Friday 22 November 2013




After countless failed attempts on the Newsnight programme,  Ms Emily Stringbean  tries, again,  to show the nation her arse, bless.

Good evening, this is Huw Welshman with the six o clock news from the PBC and in breaking news  the nation's first hereditary broadcaster, David Dimbleby, has fired a round of fucks, look you,  into PBC managers, isn't it.

The veteran broadcaster, is a legendary veteran of such shows as Question Time....and.... and.....oh, yes.....  and a load of other old bollocks, isn't it, about paintings and stuff and now, I understand,  about his fucking boat,

Well, you jolly well should watch me on my boat,
 you paid for it,  and now you're paying for it again.
For me to make a programme in it.
About me and my boat.

and Dimbleby has now said that most programming, apart from his own, like  that tedious all-night election coverage, 


- as though anybody sits up all night watching that rubbish, look you -  is shite.  Mainstream programming, which people do watch - antiques and food and houses - well, according to the veteran hereditary broadcaster,  it's garbage, all of it.  They should all be scrapped, insists Lord Dimbleby.

   There should be two channels only, said the veteran hereditary broadcaster - one starring himself,  on which basically a camera crew is just following him around and capturing, isn't it, his hereditary veteran  thoughts on politics and art and life and stuff, as they already do, isn't it, and let me tell you, viewers, 

that ain't working,  that's the way you do it, 
money for nothing and your chicks for free, 

and the other channel dedicated entirely  to my colleague, Emily Stringbean,  trying to show the nation her arse.  Or her tits. Wasn't aware she had any, me.  Anyway, a valued colleague, Emily,  and we all wish her well in rehab, I mean in her new role.    Does she take drugs? Fucked if I know but she certainly looks as though she's a bit of a pisshead. Don't know how she'd manage here, at the News coalface, staggering  around pissed in the Newsnight studio is one thing, chatting with her friends and neighbours, 

but reading the great autocue of state,  here, at the front line, that's a whole nother one, boyo. Face like a fucking horse, too, if you don't mind my saying so. Pit pony, more like, too long underground.

Speaking, anyway, from his hereditary Oxfordshire home, the veteran  hereditary broadcaster poured scorn on the idea of there continuing to be a youth-orientated  Channel Three, a quality-orientated Channel Four, a ponce-orientated Channel Two  and a paedo-orientated  Savile-Channel One. 

 Come, come, now,

they can't all talk at once or no-one will hear me.....No, no, I'm the chairman and I decide what, so to speak, is what. Yes, yes, you, over there, you, you, the poor man, in the back row, let's have your tuppence worth, no, not you, the other chap, the darkie, what's your view? And make it as brief as you can, please, you're only an audience member.

What we need around here is a bit of order and so I propose that young Emily, bless her foxy heart - forty-eight's no age these days, is it? - be allowed to occupy Channel 1, hereinafter, as the lawyers say, to be called Channel Tits'n'Ass whilst I, myself, a veteran of these things, born, actually, to the role, do everything else. 

And don't forget, if you want to take part in any of my veteran hereditary programmes, you can't.

sings: See them yo-yos, that's the way ya do it, 
ya play yer gittar on th'Em-Tee-Vee.....

David Dimbleby there for us, quite a sweet old man, once you get to know him, not that you will, fuck me, no. 

Royal news, now and the PBC has learned that that silly cunt Charlie is off again, look you, isn't it.

The heir to the throne, an unemployed   benefits cheat, a squatter, a layabout and a tax evader,  is the scion of an immigrant  criminal family which has stolen, murdered and extorted these lands and people  for centuries;  they have never been prosecuted for any of their crimes on the basis that there is one law for us and no law for them.    

Last year, his mother, Brenda, gave the worthless slag the three highest ranks in the armed forces, she made him 
Field Marshal Charlie, 

Admiral of the Fleet Charlie 

and Air Chief Marshal Charlie. 

 No, it's right, it's what it says, there, in the autocue, I'm not taking the piss, isn't it; I'm not Andrew Neil, fucking about with that fairy Portillo, as though they were clever.

Without his make-up or wig,
a political broadcaster relaxes at his home in France.

She made him all these fucking nabobs and brasshats, did Brenda,  because of what she called his service to the military, obviously forgetting that when he was a pilot he crashed his plane and when he was a sailor he grounded his ship, HMS Bronington, it was,  ran the fucker ashore, he did, the useless fucking bastard.  
Stand to attention, lads, here comes HRH Jonah.

Anybody else'd a been court martialed, look you, it wasn't a fucking great battleship, just a tiny minelayer, a child could steer it, smallest thing they could give him to command and he still fucked it up, he'd a sunk a fucking rowing boat on the river, he would, good for fuck all.  And now he's admiral of the fucking fleet. Man's a cunt. Never actually been in the army, has he, but for years he fucked the arse off a Colonel's wife so they probably think that that counts as army service.

Our Royal Correspondent Nicholas Knobcheese sucked the royal cock for us, like he does, I mean interviewed his royal highness. The interview contains flashing lights, bouncing off all the diamonds and medals and gold braid and shit.

