POT YELLOW.

Up late last night, watching the snooker, there was nothing else, and it's kind of hypnotic, those old and not so old commentators trying to find new things to say about a direly predictable and repetitive game of balls and sticks and pockets. It's like a quiet, narcotised corner of Hell.

The first match was between some pasty, overweight, unshaven  Scotsman 



and a natty little Chinese gadfly, 

who, convincingly, unexpectedly and entertainingly  outplayed the former champion.

Jock was rated number five in the world, the Chinaman was, until now, nowhere.


The second match was between the current DragonGod of Chinese snooker, a morose, pudgy, short man, 

Ding, his name is, and he's as entertaining as bowel cancer; his opponent was a rather charming and graceful Scotsman, Alan McManus

absent from the World Championship for seven years and  nice to watch.  

When play ended for the day, Ding was 6-2 ahead,  it's not that he was that much better a player, just that the Scotsman kept making tiny, tiny mistakes and once Ding had an opening he was remorseless, robotic, dull and annoying;  the Scotsman played the graceful, innovative shots,  the Chinaman just won and won and won, miserable little fucked-up shit;  I wouldn't walk across the courtyard to watch him playing in the barn.

The commentators were  that corny old Ulsterman, Dennis Taylor,

  
he of the memorable  spectacles,  and the tight-lipped snooker mechanic, Steven Hendry, 



who has won everything more times than anyone  else ever can or will.  If you like that sort of thing, Hendry is/was your man.  I don't like that sort of thing.  I'd rather watch an erratic genius



 like Alex Higgins or Jimmy White   than a dehumanised,  money-making machine, like Hendry or wossisname, that Steve Geezer bloke. I dunno, you know the one I mean.

This one,  the boring Mr Geezer.

It emerged, anyway, in the infinitessimaly tiny small talk between these two braindead dullards, as they tried to enliven the grim proceedings, that Hendry, now retired from competitive snooker, "spends a lot of time in China," coaching, I guess, for huge sums of money, these Chinese automata, in order that they can come here and beat British players.

 He's not alone, Shitmouth Hendry, lots of them do it, many for the headchopping bandits in the Gulf, for anyone who'll pay them, really.  I suppose it's what they would call, in shameless Beckhamese,  Givin' Somefin Back To The Game.

Narcissus, me?  Nah, coulden even ov spelled it.

And then,  today, I was wondering what would happen to me if I was walking down the road, you were in my way and so I bit you. As in bit your flesh  with my teeth. And then I said, Oh, sorry mate, no hard feelings, tell you what, I won't go to work for the next few days, that'll sort it.

The boy  needs help.

But if I bit you, with my teeth, I'd be in the cells now and going to the Magistrates Court in the morning,  charged with causing actual or grievous bodily harm to you, contrary to Section whatever it is of the Offences Against the Person Act and whatever the magistrates said to me it would not be:  And for the next ten Saturdays you cannot go in your garden.

Sport is dominated by Murdoch and one of his slugs, a football scribbler on the Times, was saying, today, that this biting bastard needs help.  No, he fucking doesn't, he needs kicking out of professional football at any level. And most of all, he needs to have his collar felt.  Maybe, after servng a few months, he can join  Shitmouth Hendry and  go and coach the Chinks. If he bit somebody over there  the   little yellow bastards'd probably shoot him, charge his family for the bullet and harvest his vital organs before he hit the deck. 'Swhat they do. When they're not eating dogs.

And the other ShitSport story of the moment is that some AliBaba horse training crook


Sorry, your Sheikness, they found us out.
I think you mean, infidel son of a camle's afterbirth, that they found you out.

 - aren't they all crooks, those horsey people - working for Saudi Sheik Loadsamoney,  some thieving arab, so rich that he's a friend of our own Good Queen, Thieving Brenda and her Thieving Family, has been doping the gee-gees. 


Yes, Sheiky, always best to blame one's servants. It's worked for my gang for fucking centuries. Off with their heads, that's what we used to say.  And I believe you do still do that shit, out there in the desert. Well, each to his own, one is not one to interfere.  Fuck, no.

