcefully, eh.  Maybe put her over his fucking knee.  But, hey, we mustn't say that, mustn't be, what is it, judgemental ?  And she did leave a huge legacy of fabulous music. Which will live on.  Even if she won't.  

There was a time when people would have rebuked Mitch for his irresponsibility, his fame-crazy arseholeing.  Now we listen reverently to  his  shallow cliches of parental worthlessness.  This is the New World Order, too.  It's not just vain, greedy charlatans like  MPs, it is a population desperate for celebrity.  Doesn't matter what it's about, just get me on the telly.

I must say I don't care for the Dowlers, I can't warm to anything about them, like Gerry and Cilla McCann, they give me the creeps, she, particularly, looks belligerent, calculating  and whiny, and I thought that their daughter was, in a sadly typical, neglectful  way, narcissistic and over-sexualised  -  or to put it more pithily, jailbait.

I simply cannot understand how so many screech that it is their right to allow their children to behave in a way apparently carefully  calculated to arouse lust in the loins of the unGodly and then appear mystified when that lust runs its wretched course.  Our premature sexualisation of children may not be historically unique but it is a most regrettable development during my lifetime and every image I have seen of the late Milly Dowler is faintly disturbing.  I have known, you see, middle-ranking nonces who would have seen Milly Dowler as a provocative young tart, would have convinced themselves that she was actually crying out for them to rape her and that, because she was such a little slut, deserved post-rape punishment.  We don't know if Milly Dowler was sexually assaulted but the man convicted of her killing, Levi Bellfield,  is known to have an  obsession relating to sex with schoolgirls. Now, it's no use saying that this Mr Bellfield's behaviour is wrong, of course it's wrong but if you would protect your children from Mr Opportunist Nonce, like him,  your best bet is to keep them behaving and dressing modestly. It's not a huge price to pay for child safety.
They have capitulated on their privacy and are, within reason, as is anyone, fair game but I don't mean to harangue Mr and Mrs Dowler,  even if I could, but  rather to draw attention to the failings of the LoveMyKidsToBits,Me mentality, failings which are overlooked in the current phony Leveson enquiry, failings which were bulldozed aside by the McCann PR team - Gerry and Cilla, you will recall, left a three year old alone in charge of two two year olds, in a strange room, in a strange town in a strange country whilst they went on the piss, not only did they manage to convince many that this was responsible parenting but they  also insisted that their neglect was actually the fault of the local  police. LoveMyKidsToBits,Me,  therefore I can do no wrong; how dare you, you lookin' fer a punch in the gob?

I have a nephew who is an insurance assessor - it is a dreadful irony, for his late father, a starker version of Mr Frank Gallagher in the soap opera noire, Shameless, was opposed to all forms of work, especially those of a financial, regulatory or usurious nature -   there are no accidents, insists his son, just varying degrees of contributory negligence.  I don't agree entirely with him but I understand the mindset, I am in it a lot of the time, myself;  people might call it mild paranoia but it's just an awareness that although shit happens it can be avoided, minimised,  the world is full of beasts, you gotta be careful. I remember, in a  Redditch hospital,  saying to a father of a couple of hours,  Congratulations, you do know, Dylan,  that there are people out there, right now, who would love to bugger your infant son. Talk about ashen-faced new parent.  I took him home and gave him some whisky, didn't labour the point, but I thought it worth making, for there are those people,  there are people who want to sexually assault infants, let alone young women like Milly Dowler.  And you see, even if you accept that the McCanns are otherwise blameless,  if they  had not left their daughter alone she would not have been abducted, if she was abducted,  there is simply no gainsaying that. Varying degrees of contributory negligence.

Milly Dowler's abduction is less clearcut, but the cops say there was no evidence of violent abduction and that, therefore, the possibility exists that she unknowingly made her killer's task easier than it would have been had she had it successfully drummed into her: don't talk to strange men, don't get into cars with strangers,  there is no gainsaying that, either. Varying degrees of contributory negligence.
But there is no such acceptance in modern Britain, no sense of what could I, might I, have done better.  And there is absolutely no longer a tradition of  fortitude and privacy in adversity;  the refrain, No Comment, is from a song long forgotten.

And despite their stated revulsion to the idea, the Dowlers are now, like the McCanns, public figures.  Where once the nation would have briefly felt for them before they re-engaged with their lives, making such accommodations as they were able, now it is as though they have won some Alternative X Factor or BigBrother, after which they are intermittently celebrated for something truly awful, something which would be better they - insofar as is possible - forgot.

