HATE NOTHING AT ALL EXCEPT HATRED.

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THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL

 CAMERON TO WAGE WAR ON HATEMONGERS

After chairing a meeting of COBRA - move over, if you please, Mrs May, I'm still in charge - the unelected prime minister, the right honourable Mr CallHimDave, MA (Oxon) MP, said that it was probly time to crack down on those preaching hatred in our country and he had, therefore, ordered the security services to arrest the govament, all three parties of it.  For far too long our country has been seen as a place where totally unprincipled criminal factions have  been able to preach hatred with absolute wotsaname, immunity, is it, impunity?

Now listen, continued Mr Cameron, almost every day of the week one can probly hear these people on the PBC and in the newspapers just simply preaching hatred, that's all it is, setting one half of the country against the other half  and  probly  hoping to get themselves elected. Well, I for one have had enough of it.  Officer, arrest me and take me into custody.  

Before being taken to Wormwood Scrubs  Mr Cameron issued a list of those suspected of hate-preaching.   

Theresa al May

Cameron's security chief

 Abu al Clarke
aka Mr Cool Kenny

Nicky bin Clegg
infamous turncoat, traitor, secretly in the pay of foreigners. 

My Name's Hunt Not Cunningham.
Charged with selling-off NHS to organised crime.

Two Homes Pickles.
I need two homes because I go to work.

Michael al Spit
aka Mickey the Gob, Mickey Gabshite.
Believed to be extra-terrestrial.

Boy George, pm's henchman,
chief hatemonger
    

Brothers in arms, terrorists Balls and Miliband,
colluding in govament attacks on ordinary people.           

Billy bin Hague, international terror chief, 
not flying his not boyfriend around the world
 not at the taxpayers' expense.

Now look, said Cameron from his prison cell,

it is to be hoped, that by jailing all these, frankly perfectly nasty people, we will probly be able to put a stop to all this nastiness of old people being robbed of their pensions, thrown out of their homes, of sick people being forced to look for non-existent jobs, ot workers having no rights whatsoever and of rich people paying little or no tax.

It is a far, far better thing I wotsaname now...a far, far........

DON'T THEY KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?

DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI

(UNIUS FAMA FAMILIA EST SCRIPTOR.)

Sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland
(And for the fame of one's family.)

You can't really wear a black tie with a tee-shirt. 

 And anyway, ItsWod'EWouldOfWanted, his real and his step-relatives, slobbering and snotting in front of the world, dressed not in respectful mourning but  for a barbecue. Dressed a la Philpott.

The new Britons.

There will be bereaved, still,  from WW2, from Korea, Malaya, from  Maggie's election war in the South, from KneeCapsville,  they are  mostly quiet and in public, at least,  dignified; people who really did endure  a quiet, stalwart, No Comment sacrifice.  No longer, we are no longer those people. And sad though it is to say it,  the bereaved of the  officer class make the other ranks' look like shit.  

I don't know how these things work, maybe money changes hands; even so, one would expect the CO and the skypilots to talk these people down, steer them away from the cameras, into private and healing mourning, rather than into rubbishy showbusiness.

 These skriking, BestFriend mothers - escaped, it often seems,  from some grim, bloody-handed, Grecian IncestORama production  - and showy, shepherding stepfathers, you could paper the fucking walls with them, their tackiness, their doggerel poems, their sheer, fucking awful, scruffy, disrespectful  camera-hogging vileness;  is celebrity really so compelling, so addicitve that it blows in, gift-wrapped, on Death's every passing breeze?

These wretched people must spend their squalid, miserable lives rehearsing such a moment, longing, in their tedium, for a death, a lottery win, a next-door murder - anything to get them, even momentarily, into the public gaze.

And as if that's not bad enough, the People, readers of the Daily Blame and the Filth-O-Graph, dance enthusiastically to this same nauseating tune;  a glance at the angry columns will reveal a thousand to one in favour of this morbid pantomime, this gurning voice without restraint; some have recorded this unholy press conference and are rewatching it, sobbing their sweaty socks off, time after time, xxx-ing poor Lee, as though they were his sweethearts, one footballnutter posting: From a Liverpool fan to a Man U fan, Lee, mate, You'll never walk alone, RIP xxx, you were a great bloke.