 I know that, as horsenews goes,  it's not like Tesco and Iceland and all the rest of them feeding us DobbinBurgers  and Horseballs in pasta  but it's bad enough.  If you were naive enough to bet money on one of the other horses, the ones not on speed, then you probably lost it, were, in effect, conned out of it, defrauded.  But is AliBaba going down the nick, to be charged with fraud?  Not a bit of it.  He's going to judged by The right worshipful Guild of  HorseTrainers and Dopers, they'll probably tell him that he can't work for a while.

I thought it was just  clergymen, doctors, lawyers, the filth and MPs who sat in judgement on each other but it seems that immunity from normal prosecutorial vigilance now extends to so-called sportsmen.  My school rugby coach and pretend physics teacher, Shifty Watson,  would shit in his grave if he knew about all this.

Never mind, soon be time for Mommasboy Murray, the Gurning  Madman

  

and his encapsulated psychosis. 

      

     Modern sport, I fucking hate it.             

BOYHUNT!

It was like the last but one scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid;  they peek out of the door and there's the fucking Bolivian army - was it Bolivia? - all pointing rifles at them.

I watched Boyhunt! on al Jazeera and it was just so much better, so much less-slick, less-rehearsed, devoid of the Grammar of News which characterises the Beeb and skymadeupnewsandfilth.  It was quicker, too, scooping the eventual end of the story by five minutes from skymadeupnewsandfilth and a bit more from the BBC.

I've never seen so many Law'n'forcement vehicles, not even in a DieHard movie, all parked-up with their engines running and with flashing and swirling and alternating blue and orange and red lights, ten thousand pot-bellied,  gum-chewing,  shotgun-toting Law'n'forcement officers;  there were ugly armoured cars, SWAT teams and helicopters with billion candle-power searchlights;  there was the National Guard, the FBI, the CIA and in the White House there was Obie and any number of generals and spooks, Situation Rooming the, er, situation, like they do, in a special Situation Room, 


Now, motherfuckers, how we gonna kill this sonofafuckinbitch?
  Can't we just drone the fucker?
Y'know, in the interests of  Freedom.

giving Mr President SitReps, the fucking jumped-up numbskull, and talking about being at DefCon two, or, given the gravity of the situation that they're all busy SituationRooming, DefCon One, or Red or whatever fucking spooky gibberish these clowns communicate in..

The whole of Boston was obediently self-imprisoned in its own homes; business, schools; everything, shut-the fuck-down;  there was no mention of a Constitutional right to leave one's own home.  It was just Constitutional Amendment Number Minus-One, post facto martial law, Nixon's Law:  Do What You're Told, Asshole, Or We'll Shoot You By Mistake.

And all for one shot-up nineteen year-old boy.  Shit, he might have Anthrax bugs, he might have a nuke, he's probably got a truckload full of nukes hiddden in his jeans.  

In his latest sermon, Parson Obie described the Boston Bombers as  "stunted ".  He needs only about a hundred such stunted young men in Amurka and he's fucked, the useless, platitudinising half-wit.

I mentioned a couple of days back, having seen  a programme abour war photographers, 


Hello Sailorski

that Putin was a murderous thug, probably as bad as Uncle Sam, why did nobody say so? I was prompted by inside reportage of the Chechen  atrocities.  These two boys' homeland ethnic group has been suppressed and bullied, tortured and banged-up by GayVlad's goons, for decades, now.

 

Of course the moral posture is that oppression, however much one loathes marathon runners, is no  reason to bomb innocent people to  bits.  

But then Nine/Eleven was no reason to invade Iraq.  

If Uncle Sam wants to stop terror, he should stop doing it.

Still, the younger bomber is serious but stable in hospital. Maybe soon, he'll be fit enough to torture.

LES POULETS, ILS SONT ARRIVEE 'OME TO ROOST.

