NEWS REVIEW. GREAT MEN LAID LOW.

CELEBS: MICHAEL PORTILLO, THE MAN IN THE KNOW.

Did I mention that I'm half-Spanish, half-Scottish, half-English and a touch Bohemian?

" I don't expect him  (Mr Chris Who)  to be charged tomorrow, the only reason the CPS is calling a  press conference is to explain why he isn't being charged." Speaking on the dreadful This Week show, last Thursday.

MR KEIR HARMER, HEAD OF THE CPS & THE COPPERS' FRIEND.

Portillo?  He's a silly old poof.
Huhne? He's one of the DogShooters, he's going down.
Lying to the police is very serious.
They're the ones supposed to be doing the lying.

It's insights like this Huhne blunder which  explain why Murdoch pays Portillo to be one of his hacks and why we pay him a grand a week to to pontificate on This Week.  And that's not to mention his reading aloud from a Victorian Railway  Guide on some other dismal show.  What, with him and his fellow-Thatcherite spiv, the repulsive Norman Tebbit, shaping the nation's  opinions, is it any wonder that we are hurtling down the toilet?   Portillo, too timid to run for Tory leader, when it might have meant somethung, might have tempered the Blair-|Brown-Mandelstein and Campbell criminality, now moistly smirking in his  frightful shirts, and that other shameless, gabshite class-traitor fuckpig, Alan cuckold Johnson, yes, and Jacqui fucking Schmidt, blowsy and bloated, promoting a nascent career in the shit-spewing  meeja, insist that the poor must take their medicine whilst the rich gorge themselves on stolen  benefits and    on hard-won rights trampled upon  and abrogated.  The very first on the end of the rope, Neil's gang of worthless arrivistes.  Did he ever mention, Neil, the disgusting old playboy,  that he was  a grammar school boy, went to Glasgow University?  Does he ever fucking stop mentioning it and does it in any way ameliorate his cruel, brutish, gutter journalism, his lifetime of pretence,  sucking poxy political cock whilst playing the hard man interrogator. Man should have a fucking BAFTA. At least Sir Michael Kneepads White can manage to speak a sentence  without tripping over his tongue and even pissed out of his mind, as he usually is, Toilets Maguire can mutter a Labour  apologia or two without reading then off cue cards.  It is a measure of Ruin's progress  that Neil is now on Beebtelly every day of the week, bar Saturday.

Newsnight distinguished itself, too.  Not by flagging-up the fact that three of the Cabinet's spivs, Law, Huhne and Fox   are as bent as can be, nor by commenting on the severity of the offence of conspiring to pervert the course of justice but by hosannahing the shitbag, Huhne's,  sterling qualities. Such as being a staunch  family man and a rotten fucking lying bastard. To his wife and to his constituents.

Mr Who, with his then-wife, Ms Vicky Woman-Scorned and, to the right, his baggage, Ms Carina Trumpington-MuffDive, a well-connected lobbyist and slapper.
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SPORT: ENGLAND ANNOUNCES NEW CAPTAIN.

I WILL WEAR THE CAPTAIN'S ARMBAND WITH PRIDE,

VOWS NICK.
JUST AS LONG AS IT'S THE SWASTIKA.

Following the sacking of Mr John Knobhead, the FA has announced that Mr Nick Griffin has been selected to captain the England wife-beaters, gang-rapists, coke-snorters and all around arseholes team in this year's European whatever it is.  Mr Griffin was seen at training with the England squad, where he was leading a community sing-in of Niggers! Niggers! Niggers! Out! Out! Out!

I firmly believe that all white men are created equal, shouted an ebulllient Mr Griffin, apart from queers, of course. And  the Jews.

Ex-captain, Mr Knobhead, seen below, at a meeting of the Professional Footballers Association, said that he wasn't bovvered eever way, about being the captain of his national team, knoworramean,'smore important fings in life than football, innit, knoworramean. Like shagging uvver blokeses crumpet. And fighting.

The manager of Chelsea Football Club, Mr Julio Greaseball, below,

 

said that while he understood Mr Knobhead being stripped of the captaincy he deed not agree weeth eet. Eet ees all 'owyousay ze load of bollocks, ee ees not raceest, an' eeven eef 'e was, eet doesn't matter, ees football, an' we let ze neegnogs play een ze team, just ze same;  zey 'eve ze great sense of reethymn, eenit. An we all 'ave zee pees-up een ze shower after ze game. But you should see ze cocks on some of zem neegers, Madre Dios, zey are fucking 'uge.  'An all black an' shiny, like ze coppers truncheons.

In Moscow, Mr Roman Kalashnikov, the billionaire Russian criminal and owner of Chelsea FC, said,  if zis 'appen in 'Oly Mother Russia, my friend and co-accused, Comrade Putin, 'e vould make it all go away and ze FA vould find zemselfs in prison for hundred of fucking year.

 

I can haff you keeled, you know, just like zat. 

Abramovich, wealth creator.

Or international criminal as we call oligarchs around here.

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THINGS YOU SODOM SEE, SORRY, SELDOM SEE.

Look, as the deputy unelected prime minister I'd just like to apologise, first, to the people of Britain for enacting a whole shitload of measures designed to punish them for the offences of others and which neither my own party or the party of my right honourable friend, the unelected prime minister, had even dreamed of when we put ourselves before you at the general election and you didn't put your trust in us. Especially the pensioners whom I had thought  received a very generous pension of thirty pounds a week, a fundamental stupidity on my part which, in any normal world, would see me confined to a re-education camp until I knew what day it was and whereabouts was located the hole in my public school buggered arse.  Instead I am the unelected deputy prime minister and this is the main thing.  I can tell my children about it. If they ever, when they are grown-up, can stand to be in the same room as me.  But, and it is a big but,  we had no option but to cobble together an illegitimate and some would say unholy govament consisting of some very rich people and Mr Michael Spit-Gove.  I am terribly sorry about this, as far as normal people are concerned.  But if you are asking me if I have disappointed my own tiny privileged and vengeful class, well, what do you think?

