Thursday 26 September 2013


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Good evening and welcome to this, a very sad Parkinson Show with me, Michael Parkinson.
And it is my very sad duty on this, the Parkinson Show, with me, Michael Parkinson, to tell you that one of our very greatest living entertainers, -  well, for the time being, anyway, living, that is - Sir Billy Connolly, a man who we are proud to say we brought to the world back in the days of the early Parkinson Shows with me, Michael Parkinson, has arse cancer.  Now, I know, I know, that many will say, in my view unkindly, that this is what happens when you have your head stuck up your own arse for most of your life, blethering  on about your wife and your girrrls, and your friendship with the Duke and Duchess of Pork, and your estate in Scotland and all your luvvie friends but that would be, as I say, unkind, most unkind.

I often  get asked: what's my favourite  interview? Tough question.
But I would like to say, perhaps to people suffering from prostrate cancer that if they want to leave their loved ones more than happy memories they should consider the SunLife over fifties plan.  You can't get cover cheaper than this.  So, Billy, if you think you might survive the qualifying period of two years then I recommend this plan to you.  You get a welcome gift for signing-up for this shit and you also get a free Parker pen, just for enquiring.
 terms and conditions apply and you might lose every penny you pay in if that's what we decide.


An' I'm not kiddin' ya, moi dinner wuz this fuckin' big.

I'm a kid from Birmingham, Digby wheezed, hauling his bloated and doubtless sclerotic carcase around the UKIP conference stage, sweating and blowharding with his pitifully few wraithlike locks  dangling faintly over his shoulder,  so CBI rock'n'roll. I'm from the wrong side of the tracks and I wonder what me old man would've said if he'd seen me get me peerage.

 His modestness  LordBeefDripping of Birmingham

 Actually, though, Derek Jones, as well as being a groping, bra-strap-twanging, sexist beast was a Senior Probation Officer in Selly Oak

 and he sent his son to Bromsgrove Grammar School. Hardly the wrong side of the tracks but Digby and the Truth are long estranged. Business, that's Digby's thing, he used to run business's trade union, trade unions, right? The enemy within.

It's the Asian century, he told us, like some omnivisionary messenger from the future, we must wake up and smell the curry, only by following his canny nose might we outcompete billions of low-wage chinks, nignogs, ragheads  and South American shemales. I am sure the Lord Sweaty goes down a storm at Rotary and Masonic dinners but on the Kippers' platform he looked like a whore at a hockey match. But then he looks like that in the Lords, too.

Work fer you? Blimey, mate, 
Oi'll work fer any cunt as pays me.

Sometimes you look at Gordon Snot's appointments and proteges and  bumboys - Greaseboy, here, the Ballses, the Milibands, the harpy Caroline fucking Flint - and wish fervently that he wasn't now working two days a week - putting something back - in the Kirkcaldie Oxfam shop. Those other volunteers are pretty vulnerable people and Gordon, as well as eating their snot when they're not looking, will be giving them delusions of grandeur, just like he did with old Digby, the amazing Whaleman.

Must be said,  though, that he was amongst friends at UKIP, was Diggers; they're all delusional geriatric nutters, no more nutteresque than, say, William The Warrior Hague or FrenzyMan, Michael Gove, or the  clodhopping, shitbrained nincompoop, Ian Wotsisname Smith and certainly no more mentally
impaired than the impertinent buffoon, Miliband or the jumped-up rentboy, Cleggie the Kingmaker.

But there was something comically deranged about  big, shouty, smokey, beery Nige and his ancient virgin stalwarts, standing on the edge of TakingTheWorldByStorm greatness whilst clearly lacking the organisational skill to manage a piss-up in a brewery. Part of the presentational gaucheness was due to the PBC only sending one camera - there were no cutaways to other Kippers, either BigBossMen or the slavish  audience  of  ageing would-be stormtroopers - there might not even have been an audience there, I watched the show for hours, days and I never once saw an audience member. It was just one constant, unchanging  view of the lectern, probably not even a cameraman, assorted apocalypsians wandering on and off giving their own particular set of lamentations, some tongue-tied biddy announcing them as the hero  of this or that unprecedented psephological advance, somewhere, sometime, pre-Nige.