And so we come to Leveson's cover up and the Dowlers' and the McCann's part in its grisly, self-defeating circus. The people who penetrated  Mr&Mrs Dowler's daughter's phone, so cruelly, incredibly raising their hopes that she was yet alive are known,  the same people who penetrated their own phones, violating their most grievous and special privacy are known and   their employers, Rebekka Shitemouth and James Murdoch, are known.  These people should all by now be in prison, serving substantial sentences. It is as simple as that. Bang 'em up. If they were, no-one in the filthy sewer of  skymadeupnewsandfilth  would ever again behave so badly. That would be all the enquiry that was required - a pre-sentence report on James Murdoch. And seven years jail.

But some of these people are friends, neighbours, confidantes, allies and  funders of the self-elected prime minister of the United Kingdom. And if they go, they will take him with them;  they will know enough murky stuff to finally sink the brief  and unlovely career of this gabshite, dunderhead jackanapes, mr shinyface.

 And Mr  and Mrs Dowler have accepted two million pounds from the criminals involved.  A drop in the ocean to the filthy old bastard,  Rupert Murdoch, but a fortune to them. Blood money, accepted from the organisation about which they now complain, money accepted from the same source as paid for the phone penetration.  Who, lawyer or normal, decent person, could seriously care a fuck about anything they now say;  these people,  the Dowlers, like the McCanns, turning tricks  for the teevee cameras, are whores of an entirely new species.

(The effect of all this, of course, among the disadvantaged is that when people like Karen, was it Karen or Sharon Matthews, up in Dewsbury, see Gerry and Cilla hosannahed and enriched for their contemptible  neglect  of young Madeleine well, they try it on, too,  I'll have some of that.  The result is that the effete, worthless commentariat, sub-humans like Kelvin McKenzie,  feel gleefully enabled to slander an entire community,  the same community which actually searched for and found the missing Matthews child.)

What should we call them,  these people, sprung from nowhere, feted for having lost someone, paid for each morbid appearance, gibbering away in the jargon of loss,  bleating about cloze-ya, as if any of them actually wanted cloze-ya ?  No,  Trusts, that's what they want setting up. And anniversary specials. And book deals.  And new laws, especially new laws. What they want is instant victims' justice, like in the good old days of the cavemen. But what they really want, more than anything,  is to be in front of the camera.  Like anybody really gives a fuck about them.

Child murder, abduction, military fatality.  There'll be another one along in a minute.


This prick should fall down on his knees everyday and thank Satan that a nation of braindead, culturally illiterate Iolantheans found his threadbare creations funny, even for a minute. Coogan, the man who made a ten-minute, cringeworthy sketch last for years and fucking years was at Lord Levo's rubbish cover-up today,  the whole fucking gang of them, celebrities and lawyers, simpering and sincere, like an audience from Oprah Winfrey. It's not just me, he luvvied, stuttering, it's for the poor people,  too.

I never heard this overpaid, overrated, overindulged  teevee wanker complaining when Joe Public was shat on for fiddling a few quid from the Social,  tiny, tiny and irrelevant compared with mortgage and expenses fiddles perpetrated by so-called parliamentarians.  I never once heard him use his celebrity to attack the tabloids for destroying the lives of countless people who've slipped-up, here and there,  I never heard him rip into rabid, mongreldog Kelvin McKenzie, the foul, drunken, racist, sexist  cocksucker but fuck me, I was wrong, here he is, here's Steve Coogan,  standing up for the little guy. BAFTAs all around, I should think. Yeah, and one for that other dingleberry, Jervaise, the fat, greasy  fucker, with the high pitched voice, the one who'd urge-on the school bully and then squeak it wasn't me, sir.

(a reader writes, dear mr smith, Mr Ricky Jervaise's The Office is just about the funniest thing ever shown on British TeeVee and at this time of trouble that's what we all need, a good laugh, so there. Or at the very least a good healthy cringe.  signed, mrs iolanthe trubshaw. ps Mr Coogan's series I'm Alan Partridge is also just about the funniest thing ever seen on British TeeVee, everybody says so.)

Tomorrow down the Strand.

Gerry and Cilla McCann.

Why we need more publicity. Two angelic young doctors explain why they are the real victims. All channels. All media outlets.

Before commencing proceedings Lord Levo will lead the cast in a rendition of There's No Business Like ShowBusiness.

