Yes, I go to the same barber as Lady Sir Paul McCartney
We're much of an age, you know.
Born to a very wealthy family, Fatty Lawson wasn't what you would call a self-made man; as is the way with this lot, he fucked about as a money journalist for a while and then the usual path for rich Tory boys - safe seat in Leicestershire and into Whiskey Maggie's cabinet of spivs. He always repelled me, just viscerally, when he was bloated and then, when, after his second - or third - marriage failed he slimmed himself down.
We're much of an age, you know.
Born to a very wealthy family, Fatty Lawson wasn't what you would call a self-made man; as is the way with this lot, he fucked about as a money journalist for a while and then the usual path for rich Tory boys - safe seat in Leicestershire and into Whiskey Maggie's cabinet of spivs. He always repelled me, just viscerally, when he was bloated and then, when, after his second - or third - marriage failed he slimmed himself down.
It's his bullying I-Know-Bestism, he can't hide it, not like he hides his proper hair colour. It's a weirdness, that, it's like Terry Wogan's wig, or Andrew Neil's, everybody knows they're fake, pathetically so, yet nobody mentions them, just like nobody mentions the noncing. There's some level of power that these arseholes reach where they think they can enslave everyone in their own pathetic self-delusion. And generally they do.
Lawson is a freak. He called his daughters, Thomasina, Nigella and Horatia, all men's names, crudely feminised; has there ever been a Nigella, before this irritating soft-pornster cum cook? His fat son, Dominic, ran the Sunday Telegraph, in Conrad Black's day, like a family newspaper, the Lawson family, shamelessly full of himself, his sister, his dying brother-in-law and his Da' and now, without an editorship, Dominica whores around writing columns nobody reads and fucking about on Sky's midnight news review. With the drunks.
All Nigel's marriages were shit - well they would be with him in them - and he, now, at seventy-nine, let's call it eighty, courts a woman half his age,
Vampire love.
Yuk
they must be well-met, or she must be a canny and thick-skinned gold-digger, to chance, as she does, Death's coitus interruptus, if coitus it be, with this old coffin-dodger.
He eventually flounced out of Maggie's cabinet after a couple of years of her humiliating him with an unofficial chancellor of her own and has spent his time since then disputing global warming or EarthCrime as we call it here - an old boy needs to do something useful in retirement. Look, these icecaps melting like never before, there are plenty of reasons for that to happen and good reasons for us not to be alarmed. No, Nigel, there aren't.
Anyway, the spiteful old fart, like so many of them, sees a new lease of life in CallHimDave's inept knee-trembler with Clegg; as their hasty passion subsides, now, as they wipe their cocks, shove them back in their trousers and hope nobody's seen their mutual discharge, all the aged vermin, the half-dead and the undead sniff the rank wind and sense their own, albeit momentary, resurrection, maybe one more hard-on before they die forever.
And out they crawl, among their familiars, Nick Robinson and Adam Boulton, mouthing, from dribbling lips, their slimy worldview. We must leave Europe trans: if the nation calls on me to serve, I stand ready to do my dirty, I mean duty.
Does anyone in their right mind, apart from his freaky totty, give a flying fuck what Nigel Lawson has to say?
And then there's this shameless old cocksucker.
Mine's a pint of B Rhesus negative, please.
Baron Samedi of Lerwick.
"Rising unemployment and the recession have been the price that we have had to pay to get inflation down. That price is well worth paying."
from wiki: Three weeks after the government's massive loss in the by-election, on 27 May 1993, Lamont was sacked, (technically resigning from the government because he declined a demotion to become Secretary of State for the Environment), throwing (by his own account) Major's letter of regret at his departure unopened into the wastepaper basket, and giving a resignation speech in the House of Commons on 9 June, that made clear his feeling that he had been unfairly treated, saying that the government 'gives the impression of being in office but not in power'; the then Party Chairman Norman Fowler dismissed the speech as "dud, nasty, ludicrous and silly".[47] Major and Lamont agree that Lamont had offered his resignation immediately after Black Wednesday and that Major pressed him to remain in office. Lamont came to the view that Major had sought his survival in office as a firebreak against the criticism of the ERM policy rebounding on himself.
Lamont, the staggeringly incompetent author of Black Wednesday, slithers out from his lair, too, where he hedge-funds and investment-banks and does all the usual forms of uppercrust thievery, the mangy-looking ponce, and, scenting blood, lisps Out of Europe, Now.