And by the standard set by the Kippers themselves Lord ChipFat was good value, proper Brummie musichall.  Shame that his worldview is so nineteenth century, a bit like Jerry Clarkson's, all  about trickle-down wealth created by great men to whom the plebs should be humbly grateful; Digby's view is that without business there would be no infrastructure, no public services, clearly no-one has ever advised him that the opposite, too, is axiomatic; shit, in other words, is Digby's message, impossible, undesirable and irrelevant  in a world such as ours.  As though the energy wars and the water wars and the Mohammedan wars and the breakouts from Africa are going to be stopped by a Victorian work ethic, led by the great and the good, ie his own sweet fat self.  He's what he looks like, Digby, a stupid, fat cunt, peddling a peurile, tub-thumping, outdated,  after dinner speech to anyone who'll pay him.  His old man was a cunt and he's a cunt, too.

 That Farage chose Jones the Fat to promote whatever it is he thinks the Kippers are up to - and it's certainly nothing to do with an Asian Century, fuck me,  no - is illustrative of a gabshite, clutching at straws.  But touching, in a way, both entertaining in their fashion, both going nowhere.

People ask me, and they're right to ask me, and I love to have an on-expenses  pint and a fag with people who ask me, as they do, Nige, if you are the answer aren't we asking the wrong question, and don't get me wrong, they'e right to ask me that, even though they're wrong. Can we all stand and sing the Horst Wesssel Song, I'm sure we can all remember it from our days in the Hitler Youth.  Not that we ever approved of Hitler, although he did know how to keep a country pure...........

Wednesday 25 September 2013


People, well the Filth-o-Graph, are wondering. Billy Miscarriage, for all his tedious, self- satisfied and ear-punishing speechifying - you can see him, adoring his every charmless, over-articulated, tormentedly  pompous phrase, the personification of one in love with the sound of his own voice, even though, with his long "ays" and his stagey ums and ahhs,  he is ForGod'sSakeTurnHimOff death to oratory - has been consistently over-ruled in cabinet by the spit-dribbling Murdochite lunatic, Gove and the sneering, trustfunded Bullingdonboy, George, born Gideon Osborne. Foreign policy becoming Dave's, Mick's and Georgie's to formulate and Billy's to deploy, like it or not, with Libya Egypt and Syria being massive FO fuckups; the latter properly requiring the resignation  of Hague himself, even though he was only doing what his colleagues told him. Maybe whoever is running him forbade his doing, just for once, the decent thing;  is the former ghastly, whining wunderkind  driven not by the interests of the country - ho ho ho - or more prosaically, the interests of his constituents and his parliamentary future. Or  is this tawdry, shameless wretch - and our own foreign policy - run, instead, by the owners of a set of even more compromising photos than these?

 D'ya wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang?
 Not too far off the mark, the Gary Glitter reference;  
Hague does look old enough to be Twinky's father.

And this is my special rent boy, I mean adviser, of course I do,
 just a slip of the bum, I mean tongue.  
Do we share a bed, course we do, but only to save money.

What sort of a man would release his wife's detailed obstetrics  record, in order to refute  his evident homosexuality? No, go on, isn't it just about the most uncaring, ungallant thing that even a thieving Tory bastard could ever do?  Isn't that just the crassest  marital behaviour you could imagine? Was it just to hang onto a job? 'Snot as though he needs the money.  Why would he do that shit, unless someone told him to? Why would he promote an entirely bogus intervention in another sovereignty, fail to achieve it and then  fail to resign, unless someone told him to?

And I forgot Poxy Foxy and his bumchum, Adam Wotsit.  Fox, whilst defence seckatry, was being run by some shadowy US thinktank, so much so that he was formulating his/their own defence policy, outwith the cabinet.  A precedent, therefore; a hypocritical gay man being run by shadowy figures whilst we paid for the couple's flights and accommodation, Adam blatantly passing himelf off as a govament employee.  Fox, the cunt, still, sits,  bristling on the back benches, indignant at his denouement and denouncing the press for having the temerity to expose him, must've sucked the wrong cocks down Fleet Street must Liam, let's face it, there's so many for a cabinet minister to sample.  Why, for fucks sake, instead of being paid off with the usual sacking fee of seventeen and a half grand,  isn't Liam Fox in jail?


Peacemaker, mass murderer, arsonist and torturer, Marty Kneecaps.

