THE NEW SUNDAY CALL ME ISHMAEL. ONLY FIFTY PEE

Rupert Murdoch. Not dead yet but it won't be long.

Statement from Sunday Times owner Rupert Murdoch

It is with great sadness that I have learned of the death of Marie Colvin, one of the most outstanding foreign correspondents of her generation, who was killed in Homs in Syria today while reporting for The Sunday Times, a newspaper which was never up to much but which I have successfully  turned into a gutter rag printed on big pages.

She was a victim of a shell attack by the Syrian army on a building that had been turned into an impromptu press centre by the rebels. I am as sure of this as I was confident that journalists on my family shitsheet, the News of the World, would never hack people's phones, apart from all the time. Our photographer, Paul Conroy, was with her and is believed to have been injured. We are doing all we can in the face of  shelling and sniper fire to get him to safety and to recover Marie's body.We are also doing our level best to keep my son, the forgetful one, out of jail.  His imprisonment would lead people to think that as his father, I had not raised him properly.  Which, of course, I haven't.

 What's my name? Well. frankly, Mr Vaz, I'm fucked if I know.  You see, at my level, I simply cannot be expected to know everything.  I am sure there are other people in the organisation who will know what my name is,  they're paid to do that sort of thing.  My job, as Chief Arsehole, simply does not require me to know about things like my own name.  I mean, with respect, I head a large madeupnewsandfilth organisation and with the greatest respect,  we'd never get anything done, would we, if I had to remember my own name.  Two times two?  Yes, I have an MBA, from the Universty of eBay, I can do that one, Mr Vaz, yes, it's nine, isn't it?

 SIR KEITH OILY VAZ, 

IN HIS OWN WORDS THE MOST IMPORTANT ASIAN IN BRITAIN

Thank you so much, Lord James, for giving up your valuable time to appear before me and my  piddling little committee,  I thank you on behalf of us, and on behalf of every member of this house, or at least those about  whom you hold incriminating information, and that would be all of them, for not spilling the beans. Yet.  And I assure you that we will all do our very best to sweep this little matter of fraud, theft, burglary, intimidation   and massive institutional corruption entirely under the carpet to your and your father's complete satisfaction.  And do please give our very best wishes to your father and on a personal note I would just take this opportunity to remind youir Excellency that simpering Asian men, such as myself, are renowned for the quality of their blowjobs,  far more accomplished, if I may say, Your Eminence,  than some slutty woman, even a Chink, like your esteemed stepmother,  if I may make so bold.  Did I mention that I am  the most important Asian in Britain?

Obituary shit continues......

Marie had fearlessly covered wars across the Middle East and south Asia for 25 years for The Sunday Times. Which I own, although I never interfere with it. And if you believe that you'll believe anythuing.  She put her life in danger on many occasions because she was barking and driven by a determination that the misdeeds of tyrants only not me and the suffering of the victims only not mine did not go unreported. This was at great personal cost, including the loss of the sight in one eye while covering the civil war in Sri Lanka. As if anybody gives a fuck about that, I mean, really, Sri Lanka, most people don't even know where it is. This injury did not stop her from returning to even more dangerous assignments. Like I said, barking.

Our immediate thoughts are with her family.Which she didn't have, well, not in a conventional sense anyway.  No, no, she wasn't a muncher.  Been round the block a few times, if you know what I mean, liked a drink and a fag and a good rogering, too,  banged like a shithouse door in a gale,  I shouldn't wonder.  All women are like that. And they all want  a chance to get their tits out for Page Three.  Good clean family fun, 'swhat makes a good newspaper. G'day.Vote Republican.
Rupert Murdoch

I'd rather subscribe to Bestiality  Weekly or the Newcomers' Guide to Necrophilkia than have a copy of the Sunday Times in the house.  No surprise to me, then, that I never heard of Marie Colvin.  And I don't read MSM war correspondents anyway, who gives a fuck what they say, generally embedded - fellating - the invasion forces, generally Uncle Sam.  Some mad old bint, a myth in her own mind,  addicted to hotspots, well, she has to be barking;  in her late fifties, what on Earth  was the matter with her? Oh, the conceit of hacks is  legendary but few of them get up close with nutters, few of them hunker down in firefights between hysterical arabs, can't see Toilets Maguire in a flak Jacket, not when he can make a complete cunt of himself and his trade by  poncing about in pantomime fashion on Andrew Shitmouth's This Week programme.