I blame Lady Sir Elton John.  Any chance that he might make another so-called charity record, GoodBye England's Little Drummer Boy, pa-rop-a-pom-pom?  It was mr jgm2 who most recently regretted the awful events of poor mad Diana's funeral,  the applause,  the Mafia-like flower flinging, the mass hysteria,  but it has been a staple for years of these commentaries. Pissing, we are, in the wind.

You can kind of understand the DianaFest, she had been thrust into people's faces for a decade or more - fat, thin, coked or straight -  and the feeble-minded thought that her life was not only real but was theirs, too,  their vicarious fairy story.  Nobody, however, outside his kin and his regiment, had ever heard of Lee Rigby.  Is it the bloody nature of his death, its visibility,  the shocking and incomprehensible self-engagement of passers-by which are so disturbing;  might it be the very ordinariness of speech and demeanour of his killers, blood-drenched, standing there, calmly  explaining themselves?

I've never been to Aff-gan, as they all call it but I would  bet my life that combatants on all sides suffer lengthier and more painful deaths than poor Lee Rigby - degraded. humiliated, terrified, infantilised, crying for mother, smelling their own blood and shit, seeing their exposed bones, their missing limbs, knowing they are dying, despite what their comrades are screaming at them, comrades trying to shoo Death away, knowing that one day this might be them, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow.  Maybe if all the deaths and maimings were seen as starkly and vividly as was Lee Rigby's then we might value them all, regret them all  as profoundly as we have his. Who knows, maybe one day the Daily Blame will take us into an Arabian or Asian home in mourning.

In the meantime, the best BestFriending a mum can do is tell her kids You can get killed in the Army, y'know, or worse. I know that's hard to do because the Army doesn't even say that.  For some reason, a few years back, the Army confused me with a real person and invited me to one of its evenings.  Everyone else was a dignitary of some sort, bent councillors, bent coppers, headteachers, hacks, council officers; haven't a clue, to this day, why I was invited.  But there I was, at an Army PR event.  Even the canapes were standing, millimetre perfect, to attention, served by starched and pressed catering corpsters.

The presentation, by Brigadier Philip King, was as smooth, flashy and seamless as any I have ever seen.  It was brilliant.  There were Phil, a lieutenant, a sergeant and a couple of corporals multi-media spinning the idea that you joined the Army to learn a trade  - and there were scores of them to choose from -  sometimes you went abroad to  help poor bloody foreigners with your expertise, in finding water or building roads and you saw the world and got paid for it;  sometimes you might help out at home, with floods and stuff.  There was absolutely no mention of the basic purpose of the British - or any other - army, which is to shoot or stab or bomb other people to death, to do it as violently as is humanly possible and, of course, to expect much the same in return.

That such well-drilled practices are, in recent decades, largely futile, is immaterial.  People who killed and tortured British squaddies are now sitting in the Belfast parliament with better conditions and pensions than Tommy Atkins will ever have. Iraq is in a much worse state now than before we blew it back to the Stone Age and we will leave Aff-Gan much as we found it. And there has never been, incidentally, so much heroin available on the streets. And this is what so irks and enrages about these fucking press conferences, it is that, via showbusiness, by lionising the dead, by - in fact  - clebrating their deaths, we vindicate by ommission filth like this:

 Snot of Aff-Gan,

 NewLabour unelected prime minister, gets his shit together.

 Drunken Johnny Reid of Aff-Gan, 

briefly NewLabour defence seckatry, 

incompetent, thug, bully, slag and ponce.

Nobody will get shot-at in Afghanistan.

 Ainsworth of Aff-Gan,  

NewLabour defence seckatry, the most over-promoted politician in living memory

 Hoon of Iraq, NewLabour defence seckatry.

 Iraqi women will one day thank me for killing their children, honest, not invent.  That'll be five thousand pounds a day, please.

And of course....

Tony and Imelda, peacemakers and devout catholics.

They must all love this, mustn't they? 

All filthy rich, untouchable and instead of us blamimg them, 

we are, almost as one, blaming the two Mikes of Woolwich.

Lee Rigby just the latest hero, cynically deployed  by  filthsters like Boris Johnson, who insist that  our foreign policy has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with his death.

No business like showbusiness.