Well it's terrible, so it is, all them people dead and injured, even if they are black,  and it's no way to resolve conflict so it isn't and we in Sinn Fein have devoted our lives so we have to making peace between peoples just like we have here in this island. And yous better make sure you print that right if  yous know what's good for yous. And your kneecaps.

Nobel Peacester cum warmonger.

My fellow motherfuckers. We are all hurting. For the people of Somalia. Or is it Kenya ? I can't quite read the autocue.  And if it happens again a red line will have been crossed.  And Seckatry Kerry may be forced to  make a fool of himself again.  Just as long, my fellow motherfuckers, as his face doesn't fall off. Like all civilised people we deplore the wanton kiling and wounding of innocent civilians.  And this is why, my fellow motherfuckers, we have limited our own killing of innocent civilians to a million or so, two at the very most. And that is why, too, we have restricted the torture of people we don't like to those people who we don't like.  Which is everyone, really.  That, my fellow motherfuckers, is the American way, and if you don't like it just remember that it's your ass on the line.  God bless Obamica.

Global statesman, evangelist and fellator in chief to GlobaDeathcorp.

Peepulovbritun.  I simply say.  That I, your prime minister, was put on this Earth to bring peace to this world.  That I, your prime minister, have travelled the world making vast sums of money promoting peace, or war, or wodevvah.  Now look, I simply say  that I am intensely relaxed abour people being filthy rich.  There is no crime in my eyes, nor, I suggest, in God's - and we are close - in me working for brigands, bandits, torturers, petrothieves and stonemad Zionists.  It is not as though I use this money for wordly purposes.  I simply buy mansions for myself and my family.  Did He not say, in Tony Blair's house there are many mansions? Let us be under no illusion.  The situation in wherever it is can and must benefit from my, if I say so myself, unique experience in bringing peace.  Or war. If their people get in touch with my people with a reasonable downpayment, say ten mill, no, say twenty mill then I will dedicate myself to bringing peace to that troubled region. Or war. Whatever Israel wants.

John Sox and the rest of the whores in MediaMinster are visibly wetting themselves over a tragic but trivial minislaughter in Nairobi.  You'd think the victims were white,  the way the filthsters are going on.  In Jon's case it gets him back in New York, where he thinks he belongs - why doesn't C4 employ a resident East Coast correspondent, instead of sending Jon Sox on almost monthly vacations,  but then why does C4 employ the ghastly Micky Crick and now the stuttering nitwit, Paul Mason, both from Newsnight;  have they just been waiting for both to get fed up with Newsnight,  just been keeping editorships in this or that open, just in case Mason, a man who can't speak a complete sentence and doesn't know his two-times table, leaves his job as Newsnight economics editor? Are we soon to see the grisly Emily Stringbean 

striding ridiculously across the C4 studio in her thighboots? God save us all. What a wonderful world we fund in public broadcasting, eh?

But Kenya, I don't honestly, give a flying fuck.  I mean I probably care more about it than do Jon Sox or anyone else reporting it to us;  I, at least, am a half-way decent human being and people getting mown down and blown up brings out the worst in me, or is it the best? It's not just another expenses-rich story to me,  it's just part of the struggle between US/Israeli imperialism and Mohammedanism and this part of that conflict is getting massive coverage whilst Uncle Sam's and Uncle Benjy's decades long Middle Eastern and Southern Asian atrocities pass largely unremarked or excused and justified. Plus ca change, plus ca meme chose.

Shortarse frog premier, Hollande, with the bigblackboy.

Et moi, moi aussi, je desire, tres beaucoup a bombez les niggers, present company exceptionelle; Syria ou Somalia, il y a non difference, n'est ce pas? Oui, d'accord, nous sommes maintenant les garcons sur le block, et down avec le Pres.  

Wretched little fuck, another one elected on a promise of fairness and decency, look at him. Guillotining? 'Stoo good for him.

Tuesday 24 September 2013



Along with his traitorous brother, BananaMan, this prick is one of Gordon Snot's reptilian nepotistic appointments;  never, as we say, done a day's work in his pampered life, unless we include fucking about in Harvard and being a Labour researcher.  How dare he show his face?