Monday 21 November 2011



Now look. Let's be clear about this. Mr Coulson may well be a lying, poisonous, unprincipled piece of shit (aka a journalist)  he may also have presided over the very worst behaviour ever seen even in the  admittedly filthy pages of the  News of the World,  he may have set his jackals to violate  people's privacy and to make up stories about them and their families, what mr ishmael and his young friend, stanislav, the plumber, describe as skymadeupnewsandfilth, but that's not to say I shouldn't give him a second chance, and a job at the very heart of my unelected govament which the people of this country elected so clearly. And anyway, Mr Murdoch told me to. Mr Murdoch senior, that is, although I would have done it if Mr Murdoch junior had told me.  Or Ms Rebekka Kemp Wood Brookes, wodever,  my very good friend and neighbour, the mad, ginger bint.  And let us not forget that Ms Brookes helped enact Sara's Law, which is the single biggest step forward in whatever it is that there has ever been. Only not Mr Clarkson, he just drives the car, I wouldn't give any of his friends a job. Not that he has any.

You know, let's be frank about this, clearly, I very much believe in giving people a second chance, it's at the heart of my being.  And that is why I will always give people like Mr Hague the Miscarriager a second chance not to spill the beans about me.  When people are found, however, stealing a bottle of water, well then the courts have my full permission to - indeed I insist that they must - put them in jail for as long as possible. Like I said, I believe in giving people a second chamce. But only people I know, preferably rich people, like Mr Osborne's friends at Vodafone.

And while I'm here your worship, I will just take this opportunity to tell the people of this nation about  my principled stand on foreign affairs. Let's be clear, we are entirely opposed to the police in Syria cracking down on freedom fighters.  But we believe that it is  proper, perfectly proper, for Mr Obama's junta in Cairo to use British and American weapons and munitions against their own people, millions of whom are, well, let's not mince words,  nothing short of Egyptians.  And when it comes to the maintainance of law and order in other parts of the world, let me be clear about the prospect of  the police  in a democratic nation baton-whipping and teargassing old ladies, children and pregnant women;  the prospect of police officers calmly walking up and down a line of peaceful protesters and teargassing them directly in the face;  these are  entirely acceptable to me and  let's be clear, indicate why we must with all possible haste disabuse the peoples of our countrries of the notion, entirely dangerous in my view, that they have rights, having rights only means that they get hurt or, ideally, killed.  When I say we, I mean President HillaryTrouser, President Obama, myself and our employers at Goldman Sachs.

Let me be perfectly clear, everybody will agree with me when I say that just because people in Egypt, in Syria, in Spain and Greece, in Italy and in the United States are being attacked by police forces armed with British and American weapons, it doesn't mean that we aren't all in this together.  My govament was elected to stand by Mr Obama's govament of Egypt, and to hasten the invasion of Syria and Iran. And if old ladies in the States are being gassed and baton-whipped, well, all I can say is that it serves them jolly well right.  I am sure I speak for all parties in this house when I say that people exercising their so-called rights  are a barrier to the very economic growth which we all want to see.

Labour cheers. Tory cheers. LibDem cheers, SNP cheers, Plaid Cymru cheers. Ulster Undertakers' Party cheers.

Rights, and what should happen in this country, this is my business, that's what I was elected for, to do the things which no-one wants to happen, apart from the one per cent of us who own things. Will I condemn the Egyptian puppet junta? Certainly not. Will I condemn the beating and gassing of teenagers?  Well, these are difficult times, left to us by the member for Kircaldy

Mr Gordon Snot
No more booming baton rounds and water cannon.

and everyone has to make sacrifices.  I for instance, forego five per cent of my salary and manage to bump along on just shy of three grand a week, so I won't take any lectures from dinner ladies or anyone else on that score, oh and there's Mrs Dave's income, of course but that's more like an honorarium and so you can't count  her miserable three hundred grand a year, But on the good news front I would point to the recent acquisition of Northern Rock by Mr Sir Richard Bumhole

and what a great bargain this represents for him.  I mean the taxpayer. Sir Bumhole's purchase of Northern Rock is great news for the people in the NorthEast of England, wherever that is.  It is a measure of his probity as an employer that so many people have taken the grinning bastard to court and he has settled on the steps. And I commend the actions of my right honourable friend, the Chancellor, as all his figures, all his predictions and assumptions are proven wrong. Again.

You know as I go around the country  having my photo taken, threatening and bullying people I am struck by how frightened people are of me, only not Frau Merkel or M'sieu Sarkozy unfortunately, but even so, terrifying sick and vulnerable people has always been great sport and we are enjoying every minute of it, it is, and let's be clear, most gratifying, rather like being at Eton, but not as much buggery.

LEVESON:  Thank you prime minister for your testimony. And for giving me the job.


Don't live long and don't prosper.