STREET OF SHAME

Private Eye's fortnightly slant on What The  'Papers Say, should properly read Street Without Shame but with a part-time editor like littlefatman Hislop one can't expect too much;  that he hasn't destroyed the Eye completely is probably due to the fact that it's actually run by real grown-ups

There isn't a Fleet Street, anyway. I don't know if there ever was; there will be a few bars, restaurants, bondage salons, glass-topped shitting tables  and mainstream knocking shops which are patronised by both  arms of MediaMinster and these brothels and piss corners probably form the fabric of what we still describe as Fleet Street;  the hacks, though,  can file their rants and dribblings and arselickings and plagiarisms from almost anywhere on the planet. 

Their personal doings, though, are conventionally mundane, sordid and local.  How many respected hacks were jumping on and into Blind Boy Blunkett's  journalist  bint,

 Yes, I know she's married, but I'm Tony Blair's 

home seckatery and I can do what I want.

 Yes, I know she's married 

but I'm a professional gossip and I can do what I want.

 Yes, I know she's married, 

she's married to me.

 Kimberley Quinn, when he, and presumably her hubby, were not around. Simon Hoggart, the Guardian's wine and gossip writer eventually confessed to being a quarter of this o'er moist menage a quatre, at least quatre;  poor woman, being gangbanged in instalments by such a crew of weird old men;  she probably led them on, bitch.

 And there's the spectacularly unprepossessing Andrew Marr and his adultery super injunction shenanigans, 

typical of hacks, dish the dirt on anyone, bar themselves.  Bo-Jo, part-time mayor, full time Filth-O-Grapher,  scribbler and bloated, albino fuckbunny;  gobby Gerry Clarkson, another Murdochee, strayed from his dwarf wife 

 

and sought to keep it all under legal wraps.  We could  be here for days;  what was HagFace  Robinson's 

 

Daily Mirror relationship with the bouncing Czech, publisher, MP and pensions grand larcenist, Bob Maxwell? Even before she had her face resculpted in plastic her wink was about as enticing and flirtatious  as a leg ulcer, Jesus fucking wept.

 Despite the absence of a trade locale, the absence of hot metal and despite the creeping, consumptive death of all newspapers - broad,  tabloid  and pornosheets - the hacks' trade has changed little;  they remain grubby labourers in the field of engineered public stupidity, propagandists of a scarcely distinguishable set of self-appointed ruling mobsters, networks of organised crime, those who judge themselves  the right sort   to keep ordinary, stupid people in line, place'd go to fuck if ordinary people had any say in the matter and the journalists are  an equally culpable, disgusting  regiment of the Shit-In-Our-Faces brigade.

They, journalists,  are without exception,  undeclared spokespersons for an industry.  Music journalists are spokespersons for the music industry;  writers for Q magazine, for instance, don't work for the readership but for Pink Floyd and Bruce Springsteen -  the ever breathless septuagenarian teenager, singing about his baby and his car, stupid cunt - Bob Dylan fuels an entire industry, from Rolling Stone magazine to hundreds if not thousands of fanzine-ers, Clinton Heylin can tell us who played what and when and how, in what time signature and in what key on every Bob Dylan recording, EVER - don't argue with me I have read all his mad, obsessive books - and what they all meant;  Paul Morley, of the ghastly PBC2 Newsnigh review, famous for his Hundred-bests-of-this-and-that-show appearances can find deep cultural-sociological-comical-tragical-historical significance in the direst, most meaningless, trashiest, two-minute punk thrash; they all do this shit, not just for the money, not just for free music and free tickets to gigs but for Access, maybe not Access All Areas but a few minutes access to whichever grunting, cokehead, arrested-development delinquent it is - Paul Haircut'n'Jumper Weller, Badger Brian May. Lady Sir Elton John.  These people - rock critics - are midnight shitpipe crawlers, pretending to be critics. 

 PBC diva,  Paul Gambuccini,

 a US  import, is famed not just for how many gay pop icons came out to him first - or so he claims, hissily -  but for his astonishingly crass confession that he knew all along what Sir Jimmy Childfucker was up to but didn't blow the whistle because it would have wrecked his career, his career of oozing his  comforting tongue-borne saliva up the arses of overblown nobodies.

But if you think that's bad, just look at the shitmunchers who call themselves political  journalists,  theirs is the rankest of sewers.  Many were shocked and disdainful when  Paul Staines, Colonel von Fawkes of the PizzaHouseOfBlood, 

Paul  Staines in his playwear.

sub-titled his blog, gossip, rumour and insinuations - something like that, anyway, perhaps insinuation is too polysyllabic for Staines, whose idol, after all,  is the racist, Nazi, sexist,  moronic  bullyboy fuckpig,  Sir Kelvin McFilth 

McFilth and Moron.
Britain's most successful journalists. 
Why aren't they in jail?