Yvette Cooper
Job: Chief secretary to the Treasury
Salary: £141,866
Total second home claims
2004-05: £19,428
2005-06: £14,234
2006-07: £15,995
2007-08: £12,219
Ed Balls
Job: Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families
Salary: £141,866
Total second home claims
2004-05: Not elected
2005-06: £13,618
2006-07: £15,979
2007-08: £12,219

At the time of the MPs expenses whitewash, these two cunts were also claiming £400 per month for food; Mrs Ice Pixie, the thieving fucking bastard, wants to be home secretary, whilst the fatman wants a full run - denied him by Alastair Darling - at being the banksters' friend. How dare they show their faces?


Doesn't matter how we shout or mock, we just can't kill the beast. It's enough to make one - one living in Scotland, anyway -  vote for  the Republic of Salmond.

Monday 9 September 2013


Millionaire Labour MPs probably make up the majority of the parliamentary party, these days, and if they don't it won't be as a result of any failure of industry on their part; as we know, they are all insatiably greedy, thieving fucking bastard bastards, happy to Huhne-steal from the taxpayers and to have as many outside interests as they can manage.  And - in a small sidebar conference with myself -  if I was in a trade union I wouldn't give them a brass farthing, worthless gang of tossers;  in fact, if I was in a union I'd be campaigning for a complete break with everyone in the Labour Party, especially that snotvoiced  imbecile, Miliband,  and for the start of a workers' Alliance against MediaMinster.


The poisonous old witch, Hodge, is older money than most; maybe it is the fact that she earns more in dividends than she does in salary which enables her to so irritate those before her committee. That and her barefaced chutzpah,  her own company pays less than a tenth of a penny per pound on UK earnings, yet she has the nerve to grill others about their tax affairs.  In a way you have to admire the mangy old slug, she reminds me of Nikita Kruschev and I expect to see her banging her table with a shoe.

The BBC hearings though, are hugely entertaining, as the Great and the Good squirm, for a moment, at least,  under the weight of exposure, insults and abuse  from the entire committee but from Hodge in particular. They all, today, looked like ferrets in a sack, Beardies and Bloaties in suits, accustomed to being listened-to and not interrupted by some mad old Jewess, lying their poxy arses off in the devious management speak so common among their type of vermin.

The goal of the match, though,  was scored against this useless, prattling piece of shit.




Delighted to read, in a Filth-O-Graph poll, that not only does the majority of the population not wish to align itself with terrorism and attack Syria but that twenty per cent don't even want to send humanitarian aid.  Hooray!

Longtimers  here will know of the loathing felt for  the thicko burghers of Royal Wootton Bassett and their mawkish legitimising of the unnecessary and in every respect illegal slaughter of those whom they claim,   applauding and flower-strewing, to respect;

 Yes, dear, makes for a nice day out.
There'll be some nice dead young men along in a minute, I shouldn't wonder.

will know that this is despised as hypocritical grandstanding, if these fuckers were going to come together and organise anything it should have been a march on the MOD and Downing Street; no cabinet ministers' children comimg home dead or legless from some shitty, pointless bloodbath, fuck me, no, Geoff, no way Jose

 Cretinous war minister, Hoon,
 I did hear him say that, once, No way, Jose

 but as long as the proles have a bit of a ceremony, a bit of pretence, it'll keep them the fuck quiet,  saves us being troubled with going down to meet the coffinplanes.  Would be rather embarrassing. What with us all earning from it and everything; yes, yes, I would expect to command five grand a day when I leave the house,  that ballpark figure;  what is a ballpark, by the way?   Every one of those squaddies, morbidly chaperoned through Wootton fucking Basset, died for absolutely, incontrovertibly sweet fuck all. Still, we gave them a good send-off.  Cunts, those Bassetheads,  the very worst of British. May their Marks and Sparkses, their C of Es and their British fucking Legions burn to the ground with them in them, whistling The Last Post. No, public sanctimony is unpopular in Ishmaelia.