CHRISTINE, LA VACHE QUI RIT

 This past couple of years, the utterances of this old boot have been quoted and re-quoted by the UK Coalition.   Once, she said, theatrically,  When I sink ov 'ow ze UK might 'ave gone if ze poor people 'ad not 'ave been robbed ov zair 'omes an' jobs an' benefits, I shiver, brrrrr. ( old neck trembles from wrinkle to wrinkle and old shoulders actually shiver and shudder)

Athough this brutal observation is now at least two years old, the nincompoop, Flashman, constantly quotes it, as though she said it this morning, in his praise.


Cameron, le bon enfant.

And as if anyone in the real  world gives a fuck what she says. 

On her appointment to the IMF, you had to  admire how it was universally ignored that if her predecessor, Dominic Cock-Waver, had not been caught-out in sexual harrassment in New York, then  old Christine, a senior member of the discredited dwarf,

 Sarkozy's,  French government, would, come the French election, be down the road muttering, kicked out on her scrawny arse, like the rest of them. 

Apres moi, Christine, le deluge.
Oh, merde, Je desire another job, tres vite.
 
 Instead of being a useless  old political whore who had   very cynically jumped  the Sarkozy ship  at the first opportunity, Old Madame Cow was presented to the world as a financial wizard, sent from MoneyHeaven,  with mystical powers, a Goddess de l'argent, whom we were all lucky to have robbing us blind.

It has emerged, recently,  however, that she is to be investigated, in May, back home, by a French magistrate looking into charges that, whilst finance minister,  she took a bung from some bent government contract. 

Like Mr Rolf Harris and  so many others, Mme la Vache is refusing to dignify the charge with a comment, concentrating, instead, on her task of beggaring all the decent people in the world and enriching her masters. Messrs GlobaBank, the owners of the IMF.

                                        

WHAT THE 'PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. DEAD CROW BLUES. OLD BIRD THROWN ON THE FIRE.

• 

    LADY CROW AWAITING DISPOSAL

   

  A moment of deep civility amid the bitterness

  Peter Oborne »

• The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Christopher Howse »

• Britain after Margaret Thatcher is a disunited nation

  Iain Martin »

• Will we see another winner like her? Don’t bet on it

   

  Thatcher funeral: applause came from nowhere and followed coffin

   
  Crowds broke into spontaneous applause as Margaret Thatcher's hearse came into view, drowning out the jeers from protesters on the route to St Paul's, writes Michael Deacon.
  

  The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Thatcher funeral: as it happened

  Granddaughter says public speaking is "in the blood"

  Powerful images from funeral  

   

  Despite all this nauseating tripe from Redneck Central, the Filth-O-Graph is still not accepting comments on anything to do with Thatcher.  Obviously those great democrats, the Barclay ZombieTwins believe that their opinion, filtered through such cheap  lickspittles as now edit the shitrag, is all that needs to be said, pack of cheesy lies or not.  They do not own a dying newspaper, after all, to give a flying fuck about what their - albeit non-paying - readers think

  
  

   Daily, ancient, redblooded, well, perhaps a bit anaemic ex-pats, living in Spain or Florida, with sunny erectile disfunction and varicose veins,  flood the Filth-O's comments section with praise for the grubby old git, Tebbit,  or with damnation for lone parents or wogs and the BBC but since the terrible passing of the old crow, now, thankfully, ashes and cinders, like most of the country she so stridently and impertinently fucked-up,  all comment portals are closed, slammed shut, in fact.

  
  

  Might it be that even your whoreson redneck doesn't quite support the adoration of the Maggie, which has so dominated  and colonised the 'papers and  skymadeupnewsandfilth and most notably, the BBC?

