Tuesday 30 October 2012




Good evening, Krishnan Guru-Numpty here,

with Channel Four News, where, as usual, at the slightest excuse, we have all flown over to the States because we like it here, I'm sorry, I'll read that again, to cover the worst ever terrible storm since the last one.

Biblical, is how presidential candidate and  nutter-Mormon Mitt Dickhead describes the unfolding meteorological catastrophe. This is what happens when you elect a nigger  to a job that a white man should be doing. God is just gonna shit all over you and never mind how much tax you paid. Or didn't, in my case. Not that I have anything against President Obamalama, the foetus-murdering heathenbastardGodlesscommunistsonofafuckingbitch  but just ask yourselves, brothers and sisters, how shit has the weather been this last four years, has it been any better under a coon administration? NosirreeBob, it sure ain't and now we got us a shitstorm sent by the Almighty to show us, I mean show  y'all, the error of yo' ways. But there's time yet.  Just like how the Creator made the world  in six days and then put his feet up on the porch, there's time in this coming coupla weeks to cree-ate a new Amerka.  And that means votin' fer me. Otherwise y'all gonna be up to yer tits in raw sewage as the Good Lord sends flood after flood on yer sinnin', non-Mormon asses. (aside to aide, Do we believe in that God stuff, us Mormons, or is it the lizard thing we do?)

At the White House, President Obama said, My fellow motherfuckers,  in view of the proximity of the election I have decided to declare this the most terrible thing that ever happened to this great nation of ours.  I will not seek to make political capital out of these terrible events but will just remain here at my post, calm and confident and reassuring, your president and commander-in-shit, I mean chief.

We go over now by sattelite to Jon Sox who is interviewing some people in some African shithole.

Thanks, Krishna  and I am joined here at the Channel Four kraal, by Chief M'bongo M'bongo, the spiritiual head of millions of savages, I mean indigenous fuckers.  Chief, whaddayouthink about the terrible events unfolding in the land of the Great White Father, where the power's out and the water.s cut off, and terrible things like that?

Well, Jon-sahib, we don't have no power.  Don't have no clean water, either, as it happens.  But if we did, we would gladly forego   them in order that Uncle Sam's blessed children don't have to  be without anything.  Which is what we do anyway.  We go withoui so's fat, bloated, stupid, waddling   Americans can stuff their stupid fat faces and drive their stupid fat cars.  Fuck me, Jon sahib, we do more for America than Americans do. And proud to do it, too. E pluribus unum, that's our motto, Jon-sahib, the many work for the few.

Well, there you have it, Krishna, the whole world feels America's pain at this terrible time, but  not as much as I do, Did I ever tell you I interviewed President Kennedy? (sings: O-oh  say, can you see, by the dawn's early light.........)

That was Jon Sox there for us in some corner of a  foreign field.  And just to remind you of our top story -  There's been some bad weather in the home of the brave, land of the free. And President Obama looks set to hang onto his job in Wall Street, I mean the White House.  

Sunday 7 October 2012



Some years ago I wrote to  Mark Scruffbeard, then Director General of  the  BBC,  bumping along  on a meagre public sector salary of  one million pounds a year, he was, bless. 

The burden of my complaint was that for  the BBC's grunting, hunchback transexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, 


 to be sharing holidays with and simultaneously reporting on the possible election of her family friend, the risisbly incompetent  Mr, now Lord, Jack McKilt, was actually taking the piss, just a bit.

Jack,  the first minister, promoting Scotland in New York.
This is not a shopped photo.

Now, anyone who has ever listened to the BBC complaints show -  Feedback, with Roger Bolton  - will know that even the lowliest BBC producer considers his or her  efforts  to be stratospherically above the heads of the great unwashed,  the idea that their show might be even slightly flawed  merely another illustration of how stupid are those who didn't go to Oxbridge;  compaints unleash a  painstaking and blistering tirade; viewers and listeners have no right to quibble, we, at the BBC are all phenomenally clever, funny, insightful and balanced, so Mr Wotsisname in Birmingham should just shut the fuck up and be grateful for the greatest broadcasting service  in the world.

 The more I see of, for instance,  al Jazeera, the less convinced I remain  of the greatness of the BBC.  It is true that some of its arts and science programmes are admirable but then given the immense resources at its disposal together with the arts and ree-surch climate in the UK, the BBC should produce good stuff.  What is so lamentable, so unforgiveable, so damning is  the BBC's incessant repetition, twenty four hours a day, of bogus press releases straight from GlobaCorp HQ and its satrapies in Downing Street, the White House,  the Champs Elysee and whatever it is that they call the Reichstag these days. The only way for us to prosper is for poor people  to be punished for the sins of the rich. - the cut, which everyone agrees need to be made,  BBC News and Current Affairs, all journalists,  all stations teevee and  radio.  The awful us-and-themness of Broadcasting House, Iran is threatening to destabilise the entire region.  And the slavish coverage of scripted, choreographed,  stage-managed political rallies - conferences, they call them - as though citizens were offered something other than a game of Spivs' Musical Chairs, a game in which, incidentally, only we, the spectators, are losers;  there are no losers among the participants.  Take BananaMan, no longer in a position to claim thirty grand, yes, thirty grand for repairs to his constituency home or to acquiesce with Hillary Trousers in the torture of British citizens,