And the charity workers, the humanitarianistas, they're fucking worse.  All my life there have been international do-gooding charity bandits, pressing me for money;  despite these simpering cretins, all my life hunger, drought, flood and war have increased in almost every part of the world, what fucking use are they; what the fuck use is Oxfam when you can't turn on the tube without some scabby,  posturing, coke-snorting luvvy imploring you to send just three pounds a month.  Nearly a century of organised international charity doesn't work.  Oh, it may help or save a few of the current crop of  refugees but in five minutes there'll be another disaster or coup or genocide coming down the road. No,  the thing to do is kill people.  These jerks with Mercs, all over Africa, getting fat on intercepted aid, someone should just go and shoot them in the head, and keep on shooting their successors, their brothers and nephews and wives, just keep killing the bastards until everybody gets the message, stick their ugly black heads on poles, wipe out the entire tribe if necessary.  Now, somebody launch an organisation like that and I'd be pleased to send them three quid a month, even four. Charity colonialism, though, that's a  waste of time and money and only makes things worse;  alternative charity's what's needed, the kind that comes out of a gun barrel, ballistic charity.

The thing, though, which gives me a red mist moment, a moment when I stop reasoning and just instinctively know that homicide is the only decent, human response to some cunt or other is when the ludicrously mis-named humanitarian organisations share the same news platform as the warmongering fuckpigs, when the CEO of, say, the Red Cross joins forces with Brigadier Rupert Golightly Jockstrap of the Queen's Own NancyBoys and witters-on about it being vital for humanitarian aid to get through.  What this cunt is saying, of course is, You go on ahead General, Sir and slaughter these innocent civilian  fuckers, we'll hold your coat,  that is exactly what they're saying - We'll hold your coat.  What the CEO of the RedCross should be saying, loudly and publicly is,  General, your intervention is illegal and immoral and you, Sir, are an unspeakable cunt.

But aside from the stupefying, industrial strength hypocrisy of charities of all kinds, there is the question of what these cunts pay themselves, from out of  our just threee pounds a week.  The going rate for UK charity CEOs is getting on for two hundred fucking grand a year, considering their workload and their other commitments that's probably about a thousand pounds a day, maybe more.

Let's have a look at Sir or is it now Lord Martin Narey.

 Marty, like many career penologists, worked happily and obediently for HM Prison Service, incarcerating the mentally ill, the educationally and socially disadvantaged and notably far more children and young people than does any other European democracy;  neglect, cruelty and brutality have led many child convicts - honestly, I ask you - to illness, suicide and to being the victims of murderous cover-ups.  Marty, whilst a serving prison governor and then the head of the prison service found all of this perfectly acceptable, believed, also,  that despite so many prisoners being backward to the point of retardation they were, nevertheless,  simultaneously clever, sophisticated criminals who foiled the best efforts of his wholly profesional screws to prevent the importation of drugs into his prisons, so much so that most of the nicks are, after lock-up, wreathed in a haze of dopesmoke.  If Marty, or indeed anyone, were to look in the drives of his officers' homes, he or they might be surprised at the range of expensive vehicles, boats and caravans there parked and wonder, if only for a second, if maybe the people actually getting rich from drugs in prisons might not all be wearing peaked caps.  But that's a digression, everybody knows that the screws are as bent,as brutal, dishonest and moronic as the police. Only moreso.  And if anyone doesn't know that they shouldn't be reading this.

Marty, though, oddly, as his career in HMP drew to a close ,developed a humanitarian evangelism for those in his charge, one which hadn't noticeably troubled him hitherto in his bang 'em up life, nor in the coda to his criminological career as head of the grandly titled and waste of space National Offender Management Scheme.  Humanity was more important than security,Marty took to musing publicly, casting around for a future in the caring professions.

And lo, so it came to pass that Marty the brute,  Marty the kiddy-jailer,  became the head of  what we used to call Dr Barnardo's,  a charity, which I know, historically, to my cost,  exists to further molest already damaged children.  In the Savilesque way of these things, it seems darkly appropriate that such a soiled and tainted miserymonger as Marty Narey should, after a lifetime of jailing and brutalising youngsters, wangle a job as head of one of the largest children's so-called charities;  darkly appropriate and also loathsome and contemptible, just like Sir Marty's knighthood for services to vulnerable people. All he needs is to kiss the Pope's ring and he'll have a full house.

But Marty's rise to the pit of absolute filth doesn't stop there, for he is now an adviser to that great delusional and psycopathic educationalist, 
 Michael Spit, front bench nutter and Murdoch cocksucker.