Over at the Filth-o-Graph's Redneck Central poor old Janet Daly is wetting herself over Mr Justice Bean's comments that since police officers are grown-ups they can hardly be insulted by the use of the word fuck by those they are arresting.
When you cant sleep, which, given the times, is probably most nights, have a look at one of the gaycop shows, where Mark and Chris of Avon Police or Dean and Mitch of the West Mids Constabulary, all shiny clean and gelled-up,   are chasing twoccing teenagers at high speed or, more dissappointingly for them, confronting gangs of  betrayed, disaffected, aimless youths who may - result - have one poxy joint between them.  What did you say, did you say fuck, I never heard such things, don't you know I'm a police officer?  You say fuck again and I'll nick you.


Right, I am arresting you for a breach of the peace and for disrespecting a gay police officer. Anything you say will be taken down in writing, altered  and used against you. And if you later say anything which you later rely on for your defence that will be altered too, by me and my mate, making it all up together, in the canteen.

They might not be gay and it doesn't matter if they are;  it's just that they are all this strange mixture of  macho, body armoured warrior and exfoliated, moisturised, close-cropped pansymen, and that they do all feign outrage and indignation when people swear., almost falling down in a swoon.

A spokesman for the police federation, Acting Sergeant Derek Gob said This is the thin edge of the wedge, this is, Kirsty. First my members are expected to put up with foul and degrading language which they would never dream of using themselves, even when kicking the shit out of people,  and the next thing is they'll be ruling that getting your helmet knocked off whilst attacking people in wheelchairs is not enough reason for three months on sick leave or that complicity by my members in sustained serious criminality should no longer be dealt with by early retirement on health grounds with a golden handshake and a full pension.  Cunts, these fucking judges, that's what they are.

Sunday 20 November 2011

EVENSONG: Van Morrison - These Are The Days

An exaggerated 'sixties talent, hugely over-rated, especially by himself and his cronies but  just now and again, over forty years, he has forgotten that he thinks he's Ray Charles and has waxed elegiacal to fine and great purpose as he  cries Freedom in the night -  Take It Where You Find It, The Healing Has Begun and this, among his memorable efforts.  For Evensongers.


 Now listen, I'm a comedian, working for the BBC, 
so you better fucking listen to me.

“(Clarkson) He’ll tell you that a muscle car can’t compare to a Ferrari, But comparing a muscle car to a Ferrari is like comparing Jeremy Clarkson to a real television host. If this car was a woman it’d be Elizabeth Taylor. If Jeremy Clarkson were a woman, I wouldn’t be a goddamn bit surprised.” It was a clumsy, straining metaphor, I think it's the wrong way around, but it was typical, sustained ranting from the a-bit-too-old-for-it "comedian" and "film buff" -  what is a buff? -  Rich Hall. Scripted ranting seems so antiseptic, so rehearsed and reshot and edited and soundtracked, how do they sustain whatever it was that first fired the rant, when they're doing it repeatedly for a fairly meticulous teevee crew?  but his was certainly a more engaging commentary on  a largely - in fact entirely - white, Hollywoodian, ie Jewish  industry than we usually get from Showbiz felchers-in-chief like Mark Kermode or Kirsty Wark or Jonafun Ross or, and why not,  the late  and very much unlamented Barry Knobman.

Continental Drifters was a rantathon with Hall perched in the back of a pick-up truck, all dressed up in a Stetson hat, laconic and motormouthing by turns about the critical fortunes of what he called, obediently, the Road Movie.  As the truck and the attendant crew fleet  wound its meditative way across the back roads of Montana, Hall most enjoyably excoriated the ghastly George Lucas for his paint by numbers StarWars franchise, rightly dismissed Easy Rider's Dennis Hopper as a doped-up megalomaniac lunatic, hymned the virtues of  The Grapes of Wrath, Thelma and Louise, Badlands and I think, Bonnie and Clyde; Vanishing Point, too, was adored by our petulant, ruminant comic.

What undermined the whole process - a pseudo learned and entirely bogus exposition of the link between some ethereal Hollywood guiding hand and the changing moral culture of Amerika - was the assumption of it all,  that a feuding tribe of nasty old men and their grisly output was worthy of serious artistic consideration.  Hall posited that the Reagan Era spawned shoot-em-up Rambo and shoot 'em up Arnie movies and in Hallworld it was as though Hollywood - and not millions of ghastly Amerikans - had elected the dumbfuck, Reagan and his shrewish, stargazing bint.  