  
  

  I suggest this for two reasons.  Firstly, if, as is claimed, only a few feeble-minded nutter anarchists, such as your correspondent, question the mythologising of old Mrs Crow, then surely the Filth-0-Graph would be delighted to publish thousands of tub-thumping comments in praise of the Boudicca de nos jours.  Secondly, in both Paul Dacre's filthy rag, the Mail and in the Filth-O-Graph, a recent editorial posture was that, Yes, the client welfare nation, is, as fuckheaded, innumerate, incompetent squeaky wee George Osblow insisted,   a mindless horde of nascent arsonists, child killers and dogging fiends.  One would have thought that the Filth-O-Graph would be fertile ground for this learned exposition, but au contraire, by a hundred-to-one Telegraph commenters not only disagreed with George Fuckhead but by the same ratio, fired a round of fucks into the worthless little chancer;  it was most heartening, although it must have had the editorial staff reaching for the cocaine or the brandy. The BBC comments pages, too, don't quite toe the establishment line, more than half of all comments, today,  are angry, anti-funeral, anti-crow, anti-politics and a good quarter of them have been censored for breaking house rules,  the BBC, run by thieves, arse bandits, panderers, ponces and child molesters is dead keen on politeness, after all.

  
  

  I suspect, therefore,  anyway, that Mr Retiree, eking out his pension on the Costa del Poverty is growing a bit tired of the continent-wide austerity, as they call it, which is the natural and inevitable consequence of  the ThatcherOrganisedCrime Gang deregulating the banks  and privatising our means of keeping warm, getting around and now of staying healthy.  Blatcherism, as it has now become, a dire blend of OldTory and NewLabour, citizen-hating, anyway,  is dead in the water, anyone with a hole in his arse knows that.  And I suspect that many former Tories are now taking a UKIP hammer to a Thatcher legend once set in stone.  The Barclays and their slaves wouldn't publish that, now, would they? Be interesting to see when ornithological comments are again welcome at the Telegraph.  They will probably insist that comment was disallowed as a mark of respect.
  
  I didn't watch the old crow's  junta-style funeral but I did have a moment of the day, a bit later, during a closely-controlled BBC voxpop segment.  There was this ex-paratrooper, bent as a nine-bob note, he was - a forty-five pence coin, for younger readers - probably has Do-Or-Die tattooed on his foreskin  and he had  one of those noncey, snuffler's beards which are so fashionable;  all rigid he was, in his blazer and his beret, virtually standing to attention.  He said, all parade-groundy, that Mrs Thatcher was a great prime minister because she allowed him to do wot 'e wuz trained for, killing people, and he would always be grateful. Funny how, with this gang, one minute, it's OhMyGod, Terrible Post Traumatic Distress Order, and the next it's a great privilege to rip some bastard's guts out with a bayonet, or better still, your bare hands.  As with the cops, we need to make soldiering a graduate profession.  Asked if he thought she was as great a PeeEm as Winston Churchill, Tommy thought for a moment and said,  the silly fucker, that Yes, in his opinion she was. No wonder Arnhem was a fuck-up, no wonder Bloody Sunday kicked-off.  If this mad old cunt is representative of ex-servicemen then it is they, and not old-age pensioners, tax-credit recipients and disabled people who are a threat to the nation.  Nearly a thousand people died in that Falklands Jamboree, and all because Lady Crow scrapped a South Atlantic Royal Naval patrol vessel;  mad old bitch.
  
  I had another moment, too,  as some old Tory hag, dressed and made-up and veiled like a whore in a French farce was fronting-out the fact that only criminal Americans had turned-up for this nonsense - Kissinger and some old White House goons, Cheney, for fuck's sake,  the Thief of Baghdad; Margaret wouldn't have wanted either of the Clintons and both Dubya and his old man were indisposed, Yeah, right, Dubya'll be coked off his chimp face or else in rehab, and  his old man's loopy, like Maggie.  No-one would have expected Obama, she simpered, he's far too busy. No mention of Jimmy Carter, this Polyfilled and  lacquered old boot probably never heard of him. There wasn't even a US Ambassador, Obie couldn't be arsed to appoint one, to attend the funeral of the woman who won the Cold War.  So there, a quartet of vicious, warcrimeing old degenerates, none of them in office, all of them lucky not to be in jail;  wasn't that proof of Maggie's specialness in the US?
  