- but actually, all he was doing was aping the outrageous  British Lobby System,   by which the likes of Nick Toenails, the PBC's political arselicker-in-chief, 

Well, yes of course I know who said what to whom 
but I couldn't possibly tell the viewers.

 Toilets Maguire, the Daily Mirror's token poor-boy-done-good; the intolerably smug Andrew Read My Book, Servants Of The People Rawnsley 


Andrew Knobcheese, knower of secrets.

of the disgraceful Sunday ArseBridger  In fact almost everybody  in mainstream political "reporting" trades in the knowing whispers and secret handshakes of  "unattributable briefing." Slaphead Toenails smirking that "his sources are telling him.....this and that ...........close friends of the minister have told him.............. I have learned that......senior Tories are telling me...." Robinson and others gain acess to our lavishly paid employees, the filth in parliament,  on the basis of no names, no pack drill and if they do reveal names they are fucked-off out of The Lobby.  Cunts, all of them, conspiring to keep the stupid stupid and confound the intelligent.

And then there's Newsnight. Drunken  Emily Thighs,

staggering across the studio in ten-inch heels and having a chat with some arsehole from one of the political parties, with whom she was probably dining the night before.

  Stephanie Boots, banging-on about The Economy, Stupid, as if she had the first idea about  what she spoke  of and poor old Paul Mason

 - you can see his mind whirring and clunking, For fucks sake,God,  let me think of something knowledgeable  to say about this whatever-it-is, because I haven't a fucking clue; how did I get this job?   And best of all, glued to his job, million pounds a fucking year, the ridiculous Paxman, 

with his faux cantankerousness, a gilded, luxuriant Cantabrian, pretending to roast his fellow Oxbridge boys-and-girls, but telling them, pre-interview, All the world's a stage, old darling, take no notice, there's no business like showbusiness, join me for a drink in my dressing room, afterwards, no hard feelings. Yes, of course it's all free.

I was in the doctor's waiting room. Considering they're all private businesses you'd think they would furnish their customers with some decent reading material whilst keeping them waiting for an hour or so. But no, tatty old National Geographics, Hello magazines and - last week - an issue of Classic Cars. Don't know if you've seen Classic Cars but it's full of features and adverts for clapped-out old bangers, ranging from Hillman Imps to   Bentley Continentals.  This is Motoring Journalism, just the same as all the other forms of journalism.  You can learn, if you want to, how to rebuild
a thirty-year old Lancia which was good for fuck all when it was brand new and'll still be good for fuck all when you've spent tens of thousands of pounds on it, just like your local MP, good for fuck all, no matter what you do with them. 

It's the same right across the board,   the same wanky drooling over a rusty, old Triumph 2500 - you know, the one with carburettors that you need to adjust every fifteen miles - as over a gull-wing Mercedes 300 SL, which, even if you could get it to go, you'd be terrified of taking into a multi-storey car park.  It all seemed to me like a petrolhead's fantasy world.

I love cars, mind you,  There's only two of us but I have three:  a one-litre, convertible Smart car, with automatic transmission and paddle-shift gear change on the steering wheel and it'd shit  all over any of those dreadful British sportscars, MGs, Triumphs, Healeys, and it doesn't piss oil out all the time, and the roof is wind and watertight, and it always starts, we use it for  local stuff, up to the town, and for fun, the 1000-cc version  does go like stink, short wheelbase makes it stick to the road;  I have an old, four-litre, auto Ford SUV, a big, lazy car, easy  to drive, which I use for carrying or hauling stuff and then I have the hundred and fifty-five miles an hour Citroen C4 VTS, with swivelly headlights, dual aircon, bulletproof glass and fuck knows what else, which I am taking to Europe in the Autumn, just to see how it is, flat-out.  I hope I don't die on the Autobahn. I use it for travelling up and down Scotland and England, it overtakes like a motorcycle, has rockhard suspension and is the sort of car which could easily get you banned.  I like cars.  I'd have more of them if I could afford it.  But I would never have a Mark Two Jag, they were shit, the Hillman Imp was a joke and I get palpitations at the thought of a '70s Bentley Continental having to go into the garage, which it would, often. So, much as I like cars, I couldn't see the sense of this Classic Car stuff, until, that is, I read the front page.