The trouble with Hall is that he's just an old showbiz whore, popping up wherever he can earn a few quid.  However learnedly he presents himself - and I don't know if an encyclopaedic knowledge of  Tinseltown bilge is actually learning - Hall, by his every mainstream teevee  appearance, vouchsafes his complicity in the myth of showbiz. He didn't  expand his BBC- Clarkson rant to include, for instance, the irritating and unavoidable polymath and heterophobic arsehole, Steven Fag, but then he appears regularly, alongside all sorts of pretentious riff-raff,  in one of  Fag's many tedious shows, being funny.  Even the Coalation rag, the Guardian,  recently complained about Fag's noisy ubiquity but if they keep Rich Hall in cowboy hats, and Jo Brand in jam roly-poly then can they really be all that worthless, my dears ? Our Rich also - and, to my mind embarrassingly, appears on a kids comedy show on the BBC  3 Yoof Channel, Talk Shit For The Week, it's called, a gaggle of gobby, unfunny, young stand-ups, performing direly for a bunch of  their uncritical, glad to be on telly peers, somewhere in the middle of this Polytechnic undergrad nightmare on walks ole Rich,  flapping around like a fish out of water, you know, the way that that remorseless old gabshite, Barry Cryer,  turns up at the Edinburgh Festival every year.  Hall must be nearly my age, what the fuck is he playing at, doing Yoof TeeVee ? It's like seeing Bill Hicks or Lenny Bruce or Richard Prior on Strictly Come Dancing;  not that Hall has anything like the vim and vigour and occasional saintliness of the great American stand-ups.

So when Hall tries to translate or adapt his rather monotonous schtick to a vehicle of apparently serious criticism he misses the mark by a mile and you would have to say he does so deliberately,  for he, too, is a paid up member of the Showbiz Vermin Society. Hollywood doesn't make great films, doesn't make politically challenging films; look at who it rewards with Oscars, look at the obscene amounts of money it pays its servants, listen, if you can bear it, to the banal vacuity of Jude Law or Michael Douglas or George Clooney.  Hollywood,  peddling shit fantasy,  demeans all involved in it and Rich, himself,  in his small corner, is an integral component of GlobaCorp, rather like, in a larger more influential fashion,  is Jeremy Clarkson. I wouldn't be a Godamned bit surprised if Rich Hall lusted after a BAFTA, or some Ricky Gervaise shit like that.

Hollywood aside, there's the odd bit of interesting ephemera.  President Eisenhower, having in the war chased the Wehrmacht all over Germany's autobahn network, was determined that Merkins would have the same sort of highways, rather than the dirt tracks common everywhere  and when he was elected Ike  simply bypassed all the state legislatures and initiated the Interstate Highway programme, building forty thousand miles of fast road. Hall wearliy reminds us that as the roads were rolled out the founder of  Holiday Express followed the earthmovers in a Cessna light aircraft plotting the locations, all across Amerika, where he would strangle to death any hope of originality or individuality in the hotel business.

Ninety minutes of unleavened Hall is about forty five minutes too much, he becomes an ugly, calculating, over-rehearsed  earache after a while, a performer trying to be funny and serious simultaneously for that length of time demands more than is just of the audience. But it's worth a look, for all that, if you, too,  have been sold the myth of the Road Movie,(nobody shoots-out the tyres )  the myth of the New Frontier (AnafuckingBaptist ethnic cleansing) and  the white pioneer  (generally a greedy, murdering racist bastard.)  I sort of lost faith in them, simply on grounds of credibility,  when my late brother pointed out to me, decades ago, that if those stupid indians had only shot dead the lead horse, or any of the team,  then the first road movie, Stagecoach, would've lasted five minutes.

Not for the last time, John Wayne and Hollywood  save the white world
from injuns and niggers and japs and gooks.



Reports are coming in that a notorious, unelected playboy dictator has been captured.

I never did anything wrong.

A former member of the infamous Gang of Four,

Mandelstein is said to have brokered bribes to the British Govament from shortarse motor racing magnates; done illegal deals  with international crooks, to have sold British Govament documents, to have lied and bullied and blackmailed his way across Whitehall and then, having been sort-of sacked,  done the same thing all around Europe where, as a price for his silence, he was given a fabulously well-paid sinecure in the European Ponzi Scheme Directorate.

Mandelstein, a lifelong socialist,  was friends  with anyone who had money, however thay had obtained it, Russian so-called oligarchs, British banking magnates like the Rothschilds and notably with Saif al Islam, scion of the Gadaffi family. The disgraced, horrid  old poof was  said to have been cleaning-up by flogging-off the contents of an address book compiled whilst in various positions of power and influence  in what is laughably called public service. In this activity Mandelstein is no different to any other Western politician, the rotten, filthy, lying, thieving bastards, a pox be on them, their children and their childrens children.

The prisoner is said to have blackmailed his way back into a position of Joint UK Prime Minister in the govament of Mr Gordon Snot,

with whom he was earlier rumoured to have been sexually involved.

If I go down, you all go down, Lord Mandelson is claimed to have shouted on his arrest.