TOILETS MAGUIRE,

A SERIOUS POLITICAL JOURNALIST CUNT AT WORK

 

AYE  BONNY LAD, BUT THE MONEY'S REET GOOD

AND THAT'S WORRAMALLABOOT.

AND ANYROAD, WE NEED A GOOD LAUGH JUST NOO.

  And what's the point, anyway?  Of war correspondents?  It's like teasy porn, all this stuff.  So many dead,  but we can't show you. Oh, go on then, just a little bit, from a distance

By all accounts la belle Colvin, a creepy-looking woman, even without the eyepatch, felt that she alone could inform us aboout what was going on in Syria .  Al Jazeera, RT, twitter, facebook and the rest were, by implication, amateur.  What the world needed was her own Pulitzer-hungry, fag and martini-soaked point of view.  Tellingit like it is,  for the ordinary people, the victims of war. As  if we don't know. As if we need some old doxy, grooving on herself, to let us know that being shelled or shot at or napalmed or run over by a tank or rubber-hosed and waterboarded is, like, uncool, man.  And another thing, if shit is so bad in Syria or Libya why can't Ahmed have his own revolution, his own civil war?  The Roundheads didn't beseech NATO to come and get rid of Charles the First,  the Frog peasants stormed the Bastille without there being a No-Fly Zone and proceeded to chop the heads off all and sundry;  they weren't firing muskets up into the sky, for the cameras of the likes of war junkie,  Marie Colvin.  Let them sort their own shit.  Then it'll mean something, have some fiery truth. Despatches, by Michael Herr, incidentally, that's all you need to read about war correspondence. I have a copy, we can have a competition for it.

You know how when some band of eejits goes up the Cairngorms in teeshirts in the middle of Winter and they have to be rescued by Prince Gormless in his PR helicopter

The heir-but-one to the throne prepares to rescue one of his subjects-to-be.
( Thinks ) Gosh, if only I could of  rescued that journalist woman from Egypt or wherever, OK-Yah, like David Beckham would of done.

 well, sometimes, somebody pipes up and says, What the fuck did they think they were playing at going out in ablizzard in their underpants with nothing but a mobile phone ?Well  I think that war correspondents are the same.  Go in the middle of  a firefight and you are much more liikely to get killed than if you don't. Fuck 'em, they volunteered.

 In the house of commons our distinguished foreign seckatry, Mr William Windbag-Rentboys,

 Former Welsh Seckatry, William Windbag-Reentboys discusses badgering issues with his buddy, Seb Coe, whom he - so to speak - ennobled.

 said.  I have to advise this house, Mr Tniy Speaker, that my wife, Mrs Fffffffion Windbag-Rentboys, has not had ay miscarriage for some time, although she can have one, and ay very significant one, I may add, Mr Tiny Speaker, if any of the rumours circulating about me and my, ah, predeliction for pretty young men,

 

none of which, I ah, hasten to add, are true, see above, should appear in the ah, press.

Tory cheers, wolf whistles,waving of order papers and gay pornography.

And, if I may further add, details of her future and previous miscarriages appear on the website, www, hagueisnotgay, were further proof needed of my thrusting and unashamed heterosexuality...

LibDem boos, cries of Shame! Shame! Come Out William! Allah Akpoof !  ( trans. God is Gay).

Mr Tiny Speaker:

Mr & Mrs Tiny Speaker share a laugh about their respective careers in the meeja.

.

Order-Order! The house will come to order.  I feel it would be fair to say to honoourable members that the house is fully cognisant of the situation regarding the right honourable member, the foreign seckatry's cock, and where he puts it and we should move on.

Quite so, Mr Tiny Speaker and whether I am gay or very gay is, in my judgement, as a world statesman of immense stature,  neither here nor there but I would say to the house that  "Marie Colvin embodied the highest values of journalism throughout her long and distinguished career as a foreign correspondent for The Sunday Times. For years she shone a light on stories that others could not and placed herself in the most dangerous environments to do so,  rather as I do myself when, on behalf of my constituents, in the fashion of  the great member from the party opposite, Mr Ron Cruiser-Davies  I put myself on Clapham Common with my cock hanging-out,  looking for badgers having miscarriages."

