WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE TIMES OF INDIA, RUSSIAN DEMONSTRATORS SAY FUCK OFF PANSY PUTIN.

 LET ME RIG YOUR VOTES FOR YOU, COMRADE-DEARIES.

 MOSCOW: Tens of thousands of protesters gathered here on Saturday for a second large antigovernment demonstration , as a wave of new activists struggle to convert an inchoate burst of energy into a durable political force.

Organizers hope to build on the success of the Dec 10 protests, which mobilized a broad collection of previously apolitical middle-class Russians angry over parliamentary elections earlier this month that many rejected as fraudulent and slanted in favor of the ruling party, United Russia.

If the movement can sustain its intensity, it could alter the course of presidential elections in March, when Vladimir V Putin plans to extend his status as the country's dominant figure to 18 years.

The crowd began forming more than an hour before the beginning of the protest, for which city authorities granted a permit for up to 50,000 people. Organizers estimated the crowd at 120,000; the police offered a lower estimate of about 29,000.

The protests have shaken the Kremlin, which has not encountered widespread public resistance since Putin became president in 1999. It has become clear that the Kremlin is taking the protesters' complaints as a warning signal, and is willing to make concessions to head off a dangerous confrontation. Shortly before the event began, the former finance minister, Aleksei L Kudrin - a member of Putin's inner circle for more than two decades - announced that he would address the demonstrators. 

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

Against the dreary, OCD  media backdrop of the Dow-Jones Index, these  events are startling and must foster optimism, all these Occupy this and that movements  in the West,  the violent protests in the Middle East and North Africa - aside from those owned by NATO - and now the Russians are expressing their righteous discontent with their own version of political musical chairs; something is happening, worldwide, and I wish I knew what it was;  wish I had the strength and courage to go and join something.

Having seen the overthrow of  the Soviet Union, modern Russians are less in awe of the repulsive  criminal Putin than he might think.  Vlad and his chums,  trading positions every few years, of course echo the deal in MediaMinster, where, only once in a blue moon is a non-party, independent individual permitted entry to the legislature,  the levers of power passing, otherwise, more or less seamlessly from one dinosaur  party to another.  The BBC and  skymadeupnewsandfilth have always ruthlessly suppressed or ridiculed any alternative political catechism, any on-air voice raised in dissent is Dimblebied with extreme prejudice and audiences are compelled to dutifully applaud a panel of their thieving tormentors - slaghacks, dimwit entertainers and shiteating politicians, all pontificating emptily, yet  carefully within the envelope. The BBC has been doing this  shit forever, forming stooges  into a panel which then selectively addresses approved questions, vetted by the producers,  the governors, the board of trustees and whichever crime  family is  ocupying Downing Street.

I bought a two British pounds,  Christmas Eve, hard copy  of the Daily Filth-o-Graph, a 'paper I read through most of the 'nineties and it was just a big, papery bundle of rubbish - the news, or what passes for the news, was out of date before it was printed,  the op-ed was Home Counties, jingoistic, God is British claptrap, neither informative nor provocative,  as the Filth-O-Graph used to be; the property section was for multi-millionaires, as were all the elite consumer products, Oh, and they have a blonde cookess, called Xanthe,  they would have, wouldn't they?  I have been wondering who on Earth buys these things;  having long ago broken my own newspaper addiction, I had assumed, nevertheless, that the broadsheets must still contain material by authors and in a form  that one simply cannot acquire on CyberStreet,  I was wrong  - everything is online - and since I stopped buying them, the physical form of the newspapers has become, to me, at any rate, just fucking irritating,  the pages stick together; if you don't have a valet to iron them, they are dirty with ink; if you pick them up or set them down carelessly they fall apart, never to be correctly reassembled;  to get to the serious stuff you have to wade through pages littered with out-of-date images of  old crows, lady writers, once someone's bright, shiny niece or mistress, now scrawny and embittered, grinding a shedful  of axes, Vicki Woods, Rosa Prince;  who knows, maybe they started out as buxom, blouse-bursting schoolgirl porn on the Filth-O-Graph's famous A-level results front pages, and now they write columns moaning about the quality of the help - us. Oh, yes and there are vital pages of  closely-printed stocks and shares prices -  the Daily Lie  - which, let's face it, will be flashing away, updated to the second, on the various multiscreens of those interested in committing such offences.  In a way, it was, despite my loathing of the Barclay Twins and most Filth-O-Graph writers, a bit of a disappointment to find that it really was the dead, DeadTreePress, good for fuck all,  and more expensive, even, than proper firelighters.

But even though our own mass media are rotten and corrupt, I have always been suspicious of the Twitter Revolution,  the Facebook Fifth Column and am even moreso having watched Emily Maitless schmoozing the Facebook Founder, wotsisname, Jabberwocky, another autistic, bulletheaded American bleating about Freedom while working for the CIA and Wall Street. The idea that consumerjunky hand-held devices might  spark and enflame revolutions has always seemed risible to me -  I can't come, I'm just so not up for it, I don't have that civil disobedience app, but can we catch up over  a latte;  just as likely, it has seemed to me, that James Dyson and his infinitely recurring vacuum cleaner are the key to true human fulfillment.