Another former UK prime minister, 

Mr Tony Shameless, now owner of  WeSellPeaceDisguisedAsWar plc, or is it the other way round, said, Listen,  all I ever wanted was for the Labour party to love Peter as much as I do.  I mean did.

His former colleague, Big Al Campbell, himself a drunk,  a pornographer, a liar  and a conveniently manic depressive coward said I always hated the fucking bastard but I never had the courage to say so. I'll probably write a book about him. And go on teevee and talk about it, they love having me


She was quite the Marilyn Monroe, was the Aussie prime minister  - wotsername, Gillard, a stupid Welsh cunt, is how my Aussie neighbour  describes her. I say neighbour, but not like next door, about three miles down the road;  but she can't, in my view, be as bad as that arsehole, Kevin, her predecessor,  the one who travelled the continent feeling people's pain, everytime there was a fire or a flood, the fucking bastard. Wiggling and simpering at Mr President Obama last week, she must've curdled the milk of human kindness all around the Pacific rim, so to speak.

(a reader writes, Dear Mr Smith, this rimming business, isn't this something from the depraved imagination of dirty people, people  like mr verge, people don't really lick one another's bottoms, do they?  yours, Mrs Agnes Truelove.

another reader writes, Yo Ishmael, you, or is it yo' is my motherfucking man, and I refer to Mrs Truelove's letter in this issue, above,  and Gosh she must have led ay sheltered life. Me and Mrs  Hague,  for instance,  indulge regularly in ay spot of  trombone er playing and very pleasureable it is, too, for me, at any rate,  although ay woman is not quite the same  transport of delights as is ay pretty young man ......(that's enough letters from the foreign seckatry, ed. I don't care how many miscarriages he's had. Or his official wife's had, he's not coming in here talking about perversion,  that's mr verge's job)

I dread to think what the owner of America - Mr Hoo Flung Dung of the Bank of China - made of all this knickerdrenched  simpering, let alone what the Australian electorate made of it all, mind you, it's mostly pissed or backward, isn't it, the Aussie electorate? Or both.

(there are hundreds of this type of  photograph, don't know what mr gillard'll make of them)

But the best bit of the trip was when Obie announced that even though Merka is piss poor, skint and ain't rightly got a pot to piss in he was gonna station two and a half thousand child-raping crewcut psychobastard MommasBoy  GIs, Marines, Seals, mercenaries, assassins, torturers, CIA Black Operatives and Christ alone  knows what other kind of sinister, fucked-up barbarians down there in Australasia. As if it wasn't bad enough there already, with the white Aussies.

 Yo, my fellow Australian  motherfuckers, Yeah,  dooty, service to one's country, dooty, peace and stability, yeah, dooty, and okay, just a little bit a torture, mebbe at the weekends, but I never said that.

Mrs Gillard later announced herself very satisfied with President Obamadong's visit.

I guess he probably still believes, has to  believe, Obie, that his poxed-up rustbucket of a country, with its teeming millions of broke, obese, racist,  unemployed, yearning for double cheesburgers and giant fries  Creationist morons, its bent Congress and its Ponzi economy is still the powerhouse of the world, and its policeman.  And that yet another global base, to add to the seven hundred-plus it already has will, somehow, cure all those pesky domestic ills. Homelessnes, unemployment, inflation and so on.

Obie probably thinks, or is told by his Goldman-Sachs Cabinet, that China will continue to buy US TrashBonds, continue to let its workforce toil twelve-hour days, manufacturing  cheap white goods for export to the States and that it'll still let America throw its weight around. But Obie has had his head up his arse for, well, for ever,  that's why so many people liked him, it's an American thing, having your head up your arse;  wossat your saying up there, mr president,  from sea to shining sea?  Right, mr president, I copy that.

China, though, has a population approaching one and a half billion, although how anyone counts them I'm fucked if I know, especially when they all look the same, all got too many teeth, all talk like angry budgerigars. But only a million of them have credit cards.  A million isn't even a per cent of a billion, imagine the UK economy if only point ten of one percent had a credit card. And everybody knows that credit is the only way you can keep the factories operating and the people usefully employed, sort of.  So all it takes is for  the CommieBastard Emperor - whichever cruel, rat-faced, toothy mongrelbastard  is in charge - to extend  to his own people the credit facilities that he is currently extending to Uncle Sam and then he has an internal market for his fucking rubbish, can invest, instead of in the States, all over Africa, India, South America and, as we see,  in the European Union of Ponzi Republics.

And if it came to a military stand-off with  Obie, well, the chinks have so many spare people that they could bomb his Australian base with them.  Fire them in by hundreds of thousands, catapult them, drop them out of aeroplanes. 