 Lest we forget.

Former NewLab Welsh Seckatry, Mr  Ron Davies,

 doing a spot of daylight badgering near the lorry-drivers' toilets on the M4.

 

 At least I put my hands up to it, look you, 

and didn't come all this miscarriage bollocks, now, isn't it?

Mr Tiny Speaker:  The unelected prime minister, a statement on the tragic death of Ms FagAsh Lil.

NOW LOOK, I'M IN CHARGE, RIGHT?
THAT'S WHY I WAS ELECTED, EVEN THOUGH I WASN'T.


  Thank you Mr Tiny Speaker and Now look.  The whole house will join with me in recognising the work of Ms  Wotsername, whose name was a household name for whatever it was she did; she and her family and friends - every worthless  pisshead in MediaMinster - are very much in our hearts and prayers and if they are old and disabled  we just want to let them know that that is their own moral failure and we must continue to take their benefits, dignity and yes, their lives from them.  that is the reason that the people of this country so comprehensively didn't elect me as their prime minister. And the death of Ms Wotsername also undlines the reason why everyone must do as I say regarding Syria.  We have it on very good authority- Mrs Mad Melanie Phillips ben Gurion Rosenberg, respected columnist on the Daily Filth and Any Questions and Question Time  - that Ms Fagash was actually shot by President Assad personally with a weapon supplied by the Russians and the Chinese. And this underscores, Mr Tiny Speaker, why we should all do exactly as President Hillary Trousers tells us, and invade Syria. (sings)  Hav-e Ne-gilah, Hav-e Ne-gilah

 Tory cheers, Labour cheers, LibDem simpers; all sing;
Is-rael, Is-rael, uber alles.

But the best Colvining of the week came from Andrew Shitmouth, the BBC's Mr Politics..

Mr Andrew Neil of the BBC, takes the political temperature.


And ofcourse, as everyone knows, I was Marie Colvin's editor on the Sunday Murdoch when she started and she really is a great loss but I must share in her reflected glory because it was me made Murdoch possible in this country;   that's just the kind of old fashioned journalist I am. Integrity, it's my middle name, that and Barely Legal Pussy.


Murdoch man enjoys himself in true Murdoch fashion.

Viewers may not know this, Andrew, but I give very good dinner parties. Yes, and we film them for the BBC. My wife? No, sadly, she never attends.

 
Television's popular Mr Michael Portillo.
The man who can be relied upon to get things wrong.

Yes, it was my moment of the week, too. Because I am a Times Correspndent, also, for Mr Murdoch. As well as being a Steam Railway correspondent for the BBC.  So, in a very real sense, we were comrades, although I hate to use that word, Ms FagAsh and I. Did I mention that I was in America last week? And Spain ? And Australia? Will the Collision Govament survive a full term?  I suspect it will. Although I suspect it may not, too. Hasta la vista, viewers. I am half-Spanish, you know. And half-Scotish. And half-English. And half-American.


That's yer lot, for tonight,
 Nighty-night and don't let the pathetic old scab, reactionary, bully and nonce bite.

THE NIGHTMARE PAGE.

 I dozed off in the chair the other night, just around mid-night withn the telly on and awoke at two-thirty to the Parliament Channel and a baying house of commons. Lady Frank Field, one of the many Tory voices on the Labour benches, was actually attacking his chums on the treasury bench.  Oh, Sleep, I thought, you deceive me, this cannot be, draw aside your befuddling curtain;  head, I urged, clear thyself of unreality, la Field, conscience of the national costcutter within cannot really be reproaching the Spiv Cabinet for it's meanness to the poor, though not, we must never forget,  to itself.  But Field, chill and cadaverous in spirit as well as form, was doing just that. Crazed and confused I searched cyberspace for an explanation of this decidedly UnFieldian contretemps.  Here it is, it is officially the view iof the house of commons that a spare room in a council house is  a luxury.  They need a stake through their hearts, every last fucking one of them.

MPs overturn Lords defeat on 'bedroom tax'

 Chris Grayling, Tory Nightmare Spokesman, spare rooms a luxury.