A cunt at work.
Believe in them, aye, and get them into jail as soon as possible, beat them and frighten them;  never did me any harm.
 Caring, like what I do, at £166,000 pa is just SO rewarding.
Keep on sending me your three quid a week.

Seem to me, ever optimistic, that finally at least a portion of the nation is waking up to the facts of life,  they know that wormy William Hague is lying because his lips are moving;  they know that GlobaCorp are cruel thieving bastards and they know that  do-gooding is a front for do-badding and  they know that they have more in common with ordinary Syrians than they do with the worthless, self-serving reptiles in MediaMinster.  About time, too.

(in hospital for a few days, back at the weekend) 


The world's leading liberal voice, the Guardian, today publishes a comment piece by Chris Huhne, in which he blames the Murdoch press for dissing politicians and for breaking-up his marriage;  so far several hundred people have engaged in debate with him, tossers

EX-CON: Murdoch ruined my marriage.
Oh, no, he didn't.

 It was Huhne, wasn't it, who claimed seventeen and a half grand from us - and him a millionaire - for having to - as a result of his own criminality -  step down from the cabinet?



Speaking fluent arsespeak, Ms Sarah Teather, of the ShitEaters Party, formerly DipsosRus, formerly Pantsdowners, formerly AbortionistsRus formerly ClosetGayDogShootersRus, has announced that she's feeling a bit down, is a bit miffed at her boss, the laughable,  unelected Deputy Prime Minister, wannabe warmonger and political wanker, Mr Nick Clegg.

Ms Teather is so fed up that she is  not resigning from parliament and not resigning from the ShitEaters although she has said that she will leave at the next election at which point she didn't, anyway, have a snowball's chance in Hell of being re-elected.  Silly cow.



This is the news that farcical foreign seckatry, William Miscarriage, has warned that if his discredited, unelected gang of spivs is unable to launch an illegal attack on the working people of Syria, in support of his friends in Al Quaeda, then his pretend wife, Fffffffffion, may well have another miscarriage, similar to the ones she experienced as a result of the foreign seckatry fucking pretty young men  at the taxpayers' expense.


The foreign seckatry and one of his rentboys, paid for by you and me.
 Lust's young dream, Bless.


 Yes, Mr Tiny Speaker, I must inform the house that if it, ah,   persists, Mr Tiny Speaker, in expressing the will of the, entirely, in my view, ah, discountable  majority of people in this country and, ah, prevents me, taking the, ah, in my judgement, perfectly proper, ah, course of action, which I have proposed, then I will, Mr Tiny Speaker, have no option but to reveal, to the, ah,  ladeezangenullmen of the, ah, press, ay whole series of, ah, radiographed images of my official, ah, wife's vulva, uterus and, ah, fallopian, ah, tubes, all of these organs being in a state, Mr Tiny Speaker of considerable, ah, disrepair as a result of me being such ay, stud, is, I believe, the term and having, ah, fucked her, Mr Tiny Speaker, into ay state of, shall we say, oblivion, and thus, ah, clearly, and, ah, one might say, mr Tiny Speaker, incontrovertibly, ah proving my non-homosexuality.  The re-release, for career purposes,  of these intimate and personal medical records is ay sacrifice, Mr Tiny Speaker, which  I am quite prepared to make on behalf of my wife and is, I can confirm to the, ah, house, a measure of my utter cuntishness.  I commend myself to the house.

Shouts: Hear-hear, hear-hear! Nuke the fucking wogs! Show us the bitch's pussy!

Utter cunt, Liam Fox, MP, another gay Tory nutter and his boyfriend, Adam.

Speaking to the poisonous  hobgoblin, Andy Brillo, Liam Fox, a renegade, former Spiv minister, traitorous even by Tory standards, angrily hissed that we simply must make war on the people of Syria, it was what his ThinkTank wanted. So there, bitch.

Friday 6 September 2013



 It was cruel to the viewer, keeping Sir Patrick Moore in harness until death and seemed strangely unkind to Moore himself.

In the last few   years of The Sky At Night, Moore's ailing presence was merely totemic, younger, more able presenters running the show but deferential to Moore's dribbling,  bigtrousered,  incoherent presence, the show set in Moore's gloomy study, exteriors confined to his back garden.

I never liked the horrid old Thatcherite redneck although he was widely regarded, indeed, seen as inspirational by many across the world but he was an old, sick man and should have been retired long, long ago.