Quentin Willson - an iffy name if ever I saw one - describes himself as the nine-year presenter of the PBC's Top Gear Show, and as a highly-respected motoring journalist  and broadcaster.  You've seen him on Channel Five. He's that smarmy git with the slicked-back few  strands of hair. 

 

What he actually does is front an advert for a car warranty scheme which he claims to have personally devised in the interests of motorists,  a bit like Sir Michael Parkinson, funeral-frightening the old folk and tempting them with a free Parker Pen or that old,  coffin-dodging queen, Nicholas Parsons,  commending 2000 per cent APR loans for the poor.  And Quentin  voices-over, for British viewers, one of those fucking awful, US-made Lights! Action! Camera! Cops! Mortuary! shows.  You know the thing, This stupid driver thought he could get away with this behaviour, speeding or being drunk or both,  but he hadn't reckoned on the ShitCounty, Arkansas Highway Patrol and Patrolman Hiram T Cheesburger the Third. It's bits, often fragments of police-cruiser videotape from all over the States, Quentin I-Know-Besting over a selection of spectacularly trivial and uninteresting  non-event horseshit. The show goes out in the middle of the night, so Quentin, the respected motoring journalist's  home audience probably doesn't see it, but I, lonesome, obsessive insomniac, do. And he sounds just like what he is, a cheap, do-anything, fading luvvie.

He wrote the frontispiece, is that the word, for a magazine, in this isue of Classic Cars.  He was pissing himself in glee.  He'd been to an auction and bought - for just £24, 000   - an old Rolls Corniche convertible but being Quentin, he'd done his ree-surch, and learned that  this particular old banger had been bought by some gangster, gun-runner, pimp, ponce and slag for his Mrs,  some high-priced  and age-discordant beauty or other; Khashoggi, was it, something like that. And QW was creaming himself at the though that,  thanks to his ree-surching skills,   he now owned a slice of motoring history. And that made the car - and Quentin - really special.  In one of those chilly-sweaty waking nightmares, I  could see him, Quentin, his shiny, slicked-back bonce, getting down and sniffing the seats, matched Navy Blue Connolly hide, of course.  He'd had it trailered-home, by a friend, naturally, in the trade and had only driven it once round the block and there were only a few things wrong with it.  It was, declared Quentin, a keeper. Just goes to show what you can do, the prat inferred, if you are as clever as me.

That was the point of it, God sent me that magazine just to remind me, that whatever the trade they are pimping - politics, music, motoring, whatever it is,  - the writers are just filthy slags.

It was pathetic, really, a grown man behaving like that, cheaply. And I was glad when the doctor came and tapped me on the shoulder, breaking my reverie of homicidal disdain for writers in general and journalists in particular.

Even though, unlike the press, I don't use them,  I don't think that there's anything particularly wrong with sex-workers - they could certainly have better working conditions and be afforded some respect;  generally what they do is straightforward,  honest and, I believe, socially helpful;   unlike the press, they do not pretend to be serving a higher, truthful, critically important  purpose. 

 The press, therefore, for me, and not the sex industry, is the oldest  and most disreputable profession, part of the system which perpetuates the ruled and the rulers, the fucked, if you like, us,  and the fuckers, them; the press, the govament, criminal big business,  the royal ponces and the noncing monsignors, all in the same poxy knocking shop, all up each others' arses, all an offence to decent people.

And tonight the press is in a frenzy, a soldier is hacked to bits - as they all seem to love saying; Y'ever notice that, when someone is hacked to death they  all keep saying it,  even months, years after,  decades after, they all keep saying that that London bobby, pc Keith Blakelock, for instance,  was Hacked to Death, why can't they just say Killed, or Knifed? Don't they have any concern for the relatives of the Hackee, hearing that phrase,  year after year? Fucking bastards -  outside his barracks and his killers just hang around, waiting to be collared.  What is all this about, they shriek, even consulting the moron,  Lord John Reid.  How can this shit happen? And what does it all mean?