why, fuck me, but cunthead's 's discovered a hitherto unknown expertise in being a director of a football club, at an austere seventy-five grand a year, ten grand more than his salary as an MP, see a nurse or a teacher getting away with that level of moonlighting, or a social worker; still, his equally cuntish brother, wotsisname, the fuckwit with the speech impediment,  says there is always a seat for Dave in the shadow cabinet, just waiting, is the parliamentary Labour Party, champing at the bit,  to harness his skills in lying to the courts and tonguing Uncle Sam's arsehole.   What you can guarantee is that in the sewers and knocking shops of MediaMinster no-one, absolutely no-one  will challenge Milliband's expenses - they were all perfecty legal - or his many, what do they call them, outside interests,  the ones that keep him connected to the real world,  the rich part of it, anyway. The BBC, via one of its agents, will hound single mums into prison for non payment of its tax demand but would never dream of questioning the larcenous, mendacious and treacherous conduct of Miliband major,   who is, after all, one of its own


David Miliband earned a staggering £20,000 a day as an adviser for a company investing in green technology, it has been revealed.
The former Foreign Secretary was paid £70,000 for just three-and-a-half days spent working for VantagePoint CleanTech in California.
The post with the American venture capitalists is the latest in a series of lucrative part-time positions Mr Miliband has taken up since being beaten by his brother in the Labour leadership contest.
Bumper pay days: David Miliband has earned more than £500,000 since being beaten by his brother in the Labour leadership election 18 months ago

Bumper pay days: David Miliband has earned more than £500,000 since being beaten by his brother in the Labour leadership election 18 months ago

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2106313/David-Miliband-paid-70-000-just-days-work-advising-venture-capitalists-investing-green-technology.html#ixzz28ZNI2cGj
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 I am easily embarrassed and I guess I have my share of stuff to be embarrassed by but  I even feel embarrassed sometimes,  on behalf of other people. I remember being embarrassed for Gordon Snot,  

the Ruiner, when he tripped over his tongue in parliament -  maybe trying to lick some tasty snot off his tie - and claimed that he had just finished saving the world;  he meant the banks, of course, by whom he should have by now been richly rewarded but he said the world and he has had to live with it, Flash Gordon.  I just thought at the time that like most of us,  he must have demons in his head, all fighting with each other, like his cabinet, and I felt for him, he'd said the very last thing that he would ever want to say, in front of an eventual global audience, much of it nowhere near as sensitive as I. I've only ever had one of those dreams, where you're walking down the road, glance downwards and realise that you're not wearing any trousers, but I felt that the prime minister was having one of those dreams and it wasn't a dream, poor bastard.  It was brief, though, my emotional comradeship with Snotty, he was such a monster, deranged,   bullying, conspiratorial, hypocritical, repressed - a proper Presbyterian, in fact - shredding his nails in paranoia, munching on mucus, lashing-out at his subordinates and fatally incapable of empathy, even   with some poor old woman,  the keeper of his heartland vote and a bit worried about immigration.  How dare she  argue with him, didn't she know that he had the sol-you-shuns,  that he was trans- pairent,  that his every stuttering, dribbling, drywank jaw-dropping soliloquoy was the Right Thing For The Country.  And on that occasion, as usual when he was  exposed, casting around, venomously,  for some of his nearest and dearest lieutenants on whom to dump the blame for his raging, incendiary misanthropy.  No, it  didn't last, my sympathy;   his verbal slip was, after all, an involuntary but  useful and  cautionary  sign of his megalomania - he thought, after all, long after it ceased to be cool, that he was a protege of the hideous Kennedy family, quite capable of saving the world.  If only he could rule it.


No such even fleeting empathy with Snotty's successor,  the current Great Helmsman, baby brother, Edward.             

In Manchester this week a dork wandered about on stage for an hour talking about himself.

If I was prepared to   stride about on teevee  beseeching the poor - a constituency increasing exponentially - to vote for me, claiming that because I went to a state school I was actually one of the poor myself  and not a  worthless, workshy, pampered  political brat then I wouldn't want it widely known that my older brother - or even my distant cousin, for that  -  was fellating twenty grand a day from Uncle Sam,  that he'd trousered half a million whilst supposedly working as an MP.  But it won't be widely known or widely discussed in MediaMinster and if it surfaces briefly in the press then the nation's  sentinels, 

the BBC's hereditary national broadcasters,

the Dimblebums,

and Andrew Jocky Neil,
filthy rich from his service to Rupert Murdoch 
nighty-night and don't let the dirty old playboy bite.

will quietly bury  it,  for aren't they all of the same caste, all Bullingdons by another name, all veterans of the same school run, all diners in the same exclusive joints, all holidaymakers in the same resorts, all patrons of the same rent-boy brothels, sucking, all,  on the same wealthy cock? Cleverer, by dint of the semen running down their chins, than all the rest of us, grubbing our livings on the other side of the teevee camera.