But something is going on, something, some movement or movements utterly indifferent to leaderwriters, broadcasters, legislators and all the other forms of Filthlife are undermining the JerichoWalls of political certainty;  it is axiomatic, I guess, that revolutions are not recognised as such until they are over, one way or another.


Which of the old blondes, below, is Madeleine Albright?

My fellow motherfuckers,
Ah did not have sex with either of these Seckatries of State.

Which one of these, below, actually won an election?

Was it Major major or  Major minor?

Spunky Bill, Madeleine Albright, President Hillary Dyke-Trousers, CallHimDave and countless other grinning phonies strutted about, last week, at Vaclev Havel's state funeral, as though they were, themselves, liberationist poets and playwrights and not filthy international criminals.  In their suits and make-up and armoured limos  they all looked as though they had walked, satirising themselves,  off the cartoon screens of Family Guy.

Maybe not all the youth obediently watch Strictly Celebrity Factor, are not habituated to the soma-banality pumped at them relentlessly by GlobaCorp, maybe, despite  the very best efforts of  their creators, the handheld devices will help people to burn down the mission, rape the nuns, kill the children and poison the well, or whatever it is that revolutionaries do in addition to putting govaments up against the wall.

I heard Fat King Alec  Salmond of Scotland, a while back,

smirking in best PutinSpeak, to Scotland's abnormally compliant journalists about what he called political attack blogs;  these, opined the fat, greedy, wife-beating, cross-dressing  bastard - to, naturally,  not one word of protest from the McHacks - were not what the Internet was for -  I think he said...and of course, political blogs are  not what the Internet was invented for. Worth savouring for a moment or two, that one, from the leader of Free Scotland,  your betters will decide what should be on the Internet.

If, even here in the mutha of parliaments, an elected politician can, as did McFatMan, get away with that sort of mediaeval claptrap, then we must send our best wishes to those currently oppressed in Russia by the thinly disguised hand of the KGB.

Is Putin gay? It really doesn't matter, what matters is a new Russian Revolution. All the wealthy bandits and murderers and torturers can all come and find sanctuary in London, where they are, apparently, most welcome. London, the New Havana.


Apples an' pears, apples an' pears, frog an' toad,  trouble an' strife; diamond geezer, that Roman Abramovitch, an 'onorary Cockney, that's what 'e is.

WOTSONTELLY. ALL CHANNELS. DUKE LATEST. NATION DISAPPOINTED AS DUKE NOT DEAD YET.

Welcome to the BBC Duke News, with me, Huw Welshman,  the Dimbleby of the Valleys, as I like to think of myself.  And of course the big story is a sick old man, who nobody likes, or is it whom,  fucked if I know, but whose death would just be  the news  windfall which the unelected govament and its friends in the media would love.  It's not as though just because the govament controls the BBC's money we do it any special favours, as this picture of our political fellator in chief, Mr Nick Toenails reveals.

Chancellor Osbum, please accept this gift, given  on behalf of all the Lobby correspondents;  we are, all of us, in this together and  we don't know what we'd do if we didn't have your press releases and secret gossip  to recycle, probably some proper reporting.

But the Duke dying would certainly give us all a break from the terrible fuck-up that the govament is making of, well, everything, really. And so  we go cver now to our Royal correspondent, Mr Nicholas Knobcheese, who is at Papworth Hospital  for us, even as we speak.  Nick, what's the latest?

Nicholas Knobcheese, the BBC's Royal Correspondent.

Well, Hugh, even as we speak, His Grace was visited by  a whole slew of benefits scroungers, yesterday,  there was Prince Gormless and his half-brother, Hewitt, the drunk, there was Princess Anne's daughter and her husband, the drunken rugby player, wotsisname, him who was snogging that blonde bint a couple days after his wedding,  and then there were the daughters of  that fucking slobbastard, Andy - the one who flies around the world on benefits, playing golf with child molesters - and his former  or current, who knows, Huw, with this shower,  totty, Sarah Pork,

 

Well, effendi, a threesome with me AND the Duke?

Would half a million be too much?

Oh, alright then, since it's you, a hundred quid it is.

Right, and no condoms.

- the one who flogs access to royalty -  their two royal, so-called,   brats, Eugenie and Beatrice.  Fuck me, Jesus, Huw,  cost the taxpayer a pretty penny that lot did, I can tell you, each of them in a taxpayer-provided  armour-plated RangeRover with a gang of randy coppers in attendance.

And the heir to the deathbed, I mean throne, Nick, was he there with his old totty, was  Tampax Charlie present ...?

Nah, Huw, he was leading the traditional orgy of killing things at Sandringham and strutting around like he was already King.....

And whaddabout the Duke himself, Nick,  any signs of him dying, what a story that would be for the New Year?

Wouldn't it just, Huw, wouldn't it just.  Christ we'd all be on overtime for months, me especially, what with the lying in state, the state funeral, the state mourning;  would Brenda abdicate in favour of  Brian?  She's always  said she wouldn't but you never know.  What sort of monarch would Shithead make?  Would Camilla be Queen? Although the answer to that, Huw, is of course she would, don't be fucking silly.