MPs have overturned Lords changes to government plans for a so-called "bedroom tax" during the latest round of parliamentary "ping-pong" on the Welfare Reform Bill.

The proposal, which would dock benefit payments for tenants in social housing with spare rooms, was amended in the Lords in February in a narrowly-won vote .

Peers said the proposals should be changed to exempt disabled people, war widows and foster carers unless they refused to take up an offer of suitable alternative accommodation.

But on 21 February 2012, MPs voted by by 316 to 263, majority 53, to overturn the Lords amendment.
Opening the debate, Work and Pensions Minister Chris Grayling defended the government's plans to cut the housing benefit bill.

Spare rooms, he said, were a "luxury" that the social housing sector could not afford.
But the government faced some opposition from its own benches, as Conservative Andrew Percy pledged to back the Lords amendment.
He told MPs: "Whenever we talk about these homes, they are people's homes - they are not just public assets which we need to release for other members of the country."
Meanwhile, Labour's Frank Field described the "bedroom tax" as a "nasty, mean little measure".
Mr Field said the policy had been forced on the Department for Work and Pensions by the Treasury and would not work.
The Welfare Reform Bill will now be sent back to the House of Lords for further scrutiny.
The bill introduces the Universal Credit - a new benefit which will be payable to people both in and out of work - to replace Income Support, income-based Jobseeker's Allowance, income-related Employment and Support Allowance, Housing Benefit, Child Tax Credit and Working Tax Credit.
The legislation also introduces the Personal Independence Payment (PIP) to replace Disability Living Allowance (DLA), which requires up-front medical tests and regular health re-assessments for claimants.
The government says the bill represents the biggest shakeup in the welfare system for over 60 years.
The plans apply to England, Scotland and Wales.


WOTSONTELLY.

BIG  FAT GIPPO BASTARDS
CHANNEL FOUR (THE NEW CHANNEL FIVE)
WINNER OF THE GIPPO HATRED CHANNEL  AWARD 2012.

If you want to get in touch with your inner Hitler, this is the series for you.  I do sincerely, really mean this, find myself thinking, well, maybe concentration camps is the only way to deal with these fuckers. God  help us, they are fucking awful. Stupid fucking bastards.  Thieving cunts, cruel to animals, cruel to children, brawling drunks, children  brainwashed on the dumb cycle and bred from  fucking slappers like you wouldn't believe existed in the modern world.

I keep thinking that to offset the apparent worthlessness of this brutish layabout diaspora the series is going to reveal some cultural aspect, some music and song, some poetry - but they're all illiterate, some trade or craft or skill, a sense of humour, even, but it never does. Week after week it is a carnival of ill-mannered, moronic excess, of grotesque teenage marriages,  the poor childbride sprayed  from head to foot in body tan,  squeezed  into badtaste ultimo  designer trash, run-up by some braindead Scouse seamstress who wouldn't get a job sewing fucking mailbags,  before she's  shoehorned into a garish pink stretch limo or goldpainted herlicopter and  ferried to church by a shaven-headed ruffian of a father in a John Travolta suit and a half a dozen earrings, attended by infant bridesmaids decked out  as bondage sluts.  And the whole dreadful  ritual is conducted to a bog-Irish litany of This Is the Way o' The Travellin' Commu'ity.

Tonight's episode opened with two arseholes in  pony traps whipping the beJaasus out of terrified ponies,  the poor beasts already frightened out of their skins by the gippo four-wheel drive vehicles crowding then from behind and alongside, horns blaring and  drunken shitheads catcalling from car windows.

 

This was happening on a public road, the Pikey SUVs acting like police RangeRovers and forcing oncoming traffic out of the way.  And, Jeez, the udder vehicles 'ad just better get out the way, intoned some obnoxious traveller sage, wot English people don't unnerstand, see, is dat horses was 'ere long before cars was and so dey 'as to get out the way.  Throughout the series, any criminal, lawless behaviour is justified in the communi'y by Dat's de way we've always done fings, in the travellin' communi'y. One big  nancyboy fairy, a would-be bareknuckle fighter, claimed that it was better in the communi'y because folks didn't bovver wiv lawyers but sor'ed t'ings out man-to-man.