And even the wimmen are at it. Dave Dimblebum has vacated the chair on the voxpop, phone-in or email-in Any Answers show - a futile post-mortem on the previous evening's Any Questions show in which the usual MediaMinster slags vie with one another to determine who generates the most studio audience applause, it's often Kelvin McFilth 

or some similar, amoral, shiteating, ruinous, Satanic redneck - maybe Dave was fed-up having to pretend that he gave a fuck about some dreary old listener phoning-in, complaining, and with having to pretend to be polite to half-an-hour's worth of indignant morons.  It might be, of course, that defending the previous evening's  rantings by Caroline Flint, or Ducky David Starkey or Yasmin Alibhai-MoslemWoman  finally proved too much for him, what with him being a close friend of HRH Prince Brian and thus, like his loathsome father, Richard, a right proper ponce, too grand to talk to ordinary folks. Whatever his reason for jumping the voxpop ship,  Davey's gone, his stewardship of public opinion now discharged by some meejabint - hang on, I'll look her up - 

Any Answers' Anita Arse 
A face that'd sour the milk of human kindness.

I sometimes hear snippets of Anita. Mrs Ishmael often has Radio Four on, until I arrive wherever it is, the kitchen,  the laundry, the car, maybe, and then,  God bless la bonne femme, in the marital way of these things, she hears it through my ears and extinguishes Anita's snooty, patronising drivel.  It works both ways, this domestic self denial;  when I'm in the mood I could listen to Maestro Richard Thompson for  twenty-four hours, listening rapt and weeping inwardly for the quiet, enduring pain of us  all; Mrs Ishmael, however,  has only to approach the periphery of  my where-I'm-at for  Thompson's genius to wax raucous and unseemly.  'Twas in one of those briefly hesitant moments, between Radio Four and blessed silence, that I heard some ordinary geezer phoning Anita and, just in passing, not his main point by any means, saying And of course that's crap. Anita, cheeky cunt, went into one, and stayed in one for Oh, I dunno, seemed ages. We simply cannot tolerate that sort of industrial language on the programme, she hissed and hectored.  Industrial language.  Anita probably doesn't listen to anything in which she does not appear and wouldn't know that the BBC is the spiritual home of bad language, smut, innuendo;  it is beloved  historically for the explicit gay filth of Round the Horne , the pornographic double entendres of the late and unlamented Humphrey Littleton and  for countless inexcusably filthy plays and series, all broadcast throughout the day, when Little Treasure might be Listening With Mother.  LuvemtobitsIdo, MyKids; can't have them being exposed to SamanthaGreasingHerCandle/HosingDownHerBackPassage/EatingTheDoctor'sSausage. Oh, alright then, if you insist.

But take a decent working man, from outside the charmed circle of celebrity and this arsehole of a BBC bint takes it upon herself to chastise him for using the word crap.  I thought I was hearing things or that she was being ironic but I wasn't and she wasn't.  She was just up her own arse with bullying impertinence. Setting the national moral tone. From the home of institutionalised noncing. Up against the wall, motherfucker, that's what she needs. And her producers, editors, researchers, the whole grisly crew.

So in an age  when cheekyfuckingbastard shitbrain slappers like Anita feel able to reproach Everyman for his very ordinariness one could be fairly sure  that Mr Scruffbeard was going to take no notice of me suggesting that Mr Wark was being cuntish in promoting the political interests of   her lifelong friend, Dopey Jack, and should be barred from covering the Jock elections.  And he didn't, writing me, instead,  one of those brief, waspish rebukes beloved of public sector managers. People were jealous of   Wark and  husband, Mr Mark Clements, a media ontraprenoower, described by a High Court judge, not in the employ of the BBC, as a deeply dishonourable man. We should all, inferred Mr Scruffbeard, be grateful that Kuuurrrrsty chose to work for the Corporation and not  the opposition, and I should therefore fuck off. And pay my licence.

As we have seen with the likes of smutmeister, Jonafun Arse 

- tell me, Miss Celebrity, sitting on my sofa, if you know what's good for you, do you take it up the arse?  No, I'm not being cheeky, the viewers wanna know  - 

the BBC panders - in some cases it seems  literally - to the needs and demands of those it deems its stars and I daresay that someone very much like Mr Scruffbeard heard the complaints about the repulsive old nonce,   Saville - see Ishmael passim - , and similarly rejected them as sour grapes or jealous tittle-tattle. And anyway, if the great charity fundraiser wanted to finger frightened teenage girls, well, wasn't he entitled, after all the millions he'd raised for charity?