And this one, Mr Shouty Rifkind.
In Google Images, Rifkind has more "posed" photographs even than most of the filth in showbusiness.
Quite the Christine Keeler, our Malcy.
wonder if he's got any trousers on.
Hold that thought, it's what they're like, these people.
"Conservative Malcolm Rifkind got 3,066 pounds ($4,800) last year for flights to his home in Scotland -- though he represents a district three subway stops from the Parliament in London.
“It’s amazing some of the things they’ve given themselves over the years,” said Andrew Rawnsley, author of “Servants of the People,” a history of Tony Blair’s government. “Why on earth would you need to visit Scotland in order to represent people in London? It’s all within the rules, but it all repels voters.”
"Sir Malcolm Rifkind, the former Tory Cabinet minister, raised eyebrows by claiming £499 for three trips by his wife. His constituency is Kensington and Chelsea, three miles from London”
from The Motley Fool blog
Old ShoutyGob Rifkind, briefly foreign seckatry, enjoys, too, in these troubled times, a rebirthing, shouting about Iran, Syria, China and of course Europe. A CallHimDave loyalist, maybe hoping for office, hoping for an Indian Summer of bullying and fiddling and all the vices his skill set lends him to, the horrible fucking bent Anglo-Jock bastard hedges his bets on Europe, Well, I'm not persuaded of this and I'm not persuaded of that, he shouts to a dwindling Newsnight audience and to the bombastic Jocky Neil on his many platforms.
Mr Politics, resting from his demanding job at the Paedo Broadcasting Corporation.
And, finally, for now, old FishHead, himself, old no-balls Portillo,
Of course, I'm half-Spanish, half-English, half-American and three-quarters Shirtfish. So I can talk about all sorts of things, as long as the taxpayer keeps on coughing-up.
journalist, broadcaster, moral-maze-ist - mind-boggling that, eh? - and now Tory grandee, Portillo, all innocent-like, as though he were really a right honourable person, writes in Murdoch's madeupnewsandfilthTimes that actually he's always been against Europe - not Spain, especially Guernica, which was bombed in his father's honour, and not the European railways, from which he may yet wrest one more episode of his dire, stuttering, corpsing teevee show - or at least he's against the bits which everybody else is banging-on about.
Unlike, let's see, where to start....unlike the pisshead, Roy Jenkins, the obnoxious fascist, Leon Brittain, his grace the Lord Kinnock and LadyStickyFingers Kinnock et famille, her grace the Lord Mandelstein, his excellency Baron Robertson of the Secret Dunblane Massacre and her grace the Lady Ashton, none of the above were ever pensioned-off to Europe, on half a million quid a year, plus all the expenses they could dream up, the Kinnocks especially. There must be more, I just can't remember them.
Maybe, if Brussels could do a job creation number for every shopsoiled and discredited politician in the entire continent then we wouldn't have these half-dead night creatures crawling about, howling their hunger, frightening the children. They've done enough of that already.
"Rising unemployment and the recession have been the price that we have had to pay to get inflation down. That price is well worth paying."
from wiki: Three weeks after the government's massive loss in the by-election, on 27 May 1993, Lamont was sacked, (technically resigning from the government because he declined a demotion to become Secretary of State for the Environment), throwing (by his own account) Major's letter of regret at his departure unopened into the wastepaper basket, and giving a resignation speech in the House of Commons on 9 June, that made clear his feeling that he had been unfairly treated, saying that the government 'gives the impression of being in office but not in power'; the then Party Chairman Norman Fowler dismissed the speech as "dud, nasty, ludicrous and silly".[47] Major and Lamont agree that Lamont had offered his resignation immediately after Black Wednesday and that Major pressed him to remain in office. Lamont came to the view that Major had sought his survival in office as a firebreak against the criticism of the ERM policy rebounding on himself.
Lamont, the staggeringly incompetent author of Black Wednesday, slithers out from his lair, too, where he hedge-funds and investment-banks and does all the usual forms of uppercrust thievery, the mangy-looking ponce, and, scenting blood, lisps Out of Europe, Now.
And this one, Mr Shouty Rifkind.
In Google Images, Rifkind has more "posed" photographs even than most of the filth in showbusiness.
wonder if he's got any trousers on.
Hold that thought, it's what they're like, these people.
"Conservative Malcolm Rifkind got 3,066 pounds ($4,800) last year for flights to his home in Scotland -- though he represents a district three subway stops from the Parliament in London.