Happily, his last act of sortin' t'ings out resulted in him getting his jaw broken in two place, in him running to the cops and squealing Assault! and in his attacker walking free from court.  You see, there is a pikey God, after all.

Hard to know wwhat C4 are up to with this one.  I defy anyone to watch this series and not  be enraged.  These people are cruel to each other, to  their animals and their children,  they are  unpardonably and wilfully stupid, ignorant and reckless,  their lives are ugly and they are born and bred to grievance, self-neglect  and hostility.  I might be inclined to dismiss these programmes as sensationalist racism  - but  they are not a race, are they, travellers, more a group of people  who are determinedly self-outcasting - were it not for the fact that my every experience of travellers has been uniformly bad, I have always found then rude, belligerent, dishonest and ill-mannered;  this series just confirms what I have always thought; somebody should do something about them.

THE SUNDAY SUN'S  NEW HEALTH SECTION.

Heart of mine.

Things have been spasmodic here, lately, in Ruin's observatory.  I thought I had, three years ago, avoided permanently the heart bypass surgery which comes to so many of us.  It's not that I don't trust the surgeons. It's just that I have done a lot of business with surgeons and I don't trust them as far as I can spit, which is about a half an inch, or a centimetre, I think, it might be a matter of millimetres, or it may be in Celsius.  I dunno, I can do metres, after a fashion, although not kilometres;  I can do metres up to about twelve feet but after that I'm fucked. Still, I'd rather be like that than the other wat around, where you can do centithings but not inches; we'll all be dead, soon, we imperialists, and our native world and ways  will be  colonised anew by Frog and Spic measurements. The surgeons, though, and the GPs, they will remain the people most likely to kill us; you simply cannot trust them,  they are all thieving arrogant greedy bastards.  I have also known  a lot of murderers, well, more than most people have known, and I thnk I'd rather trust a murderer than a surgeon, not with an operation, obviously,  just in a general way;  a convicted murderer, released on life license, is probably, in fact, the most law-abiding person you'll ever meet.  A fraction of a per cent of those so released re-offend in any way whatsoever.  I did know one, mind, but that's a story, worth setting down, for another time.  He's long dead, so no need to worry.

The heart, though, has deteriorated a bit.  Doesn't sound too bad, when you say it like that.  Until you think about it, and then every little twinge in the chest or the neck or the arm heralds an infinity of paranoid possibilities.  On top of that, the drugs used in coronary heart disease, although they are marvellous,come freighted with a variety of vitality -apping side effects and all one is is a heart patient, basically hanging-on, trying to avoid death for a bit longer.  One's energy is spent before it arrives;  revery replaces action and morbid reflection nails one to the chair.

I had an incident in Inverness, in the Autumn, went into the hospital for checks and tests and my Goodness, if you gotta be in hospital, the Coronary Care Unit is the place to be - peace, quiet, privacy and no fucking television.  The blood tests and the ECGs  revealed nothing drastic but I was told to get it all checked out in Aberdeen hospital, which is where I went  a few weeks back, hoping for a Duke of Edinburgh procedure,  a stent, an expanding tube inside an artery but it wasn't possibe and once I was told that I agreed immediately to the surgery, which I now await.  I have also been given some further heart medication AND have developed capsulitis, or frozen shoulder, which, because of the heart condition, cannot be treated with anti-inflammatories but only paracetemol. Some days I take twenty-four pills and some days I'm just good for fuck all.

So, that's by way of explanation for the desultory posting recently.  I recalled, too, that I started writing stanislav when I was quite sick with a diabetic complication - nothing like the heart problem but they all have their horrors and the young plumber was nonetheless, most prolific, sometimes too quick for me to write him down.  So  I looked at the last bit of stanislav and it still made me laugh;  these energies, I suppose they just come to us from somewhere, but when they're gone, they're gone.

Stanislav - an outpatient speaks out.

Go down local hospital today for laser surgery, on old mince pies, Fuck me, gently. Not hurt a bit says eyebloke. Cunt. Not hurt him a bit but is like some bastard hammer hot nails in stanislav eyeball, fucking dreadful. Is OK? says eyebloke; No, is not OK, is fucking murder, is on special extra fucking hot setting, eh? ten million volts? best leave off for a minute. Have had laser surgery before, few time, and never hurt like this bastard, is exfuckingcrutiating.