So, lots of excitement, then  in the various benefits scroungers' palaces, Nick?

You could say that, Huw, Gormless and his waitress will be thinking that Granny might abdicate and make them King and Queen,  over the heads of Brian and Horseface, who  will  themselves be thinking that they'll soon be on the throne...

And the Duke, woddabout the Duke, Nick?

Well, if I were him I'd be hoping that the stent'd collapse and I'd be able to bugger off out of all this poisonous, disfunctional family  rivalry, and get up there in Heaven, having arselove with Zeus, or woddever it is that Greeks believe in.

Well there you have it,  that was Nick Knobcheese for us, there, reporting from outside Papworth Hospital where he's right at the heart, so to speak, of the action.  Jenny Bond used to do that job, Royal Correspondent, or Keeper of the Golden Microphone of Shite, as we call it here, in the Corporation;  yes, the one with no knickers, she was always telling people that, silly old tart.

Famed for her deferential reporting style and occasionally queenly manner - not to mention her admission that her failure to wear knickers caused her periodic embarrassment when climbing to vantage points - she held the job for 14 years, covering some of the most turbulent times in the royal family's modern history. The Guardian, March 2003.

She does cookery programmes, now, like everybody else.  Hasn't it been shite, though, all these wankers and their take on Christmas Dinner, or Fayre, as some of them call it.  Hairy Bikers, bumming each other around the NorthEast, sticking their shitty, spermy  fingers in the brandy sauce, revolting, beardy,  old queens.  And that cunt, Heston Blumenthal,  I lie awake at night, in Merthyr Tidfyl, I do, honestly, dreaming up exotic ways to torture that bastard to death.

Over now to Jayne Tits with the weather but don't go away because after this we'll be right back at Papworth to see if the Duke has deteriorated.  Unless anyone else famous dies.  In which case he can go and fuck himself, look you, isn't it.


But first a Christmas Message from the Prince of Benefits Scroungers, himself,  the worthless, idle fucking bastard.

Well, as we all know, or my sons do anyway, it's a dreadful thing to lose one's parent but the sooner we get it over with the sooner I can be King.  Yes, the sooner they're both, sort of, thingummy, dead,  the sooner we can have a youthful, vibrant and  environmentally concerned monarchy back on  the great Spongers' Throne. The Queen'll soon be dead, God save me!!  And Queen Camilla, ot course, only not as much as me.

DUKE IN HOSPITAL WITH CHARLES PAINS, I MEAN CHEST.

Is that a nig-nog in the bushes? I'm sure there's one there,

I can smell 'em y'know, quick, fetch me m'gun.

 Very good, your worship.

I tell you what, Titmarsh, you'd make a better bloody King than that son of mine,  that fucking oaf, Brian, and you're only a teevee gardener, aren't you? And as for that fucking Nazi he's married,

well, really, I like horses as much as the next royal parasite, but marry one?  You must be fucking smoking, I mean joking.  But no, she smells like  a fucking ashtray, that Camilla,

and always looks as though she's just gangbanged her way through the whole Rugby Union, and the bloody League, I shouldn't wonder. I mean, in my position, Titmarsh, one has to have a sense of humour about these sorts of things but fuck me gently, for years it was her husband, Andrew, jumping off and him, Shitbrains, Brian, the Prince of fucking Wales, jumping on, busier than St Pancras on a bank holiday, she was. No wonder she smells like an Indian sewer. No I don't know how many sprogs she had with her husband, Titmarsh, and I suppose some of them could be his, Brian's, which means they could be my grandchildren, God fucking help me, Titmarsh, I might be related to this  smoky old poxed-up slapper. Christ, why didn't I stay in Greece? Edinburgh??  Who the fuck wants to be Duke of fucking Edinburgh,  They were having a fucking laugh, weren't they,  that stuttering old git of a King, and Winston fucking Churchill?  Go on Titmarsh, name me one other Duke of fucking Edinburgh.  You can't can you?  That's because there haven't been any.  I know what happened,  The King said, l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-et's m-m-m-m-m-m-ake him Duke of Edinburgh, he w-w-w-w-w-w-won't know where Edinburgh is, he's only a fucking Greek  and Winston said, I may be drunk Shire, but in the morning I'll be shober and thish cunt'll shtill be Greek,  very good, Shire, a very good if I may shay sho, joke, making an olive-munching, plate-shmashing wog the Duke of Edinburgh, very droll, Shire. And now, if Your Majesty will permit me I will jusht pash out drunk on the floor.  That's what fucking happened, Titmarsh, you can bet your fucking wheelbarrow on it.