The new show is brightly transformed  and brought into the daylight - enthusiastic young presenters, 


both fresh young scientists and geeky astronerds, in different locations, instead of the former dark, dingy,  creepy, spinsterly  Mooreishness of it all; watching The Sky At Night used to be like attending a sinister, eccentric mass, with Moore as a hulking, brooding altarpiece.

This month's show included an easygoing explanation - well, nearly - of  black holes, from the Astronomer  Royal and, remarkably, the revelation that there are StarCamps, tented groups of telescope and binocular wielding Starnuts which spring up in sites which have unique, stellar visibility, the Peak District was the site featured but apparently they  are all over the place; if, on clear cloudless nights, therefore,  you go  down country lanes seeking groups of parked cars, be mindful that you might encounter not crazy, diseased, exhibitionistic degenerates but  clubs and families gazing Heavenwards at the moons of Jupiter, a sight which , I was delighted to learn from this sparkling new programme, you can see with binoculars.

If only the PaedoBeeb would similarly overhaul its news and current affairs shows.  Must we wait for the death of the ridiculous old tart, Paxman, the grunting, transexual hunchback Wark, the underdressed, tottering Emily Stringbean, the Hereditary Dimblebums and the grotesque Andy Brillo.  I fear we must.

But do try the New Sky At Night; unlike the offerings of the relentlessly and ultimately overwhelmingly smiley Brian Cox, it  is a monthly blast of cosmic fresh air.

 And it's all really, well, sort of  amazing. 

Wednesday 4 September 2013




Do I look good, here, with  my big hair and my bleached teeth and m'new face? You'd trust me, woudnya, if I begged y'all to bomb the shit outa some foreign nigger bastards, Jeez, waddayawant me to do, cry? I can do that.  I can cry so sincerely you would'n believe it. Just like my face.

This prick lost the presidential election to George Dubya Chimp, his fellow motherfuckers preferred the wife-beating, coke-snorting, pisshead, imbecile fuckwit to this rancid, liberal Democrat KennedyWannabe.


Just for the chemical warfare record, Uncle Sam dumped twenty million gallons of Agent Orange on the  North Vietnamese.

Agent Orange

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jump to: navigation, search

U.S. Army Huey helicopter spraying Agent Orange over Vietnamese agricultural land
Agent Orange or Herbicide Orange (HO) is one of the herbicides and defoliants used by the U.S. military as part of its chemical warfare program, Operation Ranch Hand, during the Vietnam War from 1961 to 1971. Vietnam estimates 400,000 people were killed or maimed, and 500,000 children born with birth defects as a result of its use.[1][2] The Red Cross of Vietnam estimates that up to 1 million people are disabled or have health problems due to Agent Orange.[3] The United States government has dismissed these figures as unreliable and unrealistically high.[4][5]
A 50:50 mixture of 2,4,5-T and 2,4-D, it was manufactured for the U.S. Department of Defense primarily by Monsanto Corporation and Dow Chemical. The 2,4,5-T used to produce Agent Orange was contaminated with 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzodioxin (TCDD), an extremely toxic dioxin compound. It was given its name from the color of the orange-striped 55 US gallon (208 l) barrels in which it was shipped, and was by far the most widely used of the so-called "Rainbow Herbicides".[6]
During the Vietnam War, between 1962 and 1971, the United States military sprayed nearly 20,000,000 US gallons (76,000,000 l) of material containing chemical herbicides and defoliants mixed with jet fuel in Vietnam, eastern Laos and parts of Cambodia, as part of Operation Ranch Hand.[7][8] The program's goal was to defoliate forested and rural land, depriving guerrillas of cover; another goal was to induce forced draft urbanization, destroying the ability of peasants to support themselves in the countryside, and forcing them to flee to the U.S. dominated cities, thus depriving the guerrillas of their rural support and food supply.[8][9]
The US began to target food crops in October 1962, primarily using Agent Blue. In 1965, 42 percent of all herbicide spraying was dedicated to food crops.[9] Rural-to-urban migration rates dramatically increased in South Vietnam, as peasants escaped the war and famine in the countryside by fleeing to the U.S.-dominated cities. The urban population in South Vietnam nearly tripled: from 2.8 million people in 1958, to 8 million by 1971. The rapid flow of people led to a fast-paced and uncontrolled urbanization; an estimated 1.5 million people were living in Saigon slums.[10]
United States Air Force records show that at least 6,542 spraying missions took place over the course of Operation Ranch Hand.[11] By 1971, 12 percent of the total area of South Vietnam had been sprayed with defoliating chemicals, at an average concentration of 13 times the recommended USDA application rate for domestic use.[12] In South Vietnam alone, an estimated 10 million hectares (25 million acres, 39,000 square miles) of agricultural land was ultimately destroyed.[13] In some areas, TCDD concentrations in soil and water were hundreds of times greater than the levels considered safe by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.[14][15] Overall, more than 20% of South Vietnam's forests were sprayed at least once over a nine-year period.[9]