At the time of the Falklands conflict I wrote to Mrs Thatcher, saying that Justice - and Poetry - would be served by stripping-out the passenger seats and loading up the national fleet of Concordes with one-kilo tins of Fray Bentos corned beef,  flying over Buenos Ares at the speed of sound and letting-go a load of bullybeef - imagine some Gaucho, swaggering down the street, in his chaps, twirling his moustaches and Pow! a corned beef tin, travelling at eleven hundred feet per second, smacks him in the kisser. Take his head clean off,  it would;  and a coupla hundred tins,  smashing through the Argie parliament,  they'd all be calling for  a vote of confidence in the MalvinasWar after that, those with their heads still on, anyway.  

The Concorde could carry a hundred and ten people and their Gucci luggage, and a few crates of champagne for David Frost, what's that, say twelve- fifteen thousand kilos, fifteen thousand tins of Fray Bentos slamming into Buenos Ares, all at once, they would've thought they'd died and gone to Hell.  Fucka me, Amigo, zees ees sheet, zees ees, les Ingleses eesa bombing our ass weeth zee corn-ed beef what we 'ave-a sent to zem een zee first-a place.

The Chinks, however,  they could just lob in a few million of themselves.  I knew someone who manned a machinegunpost in the Korean War and he told me that some nights only one in ten of the slopes he was shooting carried a proper weapon.  We know that Chairman Mao the Paedo slaughtered about twenty million of his own folks and the people still worshipped his poxy arse. And  we know, too,  that  next-door, the Nips were as happy as pigs in shit to crash their planes into the enemy, rip their own guts out with rusty swords or throw themselves off cliffs rather than surrender.  I don't want to be considered racist or anything but I do think  that your Oriental, your Nip and your Chink and your Slope, all the yellow bastards, in fact,  do take a different view.

Strewth, Cobber, what was that, just went crashing through that roof....???

Looked like a fucking Chinaman to me, Sport.....

What, stone me, a real Chinaman......?

Yeah, a bleedin' Chink, pigtails an' everythin',  going at terminal velocity he was, Christ, there goes another one, crashed through that roof like he was  a round from a fucking Howitzer.....

Mebbe he was bailing out, and he was too fucking stupid to pull his ripcord ....

Nah,  he never had no chute, fuck me, there goes another, and another one,  there's bleedin' 'undredsa the yellow bastards....thousands of them....it's raining yellowbastards...

Well, fuck me rigid, mate, wilya just look at the Sidney Opera House, de-fuckin-molished it, they 'ave, musta been a thousanda the little yellow bastards, went crashin' through the roof........Fancy a tinny or two....?

The Amber nectar, too fucking true, maybe a bit if a barbie, too, before we all have to start learning Manda-fuckin-rin. Shit mate, ya better duck....whoops....too late... looks like you copped yourself a ChineseTakeaway good and fuckin' proper.


These fag cops happen to be  in Seattle but it's happening all over the world. Just google youtube police brutality in.......somewhere, anywhere. A lot of the clips contain footage of some hero in uniform who just can't resist the opportunity to smack or cosh a woman, even one running away; none of his mates restrains him, none of his seniors reprimand him, one of the perks of the job, fucking filth.

The BBC is obediently muted about all this but even skymadeupnewsandfilth  in the States are asking why it is that elderly people, the disabled and the pregnant are being peppersprayed just for quite legally standing on the sidewalk. Why it is that not only must we  give the bankers all our money but we may not even peacefully protest about it, without being blinded and battered by some fucked-up fairy. If you are a cop, married to a cop, know a cop, or, God forgive you, are the parent of a cop, well fuck you and fuck them, too.

I guess that those protecting and serving see the pepperspray as a double-edged sword,  they don't get their proper fun, smacking people in the face with guns  and so on, especially not with all these cameras around, but a few fifth columnists, letting off firecrackers should give then the all clear for opening-up BigTime.  Coming soon, to a place near you.

Tuesday 15 November 2011



Ten little nigger boys sitting on a wall. 
Whoops, I mean illegal immigrant nigger boys

Now look. Let's be clear about this.     Frankly, I don't care if the home secketary wanders up and down Downing Street showing her thighs to all and sundry.  As she does. Silly old crow.  What matters. And what matters to the British people who elected me prime minister is that she's getting on with the job.  That's what people care about.  Not whether she's any good or not.  And quite frankly Mr Tiny Speaker,  just because she called this bloke a cunt and didn't give him a chance to reply, well, it simply doesn't matter. He's only a fucking civil servant.  We'll be doing a lot more of that -  doctors, teachers,  anyone who disagrees with us -   so people had better  jolly well get used to it. What I'm concerned with is privatising everything, kicking shit out of everybody and talking my arse off on subjects I haven't a fucking clue about.  Like history. And economics.  Fuck me, Mr Tiny Speaker, the Chancellor's a fucking doctrinaire windbag -  is doctrinaire a word?  fucked if I know -  the Governor of the Bank of England can't do his two times fucking table and I have a cabinetfull of arseholes, many of whom are fucking younger men.  Only not Mrs May, of course. Who gives a fuck about what this silly old bint is up to.  Niggers?  Keep them the fuck out,  that's my policy and it's what got me elected prime minister.