For a host of reasons public charity, or fundraising, as we call it, stinks to High Heaven.  The so-called royals, for instance, Prince Gormless and his tits-out totty, Wotsername;  the noncing wastrel, Andrew and any number of Dukes and Princesses of this or that all have their own  charities;  Brenda must give them all charities of their own to patronise  at the same time as she gives them  spurious ribbons and medals and Ruritanian uniforms and gowns to wear, as though going along to a star-studded free nosh once in  a while excuses their miserable, poncing, parasitic existence; slags and whores and thieves and benefits cheats sans pareil;  but Oh, they do such a lot for charity, don't they, Charles and Camilla, work tirelessly, they do. 

 It's enough to make a grown man cry, all this royal charity shit. Prince's Trust my arse; Wormwood Scrubs, that's the place for him. And her, filthy old slag.


 Ricky Gervaise is another one, 
another  BBC-sponsored freak,

 makes my flesh creep, a sickening, bloated, smirking bully, picking at the scabs of his rank imagination, what sort of a world is it which showers him with awards when what he needs is a good fucking kicking ?  Gervaise deals in embarrassment but not in the sort of embarrassment I felt for Prime Minister Snot. What he does is a form of beasting. It's as though he sits up at night calculating what is vile, maybe he brainstorms it with some of his disciples,  and fashions vaguely comedic means by which to smack his audience in the face with vileness, daring them to be offended, outraged, nauseated.

People can and do argue that there is an Off button, that if you don't like this cunt you don't have to watch him. Well,  I do switch him off and I don't watch him but it's not me watching him that worries me, it's other people watching him, thinking, nervously,  Oh, did he really say that, Oh well, then, it must be funny, and laughing at their own shock  and embarrassment.  Gervaise isn't funny. And anyone who says that that is a matter of taste or opinion can go and fuck themselves.

Kenneth Williams, Kenny Everett, 


 vile, loathsome, disgusting and depraved, and all of them, like Kelvin McFilth,  national BBC treasures.   Clive Anderson, a despicable smartarse, cruel, malicious, spiteful and vindictive and yet some hidden cabal of overpaid Oxbridge queers offer him ever more opportunities to ply his vicious, cowardly trade. It's all so fucking unwholesome, is the BBC, no wonder that beasting became the in-house sport.

Saville, anyway, and the BBC, Top of the Pops, Jim'll Fix It, I was always astonished by the BBC's appetite for this obviously degenerate freak and by the incongruity of his positioning as the voice of British Rail, as though his  hideous momma'sboy mutancy,  his screaming, aberrant distortion, his utterly remorseless grotesquery  made him the ideal teenage pop-pickers' friend,  the child's favourite uncle and the commuters' trusted travel adviser,   a backward,  ignorant, talentless, slobby gabshite presented as all things to all men; you only had to get a glimpse of Saville to know that he was  wickedly, corrosively,  nasty, nasty, nasty;  nasty beyond redemption, his wickedness  profound and unfathomable.  The adept nonce keeps secrets even from himself, operates by inverted rules and values, his victims actually  the wrongdoers, tempting him, leading him on. Perhaps the only sign of  lurking guilt was  the ghastly, interminable,  self-aggrandising running and walking and biking, whatever the fuck it was that he did so modestly; maybe he was trying to make amends for  the depradations of his invasive, tobacco-stained fingers, his ululating voice, hot in frightened ears.  But I doubt it.  Pure ego, I suspect, his so-called charity work, showing-of to his adored mother.  All these irritating fucking bastards who annoy the bollocks off one at  the annual Children in Need bash, dressing-up and dancing about like whores at a hockey match,  not a charitable bone in their bodies, I shouldn't think. Thankfully, I have developed some mysterious, deterrent power, pure hatred, I think, surging out of my body in crackling but  invisible waves and those charity bandit fuckers never come near me.

Another BBC charity stalwart, stage Oirishman,

And well might he smirk. Like Saville, he, too, is a national treasure. When it was revealed that he charged the BBC sixteen thousand pounds a time for his appearances on  Children In Need, whilst demanding money from everyone else in the country, he chuckled winningly  that it must have been an oversight on his part.
Aye, right. Cunt.

But, like Saville, Wogan gets away with it. Most of the nation believed that Saville, busy beasting the children, was actually an all- the-year-round Father Christmas  And the same people who - unaccountably-  warmed to the wretched Saville, the audience, would probably still insist that this bogus, bewigged  Paddy, Wogan, does a great deal for charity, even though he doesn't.

I have mentioned before, many times, I think, that, as in  many  other matters, when it comes to charity I find myself in agreement with the original Marxist, Jesus of Nazareth,    If you're gonna do charity, he said, and you should,  you need to do it on the QT, verily, I say unto you, that if you do it in the full glare of publicity then that ain't charity, that's just shit,  and your Heavenly Father is wise to all that showing-off. All these royal cunts and showbiz cunts, bragging about their charity work, they have no idea how much their heavenly Father is pissed-off at them. ( Gospel of Matthew 6:3)  And anyway He sees every fucking thing, He knows every fucking thing, He's God for fuck's sake, so if you're doing good you don't need to broadcast it, don't need to jump up and down, yelling Look at how charitable I am, just keep it between yourself and God; even, if you can,  keep it apart from yourself, so's thou don't, like Sir Bob Geldof,  and his diminutive, humanitarian companion


disappeareth up thine own arse.  When it comes to charity, let not thy left hand know what   thy right hand is doing.  Verily, I say unto thee,  there is no fucking business like fucking showbusiness. Amen.