Mortars from the Kremlin, RPGs from Uncle Sam;
Dollars from the Saudis, fighters from Iran; 
Black Ops, disinformation, just another Arab day
And Sarin gas in rockets from the CIA.

Monday 2 September 2013

THINGS WE NO LONGER SEE. mumber one. a journalist asking a proper question.

Prime minister Cameron,  this is the first time in nearly three hundred years that a prime minister has lost a vote on going to war; when will you be resigning?


Two foreign seckatries on holiday together,
 in the North of England.
Yes, Condi, I own all these people, as far as the eye can see.

A slaughterers' kiss.

You'll never know the hurt I suffer
 and all the pain I rise above.

Poor Jack Torture, must be the strain of trying to slide, bribe or by some other NewLabour, anti-democratic stitch-up, parachute his worthless, prat-faced, dope dealing son, Billy, into a safe seat but even by the standard of his own monumental, shit-spewing hypocrisy, Jack's recent  parliamentary utterances represent a crisp, new mark on Falsity's bench; a deeper plumbing of Dishonesty's depths, a sharper scraping of Mendacity's barrel;  lying though his mangy teeth, this unspeakable wretch must, last week, have enflamed the gorge of any who witnessed him, he must have made millions want to puke. 

 I have,  he hissed, in his habitual, reptilian  fashion, upon my back, the scars of Iraq. We all know I have them, he insisted, to murmurs of sympathy from his surrounding, collegiate vermin horde. Hear-hear, they must have thought; we, too, backed the gang-raping of Iraq, we, too, must have the scars; can we get compensation, a peerage, maybe;  a few quid, anyway?

Jackie, of course, didn't shed a scale, didn't  suffer as much as a broken finger nail as a result  of his lying to the UN and the world about weapons of mass delusion and by dint of some darkly bizarre diktat from Uncle Sam, we never even counted the Iraqi dead, wounded, burned and tortured; we may be sure, however, that tens, more likely hundreds of thousands of entirely blameless Iraqis of all ages are, if not  Shockingly and Awesomely murdered by Democracy's Crusading Blitzkrieg, then blinded, crippled and scarred, not in some shitmouthed, lisping, self-regarding rhetorical fashion but wantonly  - how shall we say, collateralised? - in their   shredded flesh and broken bones. 

Billy Torture-Straw. Look at him.
Dope-dealer but " a good kid, really" in Daddy's words.
Oxbridge, PPE, ThinkTanker, wanker, wannabe prime minister, never done a day's work in his life. Unless you count the dealing. Just what we need, another bent hereditary entitlementista.

Jackie and Coh-lin Powell rehearse their lines at the UN WMD debate.

If, Coh-lin....... I may call you Coh-lin?????
I'd prefer General, Mr Limey...
Yes, quite, Field Marshal. As I was saying, 
if it all goes tits-up, as we say in Westminster, 
we can  always point to the  scars on our backs.
What motherfucking scars you talking about, honkyboy?
It's a figure of speech, your Excellency.
Figure of shit you mean. Now listen, ain't no point in me being the first fucking nigger at the State department unless we can get over there'n waste all them ay-rab cocksuckers, I hate them sonsafuckinbitches.
Yes, quite, Reichsfuhrer, butAlastair Campbell, 

who is in charge of our intelligence services,  our military forces, our cabinet and our civil service has made me memorise all the evidence he has invented about WMD.  Or whatever. Should be, as you chaps say, a walk in the park.

 And so it was.