 You  know,  Titmarsh, it's nearly a hundred fucking years that  me and Brenda, or Her Majesty to you, 've been driving round this freezing bloody shithole of a country, planting fucking trees and shaking hands with lines of fawning arseholes  from the council and the chamber of fucking commerce and in all that time no bastard's ever thrown rubbish at our car.....No, your worship.........but this bleeding nincompoop and his doxy,  the first time they go out to the pictures it's like the French fucking Revolution's kicking off all over fucking Knightsbridge. Is it any wonder I'm having a fucking heart attack, a bastard lunatic who talks to fucking trees and can't wipe his own fucking arse wants to take over and ruin all the good work me and his mother've done, fucking Jesus, Titmarsh, what's the world coming to ?  And as for that babyfaced, slaphead fuckwit of a Prince,  Gormless,  the bald one, just married some waitress, I understand.....you do know, don't you, that when he's up in the helicopter they have a real pilot, out of sight, operating the sticks and the rudders and what have you, and as soon as they've taken off, the other chap takes over properly and  the gormless one goes and sits in the fucking luggage bay, picking his nose and eating it;  fucking backward, he is, a ree-tard; fucking hell, Titmarsh, his mother wasn't the brightest star in the royal firmament, especially not after she started fucking her way through the  entire NHS,  but this lad's  as thick as fucking pigshit....King??? King??? Don't make me fucking laugh, Titmarsh, I have a bad heart.

No, your worship, by your leave, I'll just go and make some compost. I find it very therapeutic, the smells, the texture of the organic matter .......

Oh do shut up, you pretentious  cunt, everybody knows the production team does all  the fucking gardening.

Right, your worship,  very good, your worship.

EVENSONG. John Cale - Hallelujah

CHRISTMAS EVE CAN KILL YOU

Many are bereaved or separated; many, mostly men, can't or don't see their children;  many are in jail or in some other confinement; many, from a lifetime of wet blankets,  wring out an existence sleeping on the streets as we walk past and   the times are such that we are made impatient with frailty, we are each other's enemy; if we are old, we are lifelong greedybastards, to blame for the young failing to get a foot on Debt's ladder, no matter how much they lie about their income, their prospects;  if we are ill we are actually malingering and could  do a good day's bricklaying, if only we followed Mr Ian Duncan Smith's advice; if we are foreign, or even look foreign, we are the cause of unemployment.  And crime. And VD.

If we are young, we are potentially criminal, unless, like the Bullingdon Bullies, we are born into the non-arrestable class.  And if we have worked a life in the public sector, why then, we are despicable scum who should be put to the workhouse, our pensions forfeit; why should we have pensions, when the Employee of the Month, embarking on his career at McDonald's, does not?

If, desperate, abandoned in lone parenthood, we find the meanest benefits in Europe insufficient on which to survive and we nick a hundred or two pounds then by the Holy fucking Kelvin McKenzie we deserve  horse-whipping, single mothers, waddaretheylike, slags, jail's too good for them.  But if we are a millionaire LibDemTory, like Mr David Laws, MP, and we claim that being gay is the reason that we cheated forty grand's worth of housing benefit,   then the whole of MediaMinster unites, in concert, lamenting our downfall, due to an honest mistake, and urging our swift return to FrontBench zombie economics. The cunt.

We could all go on and on about the bleakness, for many, of Christmas,  about the dire hollowness of junky consumerism, about the pointlessness of priests, their midnight prating to Godlessheathenbastard drunks about the Christchild, born in a Victorian manger, in the bleak mid-Winter, with just a drummerboy and a donkey and three itinerant bankers for company.  Fuck me,  Jesus, it's a terrible business, this annual  collision of God and Mammon,  wanky vicars running soup kitchens whilst their employers sit on a property portfolio worth billions, Archbishop Beard and Pope Nazi the Thirteenth, each beseeching us to be better,  the cheeky fucking bastards, as  intolerably stupid, braindead, second-rate, fuckwit junior BBC reporters haunt the nation's shopping malls, desperate to break the news that Yes, one day's spending has reversed the ongoing collapse of retail, construction and manufacturing, as though we were stupider than they. And of course, largely, we are, gaping open-mouthed at the rising and falling Dow and  FTSE100,  as though we had the vaguest understanding of their labyrinthine criminal purpose.

Best of all,  the nation's  unelected prime minister, an amoral, worthless, thieving poltroon,  publicly renews his - and by extention our -  Christian faith, whilst down on his knees before the moneylenders in the Temple.

Their will be heartache all over the land, among, I know, some of us, here. Some of it is just the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,  the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to - I am off South to visit my late friend's widow, her second Christmas alone, well not alone, far from it,  but without her Life's man, might be a bit easier than her first Christmas without him but after forty years together it is a distinction as broad as a gnat's bollock, Christmas for her will always be shit, always a bleak mid-Winter.  But other grief attends the doings of those who have swung an indecisive general election their way,  the spivs and slags and chancers who have continued the debasement and diseasing of the body politic, we know their names, how they lisp and simper that the corrupt and useless banking industry simply must be supported, even at the cost of our living standards -  our very lives, if necessary - because, after all, that's who they work for.  In this tiny communty, here in the best part of England, I know of loads of perfectly decent, industrious, honest people whose  entire lives are thrown up in the air, let the pieces fall where they may, in poverty, homelessness and Ruin, yet I have never heard of a single fraudulent financial terrorist in the  entire world who has faced a criminal charge.