I mean, don't these fucking people,  these fucking complaining bastards, don't they know that , don't they realise that the Defence Seckatary, no, not the angry old faggy one, the new one, who looks like he should be perched on top of a panzer with an Iron Cross around his neck, yes, him, Richard Hammond, the bloke off TopGear

 Defence seckatry, Mr Philip Christ, what an ugly bastard Hammond.

No, is that not the one, the little fucker sucking Clarkson's knob ?  Right, well, how should I know? Anyway, the Defence seckatry is busy frightening people into believing Hell is at hand unless we line the streets with missiles and throw all the protesters in jail. Or execute them.  You know the people of this country elected me to discharge the basic responsibility of a govament which is to keep itself safe  from the people by any means necessary.

So what with all that going on and having to every five minutes  try and find something sensible to say  about Europe although, frankly, just like everybody,  I haven't got a fucking clue, why is it that  people expect me to have an opinion on this silly old boot.  She's had a big job in govament and can retire on a big pension, which is more than most people can say, so who gives a fuck if she resigns,  she's good for fuck all, if you ask me, Mr Tiny Speaker.

And I can always shove the gimp in there,
into the home office.

Mr Nick Gimp MP, Deputy Prime Minister.
he'd fucking love that, prisons and shit like that, surveillance, torture, right up his street.



 The distinguished entrepreneur - or infamous racketeer, shithead and failed coupster - Sir Mark Mumsy has expressed his disappointment that a film has been made about his criminal family without him having been paid any money.  I have friends who can be very persuasive, said Sir Mumsy, referring to former Field Marshal Sir Simon Mann Golightly-Jockstrap, thicko mercenary, author  and  ex-con, who was Mumsy's co-accused in their abortive attempt to take over an African banana republic and  who did the time in a jungle jailhouse whilst Boy Wonder Mark, pimping, as ever, on his mother's name, got off with a bollocking.

The disgraced hereditary viscount, also famous for milking his mother's contacts with the headchopping elite of Oman, has his arse in his hands over the current portrayal of his mother by ageing Hollywood strumpet, Mrs Meryl Teeth, below.

Meryl Teeth stars in Thatcher vs Thatcher,
a study in greed and dementia.

My mother not only served the country with distinction but was also on the board of many other  distinguished  criminal families, such as that of Lord Conrad Black-Embezzler, the famous newspaper-owning-and-robbing convict and that of General Sir Jorge Pinochet, the acclaimed human rights activist and exterminator sans pareil.  My mother unfailingly signed-off Lord Black's accounts, whether they were accurate or not, which they never once were,  that's how great a lady she was. And she did all of this for a mere few hundred thousand pounds of shareholders' money.

If Ms Teeth doesn't do the decent thing  and pay me my cut I can arrange for Mr Mann to go around to her gaff and bore the arse off her with tales of his jungular derring-do. Or maybe my sister, wotsername.

A spokesperson for Meryl Teeth said, Meryl has wrung herself out, gone right to the very edge, in this performance which she feels captures the true essence of Baroness Williams.  It takes a great deal of courage to go where great actresses go ( up producers' arses? ed.) and she is now recharging her batteries and considering other scripts suitable for a young actress of her age ( 67.)

Lord Bell-End.

Sir Tim Bell-End, Thatcherite PR guru said that to trade on the Thatcher legend was despicable. 
These people are just making money  for the sake of it. ( honest, not invent.)

Lord Norman Tebbit, of the Filth-O-Graph and late of Al-Fayed Enterprises,
although he didn't know about the freebies until he was found out and then he stopped  taking them, like a good Tory.

Well, far be it from me to mention to the prime minister that I won three general elections whilst he hasn't won any.  Far be it from me, a former pilot and working journalist ( rabble-rousing fuckpig? ed) to tell this effete public schoolboy what to do.  I mean whaddooIknow, I only won three elections.  Margaret Thatcher. Yes, a great lady, she helped me win three elections. And now here I am, writing tosh for expatriot redneck wankers.  Well said, Lord Norman, they say, couldn't have put it better myself.  And they're right,   they couldn't.