If, however, they had ever reported Obama's murder-by-drone policy,

 

 Collateralised for  Freedom.

endorsed by no less a political heavyweight than the inbred mutant CallHimDave 

 

 I'm just so glad  Obie, that you probly
 won the Battle of Britain for us.

and  by the rest of MediaMinster; if they had reported the century of Jewish-American-Zionist terror against the Arabs, maybe even if they had reported Uncle Sam's Netherlands Act - which empowers the President to use any force necessary to "rescue" any US war criminals brought before the International Court in the Hague - if they had reported that  - no matter what drunken, depressive,  bi-curious, MediaMinster  hoodlum, 

 

 Alastair Campbell said - the invasion of Iraq was in direct contravention of the 1948  Nuremburg Tribunal's ruling on war crimes .......if, if,  if,  if the press had ever told the truth about recent history, instead of whoring for Power, then it would not, should not come as any surprise that angry young men commit atrocitymurder on the streets of London, and don't even seek escape.  

  

STOP PRESS, THE FILTHYMAIL, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH,  THE FILTHYPORN EXPRESS

COME ON CAMERON, MAKE NIGEL FARAGE CHAIR OF COBRA.

GIVE A REAL MAN A CHANCE.

IT'S WHAT THE TENS  OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WHO DIDN'T AND NEVER WOULD VOTE FOR THE  NASTY FUCKER WANT.

UN NEWS. SYRIA CALLS FOR SANCTIONS AGAINST UK. THEY ARE KILLING THEIR OWN PEOPLE,SAYS BASHER ASSAD.

Calling for a no-fly zone to be established over Ian Duncan Smith, leader of the British terrorist group, DWP, President Assad of Syria told the Security Council of shocking  and inhumane scenes in Britain  as the failing country's illegitimate coalition government fell apart.  

The DWP are the dicredited coalition leaders' hit squad. They are completely ruthless, attacking old people and sick people, stealing their money and forcing them from their homes.  The civilised world cannot stand idly by whilst Smith and his mercenary goons, known as ATOS,  intimidate the weaker members of British society, stealing their homes and money and giving it to the ruling sect, mainly Old Etonians and Bankers, often both.

Despite government efforts to muzzle it,   the British press is filled with stories of Smith-led brutality. Smith's terror campaign is believed to be rooted in his brief but intensely humiliating period as leader  of the UK's  Nasty Party. Smith was treated as a figure worthy only of derision and mocked for his custom of using public funds to pay his wife, Betsy Smith, for being his wife.  Since his ejection from the post of NastyLeader, Smith has been plotting revenge on all the poor, sick and disabled people who did not vote for him and instead took what Britons call the piss, from the wheezing, balding, rat-toothed terrorist chief.

Smith, President Assad insisted, is creating a humanitarian (strictly speaking in- or un- or non-humanitarian, ed.) crisis unparallelled in Britsh history.  A warrant must be sworn-out for Smith's arrest and extradition to Le Hague's International Criminal Court.

From the British press:

Woman kills herself over bedroom tax

By Nick Britten, The Daily Telegraph. May 13 ,2013

A grandmother with empty bedrooms in her council house killed herself after being unable to afford the Government's bedroom tax, her son has claimed.

In a suicide note, Stephanie Bottrill, 53, of Kingshurst, Birmingham wrote to her children: "Don't blame yourself for me ending my life. The only people to blame are the Government."

The day before she walked in front of a lorry on the M6 she told a friend she had not eaten for three daays through worry about the £20-a-week cosat of the two bedrooms which had once been occupied by her two children, Steven, 27 and Laura, 23.  She had also told neighburs " I can't afford to live any more.""  "She was fine before this bedroom tax," said Steven  "............dreamed up  in London by people in offices who live in big houses.  They have no idea of the effect it has on people like my mum."

Miss Bottrill, who suffered from the auto-immune system deficiency myasthenia gravis which prevented her from working, lived on about £70 a week with £20 of this due to be repaid for the empty rooms.

Her local council had offered her another home but it was outside the area where her friends and family live.......The  leader of Solihull council  said " She lived a simple life and the thought of being away from her support network and the things that really mattered to her, like her friends and family, was too much to bear."

Meanwhile, in London, after the terrible personal tragedy of being caught fiddling fifty grands worth of housing benefit, multi-millionaire LibDem gangster terror chief and  benefits cheat, Mr David Laws, MP,  is back in the cabinet, hissing and swishing from meeting to meeting, cracking down hard on the poor and the sick, who caused all this trouble.

The author of Miss Bottrill's horrifying end,  the hateful, embittered and vengeful shit, Ian Smith, said, well, if you all turn on us over our expenses, after having voted for Tony Blair and not me, what do you expect?

British terrorist, Ian Smith,  aka Iain Duncan Smith but Smith, really,

Wanted dead or alive.