Edinburgh Royal College of Surgeon-Extorionists says that doctor working in Highland and Island is often alcoholic, drug addict or misfit; this bloke look like all three bastards. Scotland is best part of England and can see doctor very easy, is just that is maybe crap and dangerous; dirty, drunken mentalcase with hand shaking and bad breath full of garlic, often has huge beard and hair everywhere, like fucking Hobbit and would sooner cut own throat than wash hands between patient. Anyway, to start off with, eyebloke puts stanislav head in iron mask and is damning and fucking because nothing works, turns out he has the lens in the wrong way round; good job, says stanislav, it didn’t fucking work, else you’d a had laser in your eyes, innit, and serve you right. Maybe was wrong thing to say.

Anyway stanislav not want to be seen as ladyman or wuss but after few seconds is in agony, can’t see and both eye is streaming and head is exploding. Can do Zen shit, meditation and self-hypnosis, just sort of empty mind of Now and trance-out, feel no pain, or little pain, but not with this bastard. Have you got much more to do, maybe can put up with if nearly finished is? You've had 56 shots. And how many is more to come is? Is a thousand altogether. Oh fuck me, nine hundred and forty four more bastard nails hammer in fucking eyeball, fuck that shit, can't put up with, is like some bastard set fire to inside of head and bombs going off in eyeballs, sweat like fucking Paddy Fawkes in confession box with noncing monsignor, another nine hundred will vomiting be and shit pants like demented old bastard on Tory backbench caught with fingers in till and cock up rentboy arsehole. Fuck it, can go blind and get dog, like Blunkett, Buster is dear old friend and best boy but is crap for walking about with, does great tripping-up even when stanislav can see, and even if didn't trip up and smash face on pavement would pull arm out from socket in pursuit of other dogblokes. Can be blind plumber, stanislavplumbcheap4u in Braille. Anyway get money off government if blind is. Not fucking much, not as much as Mr and Mrs Balls or Mr Duncan, but is few quid and can always tune piano for living.

Have had blind piano bloke come in gaff and tune-up Joanna. Is all horrible miserablest fucking bastard ever – this piano, Sir, is very out of tune. They all say that, like was crime against disabled bastards. Yes, is out of tune, that’s why stanislav sent for you in first place, you pianobloke is, if stanislav could tune piano, you wouldn’t be here, innit, can do most thing, but tune piano is job for blind bloke with fuck all else to do but listen, innit, is shit job, is only fit for blindbloke with special listening skills, so maybe it just SEEMS so out of tune because you is listening like a bastard and to me is just fucking out of tune, I mean, it doesn’t matter if is one note out of tune or eighty-fucking-eight out of tune, is same difference, piano sounds like shit, only takes is one note and whole thing is fucked, unless of course piece of music doesn’t have that one note in, which it might not, if was Three Blind - no offence, mate – Mice, but can’t sit and play Three Blind Mice forever and ever, people come round for dinner and you say Oh Fuck me, guests, I’ll just play you Three Blind Mice, a few times, like last time, pretty soon run out of dinner guests, who wants to come and hear Three Blind Fucking Mice, year after year, and here in Scotland can only really invite expatriots because Jock is savage and no fucking manners has got and would smash gaff up if only was Three Blind Mice by way of post-prandial diverissement, so really either piano is in tune or is not in fucking tune, can’t be very in tune and so can’t be very out of tune either, and, matey, have had hard day with head down toilet so not fucking me about be anymore with this Piano Is Very Out Of Tune Shit, like was Blind Boy Monty Python and Parrot, only piano instead of parrot; have got topjolly Yamaha keyboard and never go out of fucking tune and sound more like piano than piano. Have got Yamaha acoustic guitar and Yamaha electric guitar, is like fucking Yamaha factory, could have fucking Nipponese orchestra in here and don’t fucking care if you tune piano or not, is only affectation, acoustic piano, Yamaha is much better. Don’t need all this shit, got plenty of shit without bad-tempered accusatory pianobloke coming in here and giving me more shit. Do you wanna tune out of tune piano, like it says in Yellow Pages or have you come round here to bully people? What is it with you blind fuckers? ‘snot my fault. Try to give you some work to do and is better than weaving fucking basket and only can whine about piano out of tune being, as though stanislav took front off from Joanna and twist all the tuning pegs with fucking molegrip just to piss you off ? Honest, not invent, is true conversation.