So, amongst all this pain, all this grubby charlatanry, do we bite Hypocrisy's bullet and wish each other a Happy Christmas?  Well, I fear we must;  we must sincerely wish each other well, for many are ranged against us who wish us nothing but ill, nothing but harm.

Up here, in lands made dark by latitude as well as by Presbyterianism,  I await, like a Pict or a Druid, the mid-Winter's Day Solstice and when it comes the blood quickens, the spirits lift a little, daily, and we sense Life, in all its chronic pattern, stirring,  renewing itself by the light of the Sun.  The Christians hijacked the mid-Winter event for themselves, substituting guilt for joy and carnality but their crimes  brought forth, eventually, sublime music and art and architecture and literature, and it is for these that they will be remembered, even celebrated, long after Pope Nazi and his noncing monsignors have faced Heaven's Nuremberg,  So fuck 'em all, priests and politicians and usurers;  and a Happy Christmas or Solstice to each of us and may we, refreshed,  gird our loins for Ruin's  brutal New Year.

SCIENCE NEWS. Large Hadron Collider finds new particle

 

from Tom Clarke,  Channel Four News's science correspondent.

It is the tiniest, most infinitessimally small   particle, a truly amazingly small scrap of matter that not even the most amazingly powerful nuclear-powered laser microscope  would ever of been able  of seeing with the naked eye,  said Professor Brian Smile of the BBC and D'Ream, below, and of the Large Handheld Kettle. Or whatever.

Professor Cox sings his hit, Things Can Only Get Smaller, or Bigger.

Depending on your point of universal view.

But isn't it all just really, like, amazing.

It was so small that   we had to build this big tunnel  thing and smash things into one another at the speed of light, just to be able to get a glimpse of it, but we finally found Prince William's brain. I'll just do this visual aid thing to show you how big Prince William's brain is:  Or small.  See this dot . ? This dot is a hundred gazillion times bigger than William's brain.  In fact, it is a hundred trillion gazillion times bigger than William's brain.

His brother? Find his brother's brain?   No, that's beyond us, if, indeed, it exists at all, which no-one sort  of believes  it does.

 Their Royal Brainlessnesses enjoy a Bullingdon moment with some doxy.

WOTSONTELLY. A RUSSIAN DOLL OF AWKWARDNESS. SIMON AMSTELL, DO NOTHING LIVE. BBC3

 

Amstell, FagZen for thirty-somethings.

I always feel like an embarrassing uncle, enjoying Simon Amstell;  he's only a child after all but this show, filmed in Dublin, is a gem, his consistently gentle and restorative approach to Life's interlocking feeding frenzies - religion, family, sex and success -  is funny, thoughtful and - unusually, among Britain's damned legions of ghastly stand-ups - life-affirming and conciliatory.  A delightful, funny, revelatory Judaeo-Zen rap, see it if you can.

TORY MP AT NAZI GATHERING SHOCK.

MEMBERS OF THE UNELECTED  GOVAMENT DISCUSS A CULL OF THE DISABLED

AND OTHER LAZY UNTERMENSCHEN.

The Frogs want to prosecute a hard-working, decent Tory MP, simply because he did a Prince Harry at some piss-up.  So what if he sang the Horst Wessell song and roasted a few Jews in front of the chateau fire? 

Prominent Nazi, Kelvin McKenzie, writes:

Pissez vous off, M'sieu Frog,  that's what we say here at the Sun.

Say wotchalike about Hitler but he was a decent sort who paid his taxes and called a spade a spade.And then gassed him.

Wogs start  at Dover, women are slags, fuck 'em as soon as they're sixteen;  where's my fucking knighthood?

 

There's a Jew and a cripple and a nigger and a trade unionist, right, and they go in this crematorium.....

Mr  Flashman shares a joke with young Nazi, Master Aiden Burley, MP for CannockChasehoffen.

Unelected PM, Major Flashman,  has said that he believes in giving people a second chance to be good Nazis, but only if,  like himself,  they work for Fuhrer Murdoch. 

As far as we can tell, said a Downing Street aide, Mr   Burley has never performed a single service for Herr Mudoch, so he's out on his arse.  Andy Coulson?? Never heard of him. Sieg Heil.

CHRISTMAS WITH FAGASH LIL.

HI, BIGBOY, WANNA LICK MY ASHTRAY?
DAME ANN LESLIE, OBE.
ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL JOURNALISTS IN THE WORLD.

 She's been rabble-rousing for the Daily Mail since God was a boy and has reported on wars and stuff in seventy countries;  Leslie, however, disproves the maxim that travel broadens the mind,  her jaunts to what we impertinently call the Third World have persuaded her that we, what with dwindling human rights and an increasingly privatised wefare state, are pampered, mollycoddled by our masters; if only our children had to walk three miles each morning to fetch water then our societtal malaises, our brokennessews would disappear in an instant.

It is a Daily Mail mindset - not all have pensions, therefore none should have pensions, Malawians don't have plumbing, therefore none should have plumbing, makes Ann's croaky old chest fill with pride, it does, when she sees little picanninnies walking six miles to school, in the baking heat,  our children could learn so much  from those mistreated by headchopping, gangster tribal politician-witchdoctors.  And of course they could, but there is no need for us to embrace the nineteen thirties, as Leslie and her deadbeat crew insist we must.