  And yes, it was; most of her kin and cronies, after all, especially her son - what did they call him and his new bint?  the honourable Sir Mark and Lady Thatcher? FuckMeJesus that prat's got some nerve, if he was a kleptobanker, or almost anyone else, people'd be calling for him to be stripped of his hereditary viscountcy -  are or were crooks, thieves, torturers and worse.
  
  MediaMinster put on a good show, with our money but it looked to me that attendance was thin - it wasn't like Diana, for instance, or Michael Jackson - and that  a lot of it would've been a mixture of tourists and applesanpears, troubleanstrife pearly KingsanQueens type Lahndunners, 'avin a day out.
  
  A damp squib, despite everyone's best efforts but one that may yet re-ignite.  We might yet see MediaMinster eating crow, instead of burning it. 

   

   

   

   

BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME.

THE UNITED STATES OF ATROCITY

& now, ladeezangenullmen,

 The Boston Tea Party

 OBIE TALKS MORE YES, WE CAN'T SHIT

 

My Fellow motherfuckers.  
This is just  to let y'all know that I'm on the case, again. 
And you can trust me to sort this shit. 
 Just like I did with gun control. 
Y'remember how I sorted that shit.

THE THINGS THEY SAY. GRANT SHITTS, MP, ON APPROVED QUESTION TIME, BBC

"Of course  the reason we Brits don't like to eat horsemeat is that we don't like to eat animals which eat other animals........."

Shitts, or whtever he calls himself these days, is, quite fittingly, chairman of Cameron's and Osborne's Conservative Party.  How can they lose ?

sickbed notes. EQUALITY NEWS

EQUALITY NEWS.

Nay-dine, Honey is that you? 

(Charles Edward "Chuck" Berry 1957)

Poor Nadine Dorries; half, maybe more than half of the shit-eating slimeballs in the commons do second jobs, more properly first jobs,  many of them, like catastrophically pisspoor educashun seckatry, Michael Spit, 

 

when in opposition, earned far more from Rupert Murdoch's Times shitrag newspaper-of-record than he did as an MP, in fact it was his MP-ness which legitimised his dreadful,  spit-flecked columns - and, as we saw at Leveson, Micky is Rupert's man unto death - for they were awful, tub-thumping rubbish - nothing of a new philosophy  of education in a world upended by globalisation and hand-held media voodoo devices; nothing of teachers  dragooned into being servants  of the wider economic HellChase, of  LuvEmToBitsMyKids  fuckwit parents seeing professional educators primarily as child-minders - nothing of any intellectual merit, or even intellectual curiosity; no recognition, at least not publicly, that young Jamie and Kyle are carrying around, on their persons, clever little  devices which can access and contain a writhing, thrusting juggernaut of pornography which would have made Caligula faint and by which Jamie and Kyle are judging their pubescent girlfriends.  None of this, which is what you might expect from a concerned education minister; no, instead we see  just a nasty, vengeful, reactionary incompetent, bleating endlessly for a return to nineteen-fifties values, values which never existed, not even in the nineteen-fifties and which, even if they had, would be irrelevant in WikiWorld. No, he's an arse, Spitty, but  turd-polishing earnestly for his immensely wealthier colleagues in the Tory  cabinet, Spitty at least knows his place. I call him Spit, incidentally, because I used to watch the wretch, years back, on some late-night BBC pseudo politics  show,  generally debating, or filibustering, with Dame Polly Toynbee of Majorca and Tower Hamlets;  so fond of the sound of his own voice was Spitty, that during his incessant expositions on this or that affair of state he would gather bubbles in the corners of his mouth and eventually they would drip obscenely down his chops, a more modest man would have brought his speechifying to an end  and  whilst the camera was on her Dameship, dabbed at the corners of his mouth, before launching another I'm so Clever I Could Eat My Own Shit tirade on, as we mentioned in the last thread, any subject under the Sun, Spitty's verbal reserves, whilst neither illuminating nor entertaining took on such an andless,  diarrhoeaicly liquid nature that in a spitting contest he would have thrashed the arse off His Grace, the Lord Hatterjee of Spitbrook and Claridges. So desperate for a journalistic by-line, incidentally, remains the slooshing,  slobbering  prick, Gove, that he managed to get his imprimatur on the frontispiece of, God save us,  tens of thousands of King James Bibles, 

issued, on his ministerial iinstruction, to Britain's schools. You woulda thought, wouldn't you, that Archbishop Beard might've issued Mickey Spit with a rebuke about vanity, but no, render unto Caesar, or in this case, render unto fucked-up, saliva-dripping Tory orphan.