No, mate, don’t care if you is doctor or not, stanislav is not coward, has had loads of this shit before and is OK, sting a little bit and eyes water but this fucking torture is, you from MI fucking 5? Can take laser and shove-up arse of BMA, is fucking rubbish, come in NHS to get rid of fucking pain, not get fucking torture to death, can go on waterboarding vacation in Cuba and is not so fucking bad as this shit, can smell fucking eyeballs burning.

You done this before ? Oh yes, am consultant, if is hurting you like fuck I can give you local anaesthetic. You mean needle in fucking eyeball, innit, is not good day for stanislav, nearly have eyes blown out through back of fucking head and now is fucking get eyeball stuck with hypodermic syringe, like in fucking nightmare, you know how Jack Nicholson says I Would Rather Stick Pins In My Eyes Than whatever it is? Well stanslav has had pins stuck in eye, or needle, which is same thing, only worse, and is shit thing to have, can't even, obviously, close fucking eyes and hope for best because is looking straight at needle coming towards eye in shaking hand of drunken misfit dope-fiend called Sandy or fucking Angus. Want local anaesthetic and carry on scorching eyeball ? No fucking thank you very fucking much. Got enough doctorshit with mad bastard wants to stop heart and rip to pieces and patch up like fucking inner-tube on bicycle, scar down front like Grand fucking Canyon and is only little bit of angina and can live fine with few pills and just as long as poor eviscerated surgery victim and probably longer and don't want some fucking eejit sticking needles in my eyeball, today.

Hooligan-Sadist doctor not apologise, Fuck me, no, not say Just relax, be better soon, was pissed off, bureaucratisation of NHS has no room for individual patient and says stanislav can go in day clinic, fly to big hospital, still get needle in eyeball but can do it in more caring environment than grubby little office, and lasershots won't hurt so much, is only pain and fuck all compared to what Afghani Wedding guest gets from Uncle Sam, but he is wog, innit, and doesn't matter, stanislav can go in bed afterwards with nice cup of tea and Jock nurse, big like elephant, keep check on observations and say There-There, Hen, There-There. Scotland, best part of England.

ROCK'N'ROLL STUDIES,NUMBER 83.
EVERYTHING'S BEEN RETURNED WHICH WAS OWED.
BOB DYLAN, VISIONS OF JOHANNA, LIVE IN SHEFFIELD 1966.

Just a boy, I saw this tour in Belfast, a night or two  after this recording. Dylan and The Band were loudly booed for playing what remains unsurpassed rock'n'roll music.  It wasn't the full Band  of subsequent heroic, legendary stature,  drummer Levon Helm, didn't fancy all the flying and had remained in the States but no matter, Dylan with Robbie Robertson, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko and  - I think - Richard Manuel and stand-in drummer, Micky Jones,  playing before a giant stars'n'stripes were unbelievably, boldly magnificent.

The first half of the concert was  acoustic, just Dylan with his guitar and harmonica;  smashed almost out of his mind he nevertheless gave virtuoso perfomances of his earlier and current work, by the time the tour had reached Australia recordings of those shows reveal that Dylan's train had got lost, derailed by exhaustion  and too much of what he called medicine - probably speed and booze and hash.

These 1966 UK acoustic perfomances, therefore, as with those of the previous year, filmed in Don't Look Back, are the essence,  the apex of the young Dylan's  performing genius, his percussive, hammered-on guitar style, his vocal phrasing, words  stretched and shoe-horned into impossible spaces, his meandering,  oscillating, almost chaotic harmonica notes teetering on the verge of collapse, all these, fragments of jewels, vocal and musical,  are mere embellishment, though;  his  words, that's the thing. The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face; who could write that, let alone  sing it?  Certainly not America's latest singing sensation, Barack Obama, cunting himself all around the voters, bless his murdering soul.

For younger people, like mr dick the prick,  who wonder what the Dylan thing was all about, it was all about this. 

Mona Lisa musta  had the Highway Blues, you can tell, by the way she smiles. They don't write 'em like that no more.