Secondly, I would like to apologise for Mr Huhne to the voters of wherever it is, and wherever it is will be a triumph of true LiberalDemocrat values, although not, obviously the ones we stood on but those which we have been forced to adopt by the unelected financial cabals of the world.  Look, let's be clear, it doesn't reallly matter, can't really matter, what we said yesterday and it is clearly unacceptable for people to try to hold us to something we said well, yesterday, when in fact it is now today.  And tomorrow, it will be today again.  I like to think I have framed a new, modern Liberal Democratic philosophy here, which could be summarised by my asking myself the question - as I do - do I mean anything I ever say? To which the answer is clearly an honest, principled, LiberalDemocratic No. The logic is inescapable.  But as for  for Mr Huhne, I would like to apologise for him saying at the last election that he was a happily married man.  In a sense he was,  just not to his wife but to himself, and to the idea that he could have my job. Instead of going to prison. And I must say at this poimnt that as a Liberal Democrat I do not believe in prison. Except for those who need to be there, like Mr Huhne.  He was, also, as is often the case in the party I am so proud to lead, in a sense, happily married to his bi-sexual media adviser and unhappily married to his - some would say -proper wife, although I would hesitate to be judgemental about this, unlike her, or is it she, who has fired a right good round of fucks into him and continues to do so.  Some women take a kinder view of things, knowing the frightful pressure which MPs are under, having to work so hard at breaking their promises, fiddling their expenses and fucking  the arses off their HagueBoys or mistresses whilst presenting themselves as scrupulously virtuous.  Mrs Oaten, for instance, when she found that her husband, Mark, our former Home Office spokesperson - tough on tarts, tough on the causes of tarts, that was his policy-in-waiting - when she found out that Mark had unfortunately been found paying young men to shit in his face she quite properly put his misfortune down to his premature hair loss, caused by him working so hard to curry favour in the press, I mean serve his constituents.  But each to his or her own.  Mrs Huhne, for her part, has invented an unlikely scenario in which she was a very long way from her husband's speeding car when she was driving it and contends that there are many witnesses to her presence, a very long way away from the car she was driving;  she insists, in fact, that it is impossible for her to have been in the car at the time and in the location that it was speeding. As if.   

It is of course now a matter for the jury and the amount of pressure which can be brought to bear upon it by Mr Huhne's money.  I mean his legal team.  But all of us in politics have an interest in seeing him getting away with blue murder.  Just as long as he doesn't afterwards expect to come back into govament, with decent people, like myself and Mr Laws.

I would also like to apologise to his constituents for him not resigning his seat immediately upon being charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and being a rotten lying bastard piece of shit. But LibDem MPs are made of sterner stuff than that. It is in our DNA.  Just look at our roll call of heroic figures.  There was Mr Jeremy Thorpe;  why should he have resigned just because he went with rent boys when it was seriously illegal, conspired to have them killed and shot their dogs.  Didn't stop him doing a great job for all concerned.  And he did get away with it. There was Mr Straight Simon Hughes,  the closet poof, elected on a queer-bashing platform.  He got away with it, too.  And there was my predecessor, Charlie Kennedy, the Dipso, whose drink problem we all denied until he had no option but to publicly  and as a matter of great principle, admit it himself, five minutes  before his former assistant did so .  And only all of us, every last one of us,  lied to the electorate about him being a fit and proper person to be prime minister, even though he couldn't, most of the time, stand up unaided.  We are the party of truth, you see, only not about ourselves.  And that, I suggest, is the sort of party you want in govament.  Remember, if you want to kick the cripples, freeze the old, raise banker pensions and bonuses, cover the land with useless, shit-generating windmills and stuff the frontbenches with  alcoholic, degenerate, shiteating, moneygrubbing, child-molesting, cross-dressing, hypocritical, fraudulent, money-laundering, toilet-creeping extorionists then vote Liberal Democrat.  Or Tory. Or Labour. Or SNP. Or Plaid Cymru. Or the Ulster Undertakers' Party.

Many of us will recall a time  when a whisper of  character, never mind behaviour such as Huhne's would have initiated a swift exit from the cabinet.  I think I'm right in saying that.  There were, long ago, stories about Boothby and the Kray Twins about Boothby and Harold McMillan's wife; about queer Labour MP Tom Driberg, about Ghandi and Mountbatten's wife and doubtless many others.  But I believe there was a line over which none could cross with impunity;  Huhne and, by association, his colleagues, have crossed it.

My young friend, stanislav the plumber, used to argue that the NewLabour govament was the most dangerous organised crime family in the country. That this shower of public school spivs sees Huhne's partial downfall only in terms of political advantage or disadvantage, sees it only selfishly and that MediaMinster, too,  sees it only in similar, gamesters terms recognises formally the corruption, illegality and  utter worthlessness of the present parliamentary system, Thieves, philanderers, perverts, slags, pimps and ponces, all of them;  Huhne is just one of them, dragged out into the sunshine;  maybe, like snot expectorated in the gutter, he will shrivel  up and be washed away, down the drain. But the body politic remains, diseased and rotting, it's only cure, its only deliverance a massive, lethal dose of Upagainstthewallmotherfuckerism.