The refrain goes, the private sector has been making huge profits for decades, now, as wages have been suppressed, subsidised by nomoreboomanbust Snottism, phantom equity taken from artificially inflated properties to fuel the High Street Trash Bonanza, beloved of the likes of Currys and Marks and Spencers and of Wotsisname, that gabshite who keeps on re-inventing his onetrick pony, cylinder of shite vacuum cleaner, Dyson,  the great patriot who shipped his rubbishy business overseas where he could use cheap wog labour.  These profits, anyway,  had been so vast that by the time the directors and shareholders had been troughed-up to the nostrils, there was certainly no money left for employees' pensions, fuck me Jesus, no way, Jose, ergo, and obviously, there should be no pensions at all in the public sector, either,  level playing field's what we need,  an old age of poverty and neglect for all, well, nearly all. Trickle up economics they call it, zombie economists like Will Hutton and Murdoch's Barrowboy, Jeff Randall, of skymadeupnewsandfilth.





One of the creepiecrawlies on last week's Any Questions, I believe it was Doctor  Mr Evan Harris,  formerly an MP for the ShitEaters but now sadfly unseated, mused that the Chinks won't "invest" in Europe because the populations there are made slothful   and inefficient by the welfare state, Spot-On, cackled Dame Ann.

The Chinks, who execute burglars and charge their families for the bullet before flogging-off the deceased's organs;  the Chinks, who set tanks against unarmed demonstrators;  the Chinks who force peasants to work unpaid and unprotected in Hellhole, shithouse factories and deadly dangerous construction sites,  the Chinks who run a one-party fascist totalitarianism,  the Chinks,wheezed Ann, beatifically,  they can show us the way.


With any luck the wicked old boot'll be dead before the Coalition brings about her ideal society of obedient, hard-working serfs;  on the other hand, though, it may be much nearer than we think.

MATINS, ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE. Handel's Messiah And the Glory of the Lord

SMUG, FAT, NEO-CON BASTARD DEAD. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, HITCH IS OVER

The Goberati is in eulogy-overdrive; small-time entertainer, bully, drunken fatso and Oxxbridge wanker, Christopher Hitchens, has croaked, a victim of over-indulgence in the stupidest of vices; a shame that he wasn't waterboarded to death by some of his Bushite Nazi heroes but cancer'll do.

Like so many entertainers, Hitchens took US citizenship, probably because a certain accent passes, among the drongoes, for wisdom; here, of course, the BBC, the Street of Shame and the public toilets of Knightsbridge are awash with pained, whining voices like his - the educated GoodForFuckAll.

Hitchens spent a waster's lifetime  trawling through the angry labyrinth of his egomania for les mots risque, for naughty, controversial things to say to the repulsive  coterie of tossers who write for worthless periodicals, review each other's books and fuck each other's wives, or chiildren, or both;  the Goberati is aghast, only the screeching Simon Schama being invited onto Newsnight, dozens left out in the cold, desperate for a camera  into which they can pour their measured, erudite obsequies, for the usual fee,  useless,simpering layabouts.

Hitchens' estranged brother, Pete, another right-winger, operating on the same wavelenght of languid, know-it-all supersciliousness underscored with  bottled-up hysteria,  tubthumps for the disgusting Associated Newspapers, is a creature of  the loathsome, redfaced dipso, Paul DayGlo;  be interesting to see if his  almost lifelong rift with Chris will survive the death of one party or if, in true Daily Mail style,  there will be a rapprochement post-mortem.  No business like showbusiness.

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A MARTIAL LAW NEW YEAR

Speaking from the top of his Civil Contingencies/for the use of tank,

Lt Col Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, of the Queen's Own NancyBoys Regiment, the Military Commander of London said, There is a very real terrorist threat, here, in London, twelve million of them in fact and it is my proud duty  to keep the streets safe for govament limousines to sweep past, carrying people who are very important to the economic recovery of the armed forces and my children's school fees.  Is this martial law? Well, only in the sense that we will shoot people who complain about the govament.  As I said, there are at least twelve million people in London who think they have the right to, well, say anything, really.

Mr Phil  "Greedybastard" Hammond, MP, Minister for Internal Torture

Philip Hammond was criticised in 2009 when it emerged during the MP expenses row that he claimed just £8 short of the maximum allowance for a second home in London from 2007 to 2008 even though he lived in the commuter belt town of Woking. As a result of the criticism Mr Hammond told his local paper that he would pay back any profit he makes on the future sale of his second home to the public purse.^[7]

Mr Philip Hammond, the Junta's Obedience Minister, said, Now look, Kirsty, there are sixty million people in this country who might want to upset things for the not-law-abiding, not-tax-paying but nevertheless extremely important families who selflessly run things   and the Junta was elected by itself just to stop this very thing happening. Did I say selflessly, a slip of the tongue, of course I meant selfishly.

 KILL THEM, KILL THEM ALL, HOW DARE THEY QUESTION MY EXPENSES?