And aside from all that, aside from the bad taste, the poor manners, the vanity displayed by Saville and his legions of imitators there is the fact that  while  we are the fourth or the sixth biggest economy in the world the Stoke Mandeville Hospital should not be dependent upon the vagaries of ad hoc public giving, not while we can bung hundreds of millions to nuclear-armed India, anyway.  Same goes for the Hague fund, the Poppies. If the nation cannot afford to care for its veterans it simply shouldn't send them to war.

Saville, of course, won't be with Jesus up in Heaven, greeting his Mum, the Duchess, he will be parked outside Hell, sitting in his camper van, waiting for Satan to get his Special Arsepoker up to temperature, an' how's about that then guys an' gals, be sure your sins will find you out.  But there will be people, still, in the Corporation, being paid by us,   who warrant Earthly chastisement and his line managers, if still in post, should be kicked out penniless, humiliated,  and if they're retired they should  be named and forfeit their pensions.  They won't, of course, and before you know it it'll be Children in Need again, Children in Need of fingering, buggering, in need of terrifying by some star BBC entertainer,  whilst Anita pisses pompously on Joe Public, whilst Wogan steals from the PoorBox, whilst  authority turns a blind eye. As usual.

If anyone was thinking of withholding the license fee, now would be a good time. No, your Worships, I refuse to pay money to child molesters and their panderers.



Evenin' all.  Sergeant Gob, here, of the police federation. And when things are looking really bleak for the finest police force, I mean service, in the world, you know, when after more than  twenty years all of a sudden the whole nation realises that me and my members are a bunch of rotten, lazy, lying cunts who would even fit-up the dead in order to protect our own arses,when things are really bad, bad as they've ever been, really, for the credibilty of Old Bill, well, fuck me gently but don't two coppers go and get themselves wasted, and as if that wasn't enough of a result, they was splitarses, too.

One of the darker  moments, black farce, at the Miliband Show - well, there were lots of them, really, Neil and Glenys Windbag suntanned and affluent-looking, for instance, cheering-on the boy Ed, in his quest to help the poor -  

Well, alright. 
I will go back to the people of Islwyn and serve them for as long as they will have me. Or until Glenys and I and the kids can get on the Euro GravyTrain. Neil Kinnock, after being defeated by Johnny Currie-Underpants.

was Yvette Cooper-Ballses hang 'em and flog 'em speech to the faithful. They had assembled in Manchester, she madly inferred, to be close to the funerals of the two slain police officers and then she instigated,  honest, not invent, a Dianaesque round of bandwaggoning applause for the dead  women - and by implication for Old Bill in his entirity, including the Hillsborough gang, with whom New Labour, too, in the person of the loathsome Jack Torture, MP



had conspired to slander the dead fans.  Like every newspaper, every chief constable,  every region and branch of the Police Federation and every other politician,  elfin, boyish Yvette - is there something we don't know about Mr Cooper-Balls? - jumped on the chance to recast the cops - and their political masters and mistresses -  not as the  vicious, rotten, idle, bullyboy bastards revealed by the recent Hillsborough Inquiry but as  gentle, loving and selflessly heroic to a man. Or in this case to a woman.  And not a word about Sir Peter Fahy's crassness, stupidity and incompetence.  Queen's Medals for Gallantry all around. Some guys have all the luck.

Shadow home seckatry 
demonstrates a good lynching technique.




 And over now to our exclusive interview with JayKay Crow, author of the bestselling kids' fairy stories which the grown-ups all loved, silly fucking bastards. She's speaking to our arts editor and know-it-all tosspot,  Mark Potato.

 JayKay Crow, reading your new novel, A Round Of Fucks,  I was struck by the resemblance to Japanese cinema, Sarawaka's epic  Seven Sanyo Workers, for instance,  and also tangentially to the Epic of Gilgamesh and of course some of the nuances echoed the subtext of the Icelandic Sagas which  I read in the original Norse.   As well as being a critic, a broadcaster and a commentator I'm a novelist myself, of course and so.........

Shut up you fat, ugly cunt and ask me a proper question, I'm a billionaire-ess and I don't need to listen to your shit.

Yes, quite.  I understand that you got your big break when  you were a single mother, writing all that tosh in a cafe and now that you have had such remarkable success with adults buying your children's books and going to the films and everything do you think that now you've written A Round Of Fucks, a very adult book, that all the children will be reading it under the bedclothes?

I was a single mother, you know, writing over a cup of coffee in the local cafe.

And would you give it all up, all the money and fame and adulation, just to be that young single mum again?

Would I fuck.

JayKay Crow, thanks very much



In the space of a week we've seen the police bring two charges of child abduction, firstly, against the maths teacher who ran away with his  fifteen year old pupil and, in the last day or so, against a man accused of abducting and murdering a five year old;  poor little girl, poor mother.