“It’s amazing some of the things they’ve given themselves over the years,” said Andrew Rawnsley, author of “Servants of the People,” a history of Tony Blair’s government. “Why on earth would you need to visit Scotland in order to represent people in London? It’s all within the rules, but it all repels voters.”
"Sir Malcolm Rifkind, the former Tory Cabinet minister, raised eyebrows by claiming £499 for three trips by his wife. His constituency is Kensington and Chelsea, three miles from London”
from The Motley Fool blog
Old ShoutyGob Rifkind, briefly foreign seckatry, enjoys, too, in these troubled times, a rebirthing, shouting about Iran, Syria, China and of course Europe. A CallHimDave loyalist, maybe hoping for office, hoping for an Indian Summer of bullying and fiddling and all the vices his skill set lends him to, the horrible fucking bent Anglo-Jock bastard hedges his bets on Europe, Well, I'm not persuaded of this and I'm not persuaded of that, he shouts to a dwindling Newsnight audience and to the bombastic Jocky Neil on his many platforms.
And, finally, for now, old FishHead, himself, old no-balls Portillo,
Of course, I'm half-Spanish, half-English, half-American and three-quarters Shirtfish. So I can talk about all sorts of things, as long as the taxpayer keeps on coughing-up.
journalist, broadcaster, moral-maze-ist - mind-boggling that, eh? - and now Tory grandee, Portillo, all innocent-like, as though he were really a right honourable person, writes in Murdoch's madeupnewsandfilthTimes that actually he's always been against Europe - not Spain, especially Guernica, which was bombed in his father's honour, and not the European railways, from which he may yet wrest one more episode of his dire, stuttering, corpsing teevee show - or at least he's against the bits which everybody else is banging-on about.
Unlike, let's see, where to start....unlike the pisshead, Roy Jenkins, the obnoxious fascist, Leon Brittain, his grace the Lord Kinnock and LadyStickyFingers Kinnock et famille, her grace the Lord Mandelstein, his excellency Baron Robertson of the Secret Dunblane Massacre and her grace the Lady Ashton, none of the above were ever pensioned-off to Europe, on half a million quid a year, plus all the expenses they could dream up, the Kinnocks especially. There must be more, I just can't remember them.
Maybe, if Brussels could do a job creation number for every shopsoiled and discredited politician in the entire continent then we wouldn't have these half-dead night creatures crawling about, howling their hunger, frightening the children. They've done enough of that already.
4 comments:
You gave a wonderful way with words, Mr. Ishmael: half-dead night creatures, howling their hunger....
These things could be living at the bottom of the ocean...
About time they all joined Maggie in the boneyard, Mr I. Lawson, he gave us Big Bang in 86, which allied to Lumpyhead`s pathetic tripartite non regulation laid the foundations for the shit we`re in today so a period of silence would be welcome on his part. Like for eternity.
And the wretched Lamont, sacrificed so a tattered pair of underpants could continue to fly over Downing Street: what did he piss down the drain on Black Wednesday ? Six billion ? It seemed a lot of money back then.
And Leon Brittan. I think Nick Clegg`s first ' job ' was serving him when he was Trade Commissioner. Connections, probably, the pampered bastard. Leon Brittan and the young Nick Clegg. Hmmnn.
Could you perhaps find a slot for ex-Commissar Fatty Pang in your penultimate paragraph?
On a slightly different note, I was once in a goverment office and needed a quick visit to the powder room - so off I went. I was standing there minding my own business when who should walk in and occupy the space next to mine but old Malcy hisownself!
He looked at me over the divider and smiled and then said "Oh, so this is where the big knobs[nobs?] hang out".
Is that Scottish humour or something?
Leon does look like a warty old fairy and Clegg, although a Tory, is also of the ShitEating brother- and sisterhood, so who knows what metrosexual concordats are forged twixt the old and the young, in the toilets of power? Sometimes makes one retch, to think about it.
I saw Lord Scarman, once, close-up, at a meeting, and he had a veritable squadron of pretty young men in attendance. Probably just coincidence.
Belligerent gayness is, unfortunately, a common Scottish characteristic, mr old timer. I am sure Malcy will have been sans cullottes in that picture, his limp organ displayed for the lucky lensperson.
Sometimes I think my mind is a diseased area but most of the time I know that they really are like that, vile, cruel and degenerate.
Post a Comment