 Francis Maude, the shadow minister for the cabinet office, attempted to claim the mortgage interest on his family home in Sussex. This arrangement was rejected by the Fees Office. Two years later, Mr Maude bought a flat in London a few minutes walk from a house he already owned. He then rented out the other property and began claiming on the new flat: the taxpayer has since covered nearly £35,000 in mortgage interest payments

Mr Frankie Bouffant, minister for cabinet office fraud, above, said  I have been waiting all my life for this, and my father before me, him, too;  shooting people on the streets, it's what a true Tory lives for;  Winston, Margaret, it's what a truly great leader does, confront the people and kill them. Olympics, who gives a fuck about a load of nignogs runninmg around in circles?  No, this is proper law'n'order, at long last.

OH, I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS EVERYDAY.

Top people's store, Harrods, is marking this, the first of many Austerity Christmases, by limiting its production of top people's Christmas puddings to 750.

The puds contain "succulent vine fruits", chopped walnuts and juicy  apricots, poached or marinaded or simmered or drenched in port and brandy;  each pud also contains six lucky sixpences, so, be careful, you top people, that you don't choke on your Limited Edition Pud.

The puds are a steal at just £59 so, if Harrods made three million of them, then bottom people could each buy one with just one week's Job Seekers' Allowance, apart, of course, from those spendthrifts who claim that they cannot survive on sixty quid a week, and those who, quite rightly, don't get any money at all.

MPs, who are keen to abolish the body which scrutinises their "expenses", have indicated that taxpayers might buy each of them a Harrods Top People's Pudding as, in their own words, We are all in this trough together.

Here's wishing them a happy Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

NEWS REVIEW, AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS.

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THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO WAS WON ON THE PLAYING FIELDS OF ETON. SHAME ABOUT BRUSSELS.

 

The unelected prime minister of England

at the Euro jamboree.

If he wasn't such a contemptible bastard one might feel some sympathy for the wretched Cameron. No amount of his  public school posturing, his shiny-face conceit, his hands-in-pockets insousiance, his tongue-tied, unimaginative cliche stuttering could disguise the group body language of  all the other out-of-step so-called leaders -  at best indifference and at worst contempt. 

Up all night, he was, talking his arrogant, idler's jivetalk.  And they gave him what the Barbarians call the bums rush.  Not even Gordon Snot, in his unelected premiership, made such a dog's breakfast of things European as did  Cameron, marching from one dick-hanging-out embarrassment to another, bravefacing his incompetence;  it can't have been pleasant, even for an unprincipled dignity-bankrupt like him, squatting in Downing Street, thanks to the repulsive Nick Clegg and his band of shit-eating degenerates. 

Maybe if he'd won an election - instead of nicking one, like a proper Flashman - maybe then he might have made some progress.  Frau  Lardarse comes from a land of coaltions and reunifications and a filthy,   make-your-blood-run-cold  history which we don't talk about but she has the confidence of her own party, unlike our own, unloved Mr Fishface.

What you see is what you get.

Not very much.

Who knows how or  if the never-ending Euroshit crisis will end, how the speculating thieves and gangsters, sorry, wealth creators, can be placated;  if they're not driving up the prices of foodstuffs, energy and raw materials,  they're shorting entire nations, cheered on by a self-selecting political-media elite, the word elite being used advisedly,  they're all just filthy bastards, Brussels and MediaMinster, shitting, multilingually, in our faces.

L'entente discordiale.

Shakez-vous by ze 'and?

Vous etes joking, n'est ce pas, M'sieu ShinyFace/

Even so, Cameron is a uniquely contemptible bastard and his cold-shouldering by the dwarf pimp, Sarkozy, is a defining moment for him and his govament of spivs and carpetbaggers, defining as in regime change. Not that it matters  much.

PRIME MINISTER'S EVENSONG (UNELECTED) Warren Zevon - My Shit's Fucked Up

EVENSONG, STRONG WINDS,STRONG WINDS Homeless Ladysmith Black Mambaso & You can call him Al.

UNDER THE WEATHER, SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND

Outside, the Ford Explorer, loaded witn food and drink and medicines  and blankets is rocking about wildly;  you can't open the door or the tailgate without a real fear of them blowing off and away to Norway.  There are evacuation warnings from the council, winds currently at around a hundred miles an hours and a blizzard due at 3.00. am; the truck is packed in case the roof comes off and we have to leg it,   there have also been sea surges, flooding coastal buildings; we are about a hundred metres from the shore and the sea has never come this far;  reliable reports, though, have had the windspeed at  160-180 mph, a few miles down the road, which might make history should they reach us.  It is all very exciting, absolutely the best part of England, can't think why mr jgm2 would leave it for cissy Suffolk.

Mr Edward Bonkers, MP, of the Tory WeRNutters Group, ia agreeing with your correspondent that Mr CallHimFucked will return from the Brussels criminal loonybin wavimg a piece of toiletpaper ,  saying Dave In Our Time (and Nick.)

Unlike Captain Oates, I am not stepping outside, although I may have to ....
 