The artist formerly known as Canterbury.

What, argue with the govament?  Me?

Don't you know who I am?

I write the odd bit of cosmetic complaint but there's no way I'm telling a minister he's a cunt. Even if he is . Even if they all are. Which they all are.

        
 Anyway, many of them earn six figures prattling in the 'papers, just look at  the Shagging Albino, Johnson, troughing twice his mayoral salary from the Barclay ZombieTwins at the Filth-O-Graph.  More of   the right honourable and learned ones earn a fortune down the courts, only appearing in MediaMinster at prime minister's unanswered questions and non-lawyer, non-scribbling tosspots,  people like Andrew Spiv,

Yes, bribes from industry help me keep my snout in the real world, I mean feet.

 former privatising health seckatry, when in opposition, earned, in his own words, Just fifty thousand a year,  pimping, only took a minute or two a month, that's how brilliant he is.  They are all at it. And if they're not, they'd love to be. 

 John Tedium Redwood, 


Redwood, fellow of this, master of that,
 director of something else  and, Oh, yes, MP
 
achingly, earnestly didactic when wearily outlining the national economic ailment, is paid huge sums by the businesses for whom he is actually pimping; lobbying,  they call it.  And it's quite legal.

But poor old Nadine;  Christ, you'd think she was running a paedophile brothel.  All she's doing is disappearing for a few weeks, at most.  Countless honourable and right honourable spivs find that they simply cannot carry out their duties unless they travel on fuck-finding missions to the world's most expensive and exotic locations, at our expense.  But Nadine's  a woman and she has dissed, as we now say, the public schoolboy numbskull charlatans on her own frontbench, open season on her, therefore, for  wimmen-hating,  apoplectic Tory burghers.

But leaving all  that Nadine stuff aside, the member for Kircaldy, as befits a ranting, screeching, footstamping, nail-shredding   bully,  blazes a moonlighting  trail all his own. 


Elder statesman.
Playing with his cock.

Since losing the election,  Gordon Snot has been seen once, just once, on the green benches, and then only to grind his own unconvincing Murdoch axe, sourgrapesing his former partner in crime. Oh, he's there, nods the cuckolded halfwit and New Labour's Mr Showbiz, Alan Postie Johnson; 


I sing and play guitar, y'know.
Do you think, Alan, maybe it was that which made your Mrs run-off with your bodyguard?  
At least, Michael, I'm not a fairy.
No, quite. And nor am I.

 he's there, just not actually in the chamber, insists the Johnson  cuckold, from the SlutSofa of Andrew Slag's This Week show, he's definitely there, doing things. Definitely.

But only some of the time is Snotty working his behind-the-scenes magic, Alan, for  the ghastly, gibbering, snot-eating  Presbyterian freak has a new, global position.  Young parent Brown, when not doing his bit for people down at the Kircaldy Oxfam shop, is now the UN's special something-or-other,  pontificating on Life in Pakistan, and how it's a fucking disgrace that we've let them away with all this Moslem shit for centuries. Seems that the madness light which illuminated his war crimes burns still brightly in his fevered mind, still fuels his bombastic I-Know-Bestism;  the teenage girls of Pakistan, they should be our focus. Why's that, then, Snotty? All of our own  bloated, drunken, brawling, incoherent teenage  girls sorted out, are they?

