Thursday 23 February 2012

EXCLUSIVE, THE SUNDAY SUN'S JOURNALISTS, FIRST PICTURES.

Two of the Sunday Times's reporters enjoying an evening stroll around their landing before tucking-in for a good (14 hour) night's sleep.


 skymadeupnewsandfilth employees are encouraged to deal responsibly with their own shit. Instead iof making it up about other people.


Sun workers relax and build relationships with the men trying to rehabilitate them.
No-one is beyond hope, said Principal Officer Hamish McBrute,   of the prison service.  But these cunts come close.


 STILL AT LARGE.
 Two of the Mr Bigs of organised madeupnewsandfilth,  Mr Kelvin McFilth and Mr Piers Moron.  These people are a disgrace to humanity and should be behind bars, said everyone with even half a brain. And Lady Helen Mills McCartney.

4 comments:

yardarm said...

Rupe`s game plan seems to be to throw the lesser vermin to the wolves in order to prevent Junior`s lillywhite arse from the clink, although by their squealing to save themselves they might actually hasten this.

But isnt it a fundamental part of our legal system that billionaires are above such bollocks as the law, especially when their old man knows where all the bodies are buried, no doubt having put some underground himself. After all, it was the Americans who sent Conrad Black to the slammer: we sent him to the House of Lords.

Imagine Rupe as some geriatric Sampson, tearing down the temple of Mediaminster that he did so much to create, causing a procession of politicons, bent coppers and media slags to be incarcerated with the unlubricated gentry of D Wing.

Yes, Mackenzie should be behind bars but the other inhabitants of the monkey house might feel insulted. Moron, in jail, would probably sob for his mother and Dacre, reunited inside with the killers of Stephen Lawrence.....well, its nice to dream, isnt it ?

Anonymous said...

Mr Ishmael,

Forgive the o/t, just wanted to say that I only recently discovered this site and find it both highly amusing and depressing in equal measure. The amusement element is obvious and the depression comes from the highlighting of the near total corruption of every national institution, the destruction of the West in general and the UK in particular.

Pat on the back for you and your blog.

Disco Dave

call me ishmael said...

Thanks mr anonymous and welcome to the Chronicles of Ruin, the bnes of which are often fleshed-out by those who contribute.
If there was background music to these and the commentaries of my young friend, stanislav, the polish plumber, it would be You laugh to keep from crying, sometimes.

call me ishmael said...

I don't know why, mr yardarm, but I have always taken Murdoch and his doings as a personal affront - y'know?- as well as being so utterly, comtemptibly corrosive of decent behaviour. People did get their balls blown off, tens of thousands came home maimed, many didn't come home at all, families were bombed out of their homes and the nation driven into penury, all this in the Hitler war and then, barely twenty years later, aided and abetted by the likes of WhiskeyMaggie and the repulsive Andrew Neil, this diggershit cocksaucker marches in and puts teen tits all over the newpsper pages, culminating in the beasting of Charlotte Church, shiteating pedarasts like Kelvin McFilth organising a national countdown to her sixteenth birthday and legal fuckability. And people died for this freedonm top nionce. Fuck me, Jesus, if there was a God this wretch this rancid, evil bastard Murdoch would feel the roasting poker of anal cancer, now and forever fucking more. Amen, so be it.

And yet, and yet, you hear bis tribunes and acolytes, poxed up old slag, Christina Odone, shit dripping from her lips, hosannahing the free press, as though noncing and football and gambling and teevee were the highest values to which mankind can aspire.

The filthy old noncing bullyboy bastard must die soon. We must hope it is a scorching and terrifying experience for him, may he go beyond the comfort of morphine, the dying at Hillsborough mocking his feeble death throes, the laughter of the drowning Belgrano boys ringing in his ears, Gotcha, .