In the first  case it was hard to feel anything but loathing for the  uber-victim mum and the chimping stepfather.  This wasn't the end of the world, Foxy Megan eloping, sort-of, with Teach and might have been best, swiftest remedied by a stiff upper lip and a No Comment. No need for hysterics.  Megan isn't five years old. 

 The two cases contrasted reveal the power of skymadeupnewsandfilth to distort and exaggerate.  There was, on the face of it, little chance that Megan would be coming home in a box and even though there was the possibility - if he had done what he was suspected of doing - of Teacher going to jail for a spell this was never likely to end in the bloody, lifelong OhMyGod nightmare horror which is the lot of April's mother.

And it's over now to our child abduction editor, Cilla McCann.
Cilla what's your take on this latest whatchamacallit?

skymadeupnewsandfilth's Cilla McCann,

 clinging-on to the limelight.
Beats being in jail.

Yes, thanks, Huw, and that's right and I'd just like to say, like, to the mother of April, that the main thing is  to  make everyone believe it was an abduction, even if there is no evidence for that. And equally, like, important, is not to answer any questions that the scuffers ask you My record is hard to beat, like, I refused to answer forty-two  questions    on the grounds that I might incriminate meself, not that I would of, seeing as how I never done nothink wrong and was a model parent but you can't be too careful,  and that's why we organised a PR team and all them lot before we ever called the police to report our bestest  child  abducted through a window which we said had been jemmied but hadn't. And which we said we could see from where we was on the piss but then had to say we couldn't see it once it was proved, like, that we was lying, which was something we'd never, ever do, like, when it came to talking' about our little wotsername - wot WAS 'er name, yeah, that's it, Maddlin.

And the next thing is to set-up a charity as soon as possible, like, and try an cop as much dosh as you can to, you know, pay off yer mortgage so's you can concentrate on diverting attention away from yerself and onto the coppers, who everybody knows was the real abductors of little Maddlin, or if it wasn't them it was some paedo filth like, what you get in holiday resorts and which is why you shouldn't never leave a  three year old kid alone in  charge of two two year old kids in a strange town in an unlocked/locked apartment which you said you could see but couldn't while you was out gettin' bladdered  even though you wouldn't never do nothink like that because yer both doctors.

But the main thing is to get yerself a good agent. And then you can do TeeVee and books and interviews and before you know it yer a celebrity like me. And no-one thinks you're a drugged-up headbanger who  killed yer own kid and dumped the body.  Well, practically no-one.
And now back to Huw, in the studio.

Thanks Cilla. That was Cilla McCann there for us, on location, keeping out of jail.




This is the news that for the first time in a thousand years a Vatican employee has been put on trial and found guilty.

The usual response of the Holy See to complaints of serious child sexual abuse by  thousands and thousands of its employees has been to move the perpetrators on to another parish, often in another country, where they can freely start their  offending all over again and to simultaneously intimidate the child victims and  their parents into silence, this is often accomplished by a bishop, a cardinal or a noncing monsignor saying  that if they all continue with these complaints they will be excommunicated by His Holiness Pope Nazi and all go straight to Hell and stay there for, well, forever and forever, Amen. 

Today's groundbreaking conviction relates to a charge far more serious than mere centuries of institutionalised conspiracy to commit wholesale  child rape, torture and murder;  this case was about documents. Documents stolen from the Holy Father,  a charge obviously, as canonical  lawyers are all agreed, much more serious than the theft of child and infant innocence on the end of an engorged priestly phallus.

Despite the seriousness of the conviction, Vatican sources have indicated that Pope Nazi may well be disposed  to pardon his former butler. His Holiness is that kinda guy, smirked a worldwide fraternity of beasts in frocks. 

Dominus vobiscum

Friday 28 September 2012



 I've been in the business twenty-six  brutal years and if some supersmug git tells you that On balance he has it about right, then he's lying to you  as well as to himself and what he needs is a quick rub-down with a housebrick. I don't know how it all got started, this shit, I brought her up just as if she was one uv me own, that shit, luvemtobitsIdo, more like a favver, I wuz,  than her own Dad.  It's all bollocks.  The natural step-state is warfare; why wouldn't it be? You're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, you can't tell me what to do.

Children  hate their step-parents, wield nasty little uncompromising  daggers, often egged-on by the absent, supplanted parent.  I have done some,  no, lots of  egging-on, too, in my sweet time, my child honed into a lethal, heat-seeking weapon, a little Exocet, fired From Me To you.  The guy stepping her was, by common consent,  unfuckingspeakable, a deranged public schoolboy, control freakery bordering on insanity, even his widow, the person to whom I was first married,  said to me, in our once-in-thirty-years conversation that he was as mad as a hatter, unbearable. He was a sucessful merchant, import and export, his life fine-tuned between Coventry and Manhattan but he hadn't bargained for and could not deal with the implacable hostility of another man's child, resident in his life, and by proxy, therefore, me, too,  resident in his life.  It was so unfair, apart from anything else, a member of his uptight household travelling most weekends to another's.  And coming back, time after time, transformed.  Fuck him and his plans,  I thought.  And I think that it was his inability to override the natural bond between father and child that led him to die young, from alcohol poisoning, in the  Coventry Salvation Army hostel.  It was kind of poetic, except that he was about as poetic as dogshit.

