Neigh-bours, everybody needs good neigh-bours.
Hubble bubble, toil and trouble, fire burn and Flashman bubble
Infamous Wapping witch, Ms Rebekka Wade-Kemp-Brooks, was today charged with conspiring to pervert the course of the Coalition. Becky's neighbour and familiar, Mr CallHimDave, said it was nothing to do with him if his friends and neighbours and employees were all bent as arseholes, the British people had resoundingly not elected him to run the country and that's what he was gonna keep on doing; removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and rubbing his hands with antiseptic gel, Mr Flashman said that Mrs Wade-Brooke-Whatever and her coven were entitled to a fair trial before being burned at the stake, below.
GOTCHA!
After all, continued the braying buffoon, as my new best friend, M'sieu Hollande, says,
President Hollandaise Sauce de France.
You Rosbifs, you vill know zat eef eet was alright for Joan of Arc to 'ave 'er ass torched, eet ees OK for for zee Murdoch slag, n'est ce pas, mon ami? I sink, en passant, M'sieu Unelected Prime Meenister, zat zis bint was, ow you say, ze een-house schoolgirl porn for zat feelthy old sicko, Rupert Murdoch, ees not as zo she ees bright or anything, just looks like ze skeeny schoolgirl, eef you don't look too close at ze bags under ze eyes an ze skeen like a leezard. 'Ow ze fuck could she become chief executive of anysink? Mind you, M'sieu CallYouDave - an' I say zees as one 'oo was actually elected by hees people an' didn't 'ave to rely on some scabby, poxed-up pretend coalition of wankers and chancers, sucking each others arseholess an' doing ze Okey-Cokey all around ze 'Ouses of Parliament like some people 'oo I could mention, not a million kilometres from 'ere - any'ow, eef eet was me I would be getting out zee ole WD40 and splashing eem all over zee guillotine an' chopping-off some 'eads in ze middle of ze Mall, starting with ze so-called Famille Royale - a bunch of fucking German Nazi bastards masquerading as ze Rosbif aristos, wheech ees, in my 'umble opinion, every beet as worse, as zees lumpy hausfrau Mrs Merkel ees about to find out. Ze Kraut cabinet will be, tomorrow morning, spending a leetle less time poring over their stools in those revolting Nazi toilets, ze feelthy bastards - Look, Liebschen, mein turds iss all really healthy, come und see, und zey smell so gut, look, iss really healthy schidt. Haff you seen enough, shall I flush zem away, or do you vant to linger a beet longet mit zem? Mais certainement it weel be a a leettle less time spent in ze morning sheet'ouse from now on and a leettle more finding better ways to sort this banking sheet, mebbe by hanging a few banker up from unter den linden and singing Lilli Marlene at their swinging corpses. Or whatever. Ooh la la, Vive la France!
And we are joined now in the studio by Sir Jeremy Fatso, another of Mr Cameron's friends and neighbours and another Murdroch employee, writing, as he does, acres of car drivel for the Times.
Sir Jerry, what's your take on this ?
Well, I blame Gordon Brown. Didya know he only had one eye? And he was gay.
I may be gay but I'm not mad. Or is it the other way around?
Nothing wrong with that. Half the people at the BBC are gay. Or Jews. But he was a Presbymonitor, wasn't he, or whatever they call themselves. And in my book that's as bad as being a Jew. But no. It's a serious point. David Cameron's parents and my parents and Charlie Brookses parents didn't part with their hard-earned cash sending us to public schools just so's we could be subject to the same laws as the riff raff, the kind of people who drive Vauxhalls. And if Charlie and Rebekka and whoever were just trying to help out Mr Murdoch by burning the evidence against him, well, what, ladeezangennulmen, is wrong with that. I mean, let's face it, anyone who's anyone has worked for Mr Murdoch; most people in journalism and most people in politics. I mean just because he's a brown hatter, doesn't make Michael Portillo any less of a journalist and he writes for Mr Murdoch's Times. And that Education bloke, Spit, Michael Spit, he used to write for the Times, too.
Good morning, children. If you open your Bibles you will see that they were written by me. Yes, that's my name at the front, above King James's; Michael Spit, that's me. God bless you all, even those- and that's most of you - who can neither read, write or do that other thing, yes, adding-up, and taking away. Which is definitely not going to happen to me. Being taken away. That's a no-no.
And we are joined now by Simon Weston. Simon, you were terriby injured in the Falklands thing, weren't you. What's your take on all this witchcraft business?
Yes that's right, Huw, I was terribly injured in the Great Falklands War and tobehonestwithyou, it was the making of me, set me up in a whole new career as ThatBlokeWhoWasTerriblyInjured. Everyone wants to know what I think about things. For a minute or two, anyway. Do I bear a grudge? No, not really Huw, the army was my life, ifyouknowwhatImean, Huw, but I've made another life in the meeja, like, as.......
...As ThatBlokeWhoWasTerriblyInjured...???
Yes, Huw, that's it, I am ThatBlokeWhoWasTerriblyInjured. Well, I know it's not much, but it's better than fuck all, which is what happens to most of the blokes who get terribly injured. But no, Mrs Thatcher was very good to me. Gave me an abiding belief in yooman rights, she did, only not for drowning Argies of course. Or miners. But it was her what inspired me, like, to run for Mayor. Or Police Commissioner. Or anything, really. Oh, I get lots of marriage proposals. Not as many as them blokes on Death Row in America. But I get my share. But no. The Sun's a great British institution, like me, really. And all of our thoughts and prayers should be with Rebekka and her family at this very difficult time. That's what I think.