Didya see that Pakistani child, bytheway, wotsername, the one shot in the head by the Talimen?  Isn't she utterly fucking unbearable, she's like the young freakmonster,  William Miscarriage, at that Tory conference way back, before before, blethering on, like a grown-up, but more like a dog walking on its hindlegs. FuckMeJesus, you just know how she's going to turn out.  Her Dad needs a kick up his arse. Wossisname,  Mohammed Pushy Parent, 

 Christ, I hate  those bastards,  their fucked-up brats play the piano or do adding-up like they were fucking robots, off to Cambridge at ten or eleven, wrecked on the rocks of parental ambition by twenty.  Remember that horrid little cunt who was an expert on antiques, poor, pathetic little fuck.  This Pakistani kid is like him, repulsive little brat, lecturing the world, while Daddy smirks on the sidelines.  If one believed in Dalai Lama-style reincarnation one might see this gobby little child as the spirit of Whisky Maggie, articulating with pure Thatcher clumsiness and insincerity her crunchingly inarticulate Manifesto of Horseshit.

  I wouldn't care if she was Mozart, which she isn't, I'm not interested in teenagers' opinions and nor should anyone else be.  If the people of Pakistan want their women educated then let them sort it out.  Never heard of any Asians flying over here to stand with the Suffragettes, or the Roundheads.  Gordon Brown is such a cunting  awful son of the fucking manse that he still believes, despite all the evidence contrariwise,  that the world agrees that he knows best. 

She's at school in Edgbaston, now, getting the celebrity pupil treatment, for now.  

We must hope that it doesn't last and they start pulling her hair and flushing her essays down the toilet.  I used to know those Edgbaston schoolgirls,  mean, snotty bitches they were.

  I have mentioned, before, in reference to Welsh Guardsman and gabshite, Simon Weston,

Disappointed Wannabe Crime Commisioner, Weston.

 amongst others, that getting hurt isn't actually heroism, and nor is getting better.  Everybody tries to get better, it's hardwired, it's not heroism. It is of course deplorable that this kid  was shot but she's ok now, unlike countless thousands of her compatriots, scores, hundreds of children in Ireland, in Africa, in Palestine, in Syria, all over the place there's children being topped by headbangers,  Uncle Sam does them by the score, at home and abroad;  this girl is lucky, she should count her blessings, cultivate some modesty and shut the fuck up. 

Funny, too, how no-one accuses her and her family of health tourism.  No, go on, it's not in bad taste,  there must be tens of thousands of Pakistani children who would benefit from a trip to an NHS hospital, mustn't  there;  the water's shit, there's fucking floods and famines and earthquakes;  the little buggers live in mud huts with cattlleshit everywhere and they're oppressed on one side by Barmy Benazir Bhutto's sticky-fingered, would-be dynasty,  on  another side by vicious, headchopping religious fundamentalist nutters and from the skies by Obamalama's atrocitydrones, shot at them by crewcut, psychobastard, momma's boy, gangraping fuckpigs, sitting in a bunker in fucking Idaho, or some other Uncle Sam shithole state.  One way and another,  Pakistan must be littered with injured children. Funny how only little wotsername was singled out for Mercy's Airlift. 
 
stop press, since writing this, the wee darling has  signed  a three million pound book contract, maybe Jeremy My Name'sHuntNotCunt or Nigel Farrage will ask her to pay for her treatment. As if.

Don't know, anyway,  if Snotty's  UN position gets him loads of free trips, on which he can take the dreadful beard, Sarah, but probably. Probably he does. And what with that,  the one day a week in the Oxfam shop - giving something back  - and the clandestine, ex-camera operations in Westminster, no-one can accuse the distinguished SnotMuncher of neglecting his parliamentary duties for more than two years.  Even though that is exactly what he has done, disgracefully, despite the absurd protestations of the  ridiculous Alan Johnson.

 Poor Ms Dorries, however,  will, in all probability, by doing a second job,  bring herself and  the entire shithouse of honourables and right honourables into disrepute.  Unlike, say, Mr Huhne, who in the words of so many of his colleagues,  has suffered a dreadful family tragedy. Whisky Maggie headbutted her way through the glass ceiling ? A role model for women? You have to laugh or you'd fucking weep.