My own  contemporaneous step-experience wasn't as vivid as that;  Mrs Ishmael's person to whom she was first married didn't have much interest, it was she, in fact, who facilitated and encouraged his children's access to him - see, the language of the responsible divorcee, facilitated and encouraged, a veneer of gabshitery weakly  glued and pinned over a wormy hatred.  She should have openly hated him, detested him, he was an utter cunt, no good to man nor beast.  But she put her hurts away and drove the children to their father's every week, he being too lazy or too drunk to collect them himself. And he, too, despite repeated warnings from the medics, industriously drank himself to death at only forty-seven; it wasn't that he was brokenheart maudlin, he'd married the woman for whom he had left the then yet-to-be Mrs Ishmael, he'd been paid an over-generous share of the former matrimonial home's value, but he and his new Mrs just liked being pissed on vodka, whether his children were there visiting or  not.  He was too out of his  mind to orchestrate a campaign of civil disobedience in his former wife's home  but he had his own ways-  quite rightly - of pissing on our shoes.  When he did stagger up to the great off license in the sky I was tempted to say to his  children, See, that's how much he cared about you, couldn't even be bothered to stay alive for you.   I didn't, but I might yet.

But even without any sniper fire from his world, stepping his children was a horror show. I've never seen Groundhog Day but I understand that it's about - inter alia - somebody waking up everyday and fighting exactly the same battles as he did the day before, with the same people. My life was like that for years.  Didn't matter how much you helped with the homework, didn't matter how much time you spent, didn't matter that you taught them to drive, got them cars, gave them work, didn't matter that you turned yourself inside-out trying to nurture these graceless, poisonous little fuckers;  every once in a while it would be You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, I hate you.  And they were quite right to hate me,  I wasn't their real ladder.  Not their fault that their natural parents got together and then got untogether, not their fault at all,  they didn't even ask to get born, much less adjust, welcomingly,  to  whoever their mother or father is now fucking. And that's all there is to it, really, sometimes it's veiled, finessed, but that's what it is, the step-relationship. Hatred. Life's hard enough without having to deal with ersatz, pretend parents as well as everything else.

And, lo, now the world is full of it.  Oh, one reads and hears of special, wunderkind children, who flit gracefully between their parents' current menages, spreading light and love and of course the implication of this,  the between-the-lines-shit, is that at least one set of  pseudo parents is clever and caring beyond the capabilites of most of the rest of us poor, stupid, selfish  fuckers.  But fuck them because for every one of these supersmugs there will be thousands of people ripped to shreds,  hosting a malignant parasite or two or three, their sunny second starts eaten-away from within, that's just how it is.  It is why, I guess, that in nature - where life and death and survivalism are writ larger  -  incoming males kill the spawn of their predecessors whilst we, assailed and suborned by witless, gobby childologists  -  Fuck me sideways to Christmas, I have known some Court Welfare Officers whom you wouldn't let near your Yorkshire Terrier, much less your children - we, anyway, probably because we have to,  continue to encourage and facilitate the impossible, the dangerous, the unnatural; thoughtfully, considerately, micromanaging, we make for him, Ruin's own progress.

I thought all of this in a split second when I saw this geezer, the step of Missing Megan.  And I thought Somebody in this press conference macabre will stride up there and punch him in the face.  Twenty-six years before the stepmast, as I said, and there was,  there is,  no circumstance imaginable this side of Hell in which I would say to Mrs Ishmael's daughter, Youanme, we had a date, Babes, youanme can still make that date, Sweetheart. This guy, whatever his fucking name is - I don't care - is doing all this Daddy's-little-girl- baby-talk shit, on global teevee, aimed at a young woman who is obviously mature for her years,  attractive and  sexually active; 


what bizarre impulse made him spew out this degrading shit, this Come home to stepDaddy wetdream nightmare doggerel?  And we can still go  on our Date. Can no-one  now deliver us from such stunted, tawdry mewling and puking?   There she is,  off with her adored teacher and if they'd waited - what? - less than a year, they could have done exactly as they pleased. Love and lust are a riptide but  the law is the law and Matey's gone down in the noncing flood,  only by months, but he's noncing  and will probably go to jail.  I don't much believe in jailing people but whilst we are still doing so we should certainly jail him. You just can't have teachers fucking their pupils or students or customers or stakeholders or whatever the fuck it is that Michael Spit-Gove says we should call them,  here, in the Big Society, nasty little Murdoch rodent. That she's nearly a woman, looks like a woman,  that  was the excuse of every nonce I ever heard, led me on, the little tart.   I didn't know she was twelve.