Thanks, as ever, Simon. That was Simon Weston, who was terribly injured in the Falklands War. And Simon has asked us to remind viewers that he's available to be their Mayor or Police Chief or just to speak, like Mr William Miscarriage,
at Rotarian or Freemasonic dinner gatherings. Only best not for children's parties. Obviously
Thanks, as ever, Simon. That was Simon Weston, who was terribly injured in the Falklands War. And Simon has asked us to remind viewers that he's available to be their Mayor or Police Chief or just to speak, like Mr William Miscarriage,
at Rotarian or Freemasonic dinner gatherings. Only best not for children's parties. Obviously
Mr and Mrs Charles Hat. Justice perverts. He a layabout tosser, she a Fleet Street slag..
I cannot express my anger enough that I am being treated like a criminal. Even though I am. Especially since I have been bribing the Filth for years. Hundreds of the fuckers
Me and my family and friends will know that at the end of the day we will do all in our power to clear our names. Or nobble the jury.
Me and my family and friends will know that at the end of the day we will do all in our power to clear our names. Or nobble the jury.
Laugh out Loud????
11 comments:
Whey hey! Olives are still expensive - Greeks got no export? Bollox. Weather, sea, decent hotels & nightlife, balsamic vinegar by the gallon and lots of ships and a vague sense of contraband, maritime and human trafficking laws. DtP
If I had evidence I wouldn't be burning it. I'd be copying it several times and hiding it in various places, then saying like in the film Oliver!
"Well my dear, if it goes badly for me, it may go worse for you".
It's best to do this before they know exactly what you've got.
Glad to see you back, Mr Ishmael. It was brilliant watching Cruella having to take her medicine publically and not liking it. The arrogance of these privileged bastards that brought them down is a wonder to behold.
The irresistable object is the Establishments ability to self cauterise its wounds, maybe a sacrifice or two, move on, nothing to see, will try to ensure that the rich and well connected aren`t called to account like the common and oiky.
The irresistable force will be the growing amount of desperate ex hacks, chair polishers, politicians and bent filth and rich pricks squealing, spinning and stabbing, in court and out of it, desperate to protect their meal tickets or stave off the sweaty embrace of the denizens of E Wing.
The Establishment triumphed in protecting its cuntish self over the bankster collapse and the MPs expense exposure. They`ll be working hard to make it a hat trick.
Oh and Hague telling everyonen to work harder, what fucking next ? Eric Pickles on his Ten Steps to Triathlon Success ?
We ought to be clear about what is really going on here. The telephone companies created an answerphone system that was by default accessible by the publicly disclosed key 1234. This fact was contained in the device manuals, user knowledge of which is naturally implicit. By retaining the public key the user was thus tacitly consenting to public dissemination of his messages. The case is analogous to someone who does not read the Twitter manual and sends a public message rather than a private one. There is stupidity here, therefore, but not crime, and this is reflected in the public attitude to the practice at the time, for everyone knew it was going on. What we are seeing now is a shift in moral judgment that comes not from the nature of the transgression itself but from arbitrary redescription in terms that do not properly apply. That we would all want to see the accused burn anyway is beside the point.
Nearly Mr TDG, and possibly up until the Computer Misuse act 1990.
This act switches the emphasis to whether access is authorized.
Note that at the time the papers were all aghast at the Duke of Edinburgh's account being hacked and shouting for something to be done. It was done; they brought in new laws.
Every man jack of them knew from the early 90s that even if you guessed a password or it was set to 0000, they were still bang to rights under the Act because access was unauthorized.
The question of individual privacy versus some sort of Twittering/Facebooking collective commonality of communication - if such these postured rantings may be termed - does invite a Whaddayaexpect? response, along the lines of but not quite as Mr TDG suggests. I think that it's fair to say that anyone even setting a toe in the waters of cyberspace, your correspondent included, must expect to be discovered and identified by the modern equivalent of a renegade Apache scout dogging our tracks, sniffing our spoor; if one wants to remain even partially private one should not do any cyber blethering.
(My young friend, stanislav, the plumber, for instance, was tracked and identified by people on the far side of the world, who matched his phraseology and thinking to items he had written, in plain English, in the national press - seemed like rocket surgery to me but not to them.)
What is particularly vexing about Mr TDG's New Sanctimony is that vile filth like John Prescott are hoovering-up even more money when actually they should be in jail, stripped of all their nefarious earnings. If their privacy is so important to them, why don't they go to court, instead of settling for chunks of bung money from DeadManWalking, Murdoch? How much did the Dowlers settle for, a couple of million, bless?
It's all moot, mrs woar, anyroadup. The CIA and its employees in Whitehall are formally entitled, in the interest of protecting us, to monitor all our communications, so what does it matter if some hack slime does the same?
None of this cynicism, however, should impede upon the joy of seeing even a handful of these fuckers squirming, thrown to the wolves and perhaps the filthy old wretch himself, together with his spawn, arraigned in his adopted homeland. It is an ill wind, and all that.
Thank fuck you're back and on such sparkling form, Mr Smith.
Hope the wounds are healing nicely.
Recently treated myself to a heavily discounted OED Historical Thesaurus and how sweet it is to learn that Wapping was a word (1610 in this context) Shakspeare may well have known for fucking. (A moment's thought insists it must have been onomatopoeic in origin: wapp...wapp...wapp. Like a police-horse in the mud, eh Bekks?)
Very nice to have you back, sir.
Thanks, all, for the kind words.
Glad you're back.
Post a Comment