EVENSONG , the late Eva Cassidy - Autumn Leaves

FRANCE TO JOIN WEHRMACHT.

Ees zees way to ze bunker, Frau Lardarse,  allez vite, ze peasants,

ils sont revolting, encore, just like ze last time.

Eet ees, mes amis, 'ow you say ze dawn of ze sousand day Reich. La belle France avec le Deutschland uber alles, combining in ze grande androgynous mother et fatherland in order zat moi, Nicholas, ze dwarf pimp and Angular, ze - in ze words of ze former spic president - unfuckable lardarse hausfrau - can stay in power for anuzzer couple of years or three.

SHIT IN OUR TIME. 

unelected prime minister returns triumphant  from meeting with Herr Hitler, sorry Frau Merkel.

In London, the unelected prime minister of England, Mr CallHimDaveChamberlain alighted from an aircraft with  a piece of soiled toiletpaper in his pocket.

Now look, I have here, in my hand, a piece of soiled toilet paper which bears the skidmarks of M'sieu Sarkozy, Frau Lardarse and myself.  And if you study it closely, as I have, you can see, if you squint a bit - rather like looking at the Coalition of the Unelected - if you look closely and squint  you can see that all the brown and yellow bits - that's me and M'sieu Sarkozy's poos - and the green bits - that's Frau Merkel's sauerkrauty shit - all spell out the phrase Shit In Our Time.  And that's just what you're gonna get.

As President Churchill said, we will fight you in the schools and in the hospitals, we will fight you in the town halls and on the 'buses and in the trains;  we will fight you in the care homes and kindergartens, we will never surrender and if the Coalition of the Unspeakable should last two whole years, men will say, This was Their Finest Hour.  And another thing, an iron curtain is coming down around England, everywhere outside Chipping Norton and the City of London is being cordoned-off;  the lights are going off all over England, or they will be if Mr Huhne has his way. Something he's done rather too much of with the ladies, in my opinion, if you can call them ladies; dogs, we'd call them, in the Cotswolds.

THE RETURN OF BANANAMAN

NEW BANANAS FOR OLD,

PROMISES MEDIAMINSTER TOSSPOT.

Torture, that's the thing. Yes, and co-operation.  Okay, subservience, if you will, to President Hillary Trousers, in her, and I must say it is perfectly understandable, in her desire to run the British courts.  And that's why I'm proposing that we train ten thouand new community leaders - so that we can better do America's bidding.  People think that I just sit around brooding about getting stuffed by a member of my own  family and bumping along on my parliamentary  hundred grand a year and another fifty grand from some football club, up in the NorthEast, wherever that is. Nothing could be further from the truth because here I am, again, writing tripe for the Guardian,just like my father before me, about how things should be done, never, like him, having done fuck all myself.  It is the charmed circle of celebrity, I'm in it, and you're not.  So just read what I have to say about Labour building on it's last twenty years of success and re-engaging with the British people and their, what's the word, aspiratiions, that's it.  Mr Arsebridger of the Guardian, 

 Mr Alan Arsebridger, million pounds a year Supreme Editor-in-Chief&Perpetuity 

of the infamous, tax avoiding Guardian newspaper,  the one with the charitable trust status.

even though he supports the shiteating dogshooters and thus Mr Cameron, has been kind enough to give me a few hundred quid to write this new, radical, groundbreaking, new   and radical,  and modern new crap and the least you can do is read it and believe in it, like you did before.  Did I mention I used to be Seckatry of State for Invasions, Occupations, Asset-Stripping and Waterboarding?

The full Milliband major article is at the Observer.  As one would expect, this conceited, worthless jackanapes - in, incidentally, unforgiveably inelegant Blairesque non-sentences -  reminisces, fleetingly, of some vague but clearly worthy NewLab achievements and sets out, as they say, a new list of  new  strategies and new targets for the economy and for empowering the people. Only not empowering them  as much as him. Ten thousand new community leaders is one of them, one of the empowering things. Cunt.

MATINS, THE SPANISH RENAISSANCE TOMAS LUIS DE VICTORIA, O Magnum Mysterium (The Sixteen - Christophers) ♪

Tomás Luis de Victoria

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Tomás Luis de Victoria

Tomás Luis de Victoria, sometimes Italianised as da Vittoria (1548 – 20 August 1611), was the most famous composer of the 16th century in Spain, and one of the most important composers of the Counter-Reformation, along with Giovanni da Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso. Victoria was not only a composer, but also an accomplished organist and singer. However, he preferred the life of a composer to that of a performer.^[1] He is sometimes known as the "Spanish Palestrina" because he may have been taught by Palestrina.^[2]

They can seem a bit precious, after a while, Harry Christophers' choir, The Sixteen, and Simon Rusell Beale, who crops up at the end for a moment, is one of the BBC's current, simpering over-exposed arts presenters.  

But The Sixteens' insistent presentation of early music has proved, nevertheless, to be one of the most important musical discoveries of this poor pilgrim's uncultured  life.  This is from a BBC4 programme  about Victoria's life, recorded against a sumptious Spanish background. Well worth a wondering hour, should you be up all night, leaning on the windowsill.

SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.