So, she's lost in France, in Love, knowing that some very adult shit is gonna fall on their two-hearts-beating-as-one and this jerk, speaking not to her but to some real or imagined constituency of  knuckleheaded Sun-reading sentimental morons, offers up  some grisly,  creepy and extremely suspect date with her fucking stepfather, as though it was  an  irresistible inducement, a temptation beyond her wildest, her stormiest hormonal dreams, an offer that would see her  abandon Romeo and rush headlong back into the arms of her wretched mother and her mother's equally wretched bloke.  No fucking wonder she ran away.


Wednesday 19 September 2012


Great, this lampooning of Mitt Wotsisname, the New Dubya.  Seems that like most rich people he doesn't know and doesn't care how most people live. Almost like a certain unelected, unintelligent and unwholesome Deputy Prime Minister who, when asked how much was the old age pension, replied, Oh, isn't it about thirty pounds a week and yet the cheeky cunt still insists on lecturing us about what is good for us.  Gosh, how the Shiteaters must regret dumping Dopey Old Ming for this gilded fuckwit.


Nick Clegg branded "out of touch" after claiming state pension is £30

Lib Dems at Bournemouth 2008
Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg was branded "out of touch" yesterday after claiming the state pension was £30.
Asked on TV to say exactly how much pensioners get a week, he replied: "I think it's about 30 quid now, isn't it?"
In fact, the basic pension is £90 while those on pension credit get £124.
The gaffe came on the eve of Mr Clegg's first speech as leader to the party conference. His themes are "fairness" and "connecting with people".
But Labour's Pensions Minister Mike O'Brien said: "If Nick Clegg thinks pensioners can live on £30 a week, he must be in an ivory tower. How does he think they can afford to live on that?"
Retired welder Wally Cotgrave, 69, asked Mr Clegg the question on an ITV regional news programme.
Mr Cotgrave, from Sidmouth, Devon, said: "How can this man be so out of touch? £30 is just a bottle of wine to him.
"People like him say the right things when they want your vote but they don't actually know anything."
Later, Mr Clegg said: "I got it wrong. I was doing 11 back-to-back interviews and I got it wrong. I'm just a human being."




Burbling  on skymadeupnewsandfilth,  today, Chief Constable Sir Peter Filth, as he announced himself, said, well it's hard to say what he said because every other word was Clearly and half of the words which weren't Clearly were As I say.  He said too much of nothing, the sort of meaningless pap which bureaucrats like him practice in front of the mirror, just in case he's ever forced to leave the golf course or the lodge and say something on the TeeVee.

 From his performance  It was safe to deduce that Sir Pete was one of those unpardonably stupid people who mysteriously fetch up as Chief  Constables, Admirals of the Fleet, Governors of the Bank of England and Deputy Prime Ministers. People like Sir Pete simply cannot be in charge of  even the petty cash, or the works do, and yet they are;  the turd floats to the top of the cream, just look at Sir Pete's  predecessors, the lunatic James Anderton, 


congratulating God for sending an arse plague on queers,  the other one, recently, I forget his name, lover-boy, who was fucking so many of his junior officers that he went and topped himself up some mountain. Just look at the Met's recent senior appointees;  not the brightest or most honest of men, are they?

No wonder, it seems to me, watching this gibbering baboon, that his officers, at an overtime cost of a hundred and fifty grand a day,  not only can't find a jumped-up, half-blind petty criminal - when half the population of Manchester, it seems, knows where he is - but are sent bollock naked into the area where he is known to have connections. And get killed.  Dearie me, a policeman's lot is not a happy one.

But hang on a minute, the filthsters have gone mad with this one, like they always do, forgetting, conveniently, that far more - by at least a hundredfold - innocent citizens have been  shot dead by police officers than have bobbies and bobbyesses by Joe Public; you never see Sir Pete agonising about that shit, you never see Police Federation mouth, Inspector Gob, sobbing his socks off when one of his members kicks a sick man to death, fuck no, he can't say anything which would prejudice the full and far-reaching cover-up,  launched by one bunch of coppers into another, ho-ho-ho and Evenin' all. And when diabetics, disabled people, black people and tipsy wimmen are slapped around the cells, often killed  by constable or sergeant Pig, members, let us not forget, as Sir Keith Oily-Vaz reminded us, 


of the best police service in the world, why,  is it my members' fault if the CPS says there is no possibility of a conviction, ho-ho-ho and Evenin' all ?

That is not to say that the deaths of these poor, misled women are to be dismissed, part of some double entry book-keeping system which sees police vs public shootings as some tit-fer-tat trade-off, far from it,  that's the sort of thing the police do, are doing, in fact, it's not front-and-centre, in their mewlings and pukings, that these two killings offset the Hillsborough arseholery of the police,  that they counterbalance the official letting-off of that slimeball who killed Mr Tomlinson, not front and centre, but it's there;  used to verballing suspects, making-up evidence, altering statements, they just cannot help themselves.

If he had any decency Sir Peter Filth would have resigned at lunchtime. But then, if he had any decency, he wouldn't be there in the first place.  I mean, just look at him.