Your Most Serene and Excellent Majesty, I cannot tell you how grateful your subjects are that you are prepared to speak to me about your latest venture to help those less fortunate than your own Exalted and Divine Holiness, - ie everybody in the fucking country - what with me being an unworthy mortal and you  being a God Emperor, the Friend of Faith,  the Keeper of the Planetary Good and of course, the baker of some most excellent biscuits. 

Yes, one is rather, isn't one, 
all of those things.
Not bad from one's, one must say, humble beginnings.  Started out without a penny of one's  own, doncha know but soon managed to amass a substantial fortune.  And all without giving the appearance of doing anything.  Oh, one knows one worked hard at one's holidays, skiing and shooting and polo and what have you 



but if you asked one  how one  made one's fortune,
 one's houses,

one's lands

one's trains and boats and planes, as it were, not to mention one's fleet of environmental Bentleys and Astons
- Oh, don't worry, one doesn't drive them around the world, no, a chap in the RAF flies them around the world for one, damn decent sort, actually, no, no, he's not the same chap as squeezes one's toothpaste, no, it's quite another chap who dries one's John Thomas, as it were, after one has had a Gipsy's, what? well, fucked if one knows actually, must be scores of them, servants;  you don't expect one to do anythng that someone else might do for one, do you  -  but as one was saying, about the Bentleys and palaces and jewels,  one doesn't actually have a clue what one has done to earn them.  But what I want to say to our very many young people who are presently idle is that you don't get given anything in this life, well, one does, but you don't. 

And I do think it's time for something like national service, gives people such a sense of self-worth - those that aren't born with one - when they do something without financial reward or incentive, not that one, personally, would ever do such a thing, of course.  Just not bred for it.  What's that saying, no pain for you, no gain for me?

Quite right, Sir, your Worship.

Her Majesty the Duchess? She's quite well, thank you, looking forward to being your Queen.  What's that?  No. I never said she wouldn't be Queen,  you must be mistaken. Of course she'll be Queen.  I'll be King. And she'll be Queen.  Dirty old slag? What's that got to do with it?

We are a fairy tale;
 keep on giving us fairy tale money 

Your Holiness, I am so touched that you have spoken to me. I wonder if there is any possibility that I might, just for a few minutes, lick your arse. Again.  I'll pay anything you ask.

And now back to  Huw, in the studio.

Huw Welshman, stood behind his desk,
 shaking his hips, singing:

- ......look at them yo-yos, that's the way you do it, lemme tellya, buddy,  them guys ain't dumb, maybe get a blister on your finger, maybe get a blister on your thumb......we gotta in-stall microwave ovens, custom kitchen delivery-ee-ee-eez, we gotta move these ruhfridger-ay-tors, we gotta move these colour teevees, yeah,  bom-bom-bo-bo-bo-bom-bo-bo-bom-bom."

That was Nick, there for us, at the palace.  He's a very sick man, y'know, must be something he eats.

And now I'm joined in the six o clock news studio by a very big star, who's gonna help me out. Some people say that even though the competition is fierce he's the most obnoxious human being in showbusiness, on Earth, some have even joked.  In history.  Anyway, he sang the high bits on the original recording of Money For Nothing, which is our theme tune tonight, wossat???  sorry, viewers, there's a voice in my earpiece, drive you fucking mad, it would, look you,  fa-what?  Falsetto?  I'm told it's called falsetto, the high bits.  Anyway may I ask you at home to put your hands together for our super-talented guest tonight, formerly of the Police, it's the man himself - String. 


(in very high or  falsetto , Geordie voice)
 I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV

(in ordinary, Taffy voice)
See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup
Yeah buddy thats his own hair
That little faggot got his own jet airplane
That little faggot hes a millionaire

We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchen deliveree-ee-ee-eez
We gotta move these refridg-er-aytors
We gotta move these colour teevees.

That aint workin', thats the way you do it
Get your money for nothin', get your chicks for free.

 I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV
I want my, I want my, I want my MTV

performance continues all night over on PBC4
or press the red button.

It's time for the weather, now, with Jayne Tits.


Anonymous said...

It's not doing me any good, reading your stuff, Mr Ishmael.

Apofuckingplectic I am, reading this stuff.

I may have mentioned previously, I was an inveterate royalist, yes sir, I was fucking grateful to pay for houses and castles and whores and coke and ladyboys and champers and, well, you know.

Not now, no sir, over my dead body, you bastards.

I fear for my own soul, I do. I used to view people like Hitler as homicidal maniacs, aberrations, utterly fucking mental. Now I could quite easily see myself shovelling cunts into the furnace, taking great pleasure in seeing Huw fucking Welshman begging, pleading, desperate, as I kick his his fucking teeth down his throat, as I piss on his corpse, and fucking Paxman, and his whores, those slappers like that hunchback jock and Emily Tits.

I'm not much of a man, but I'm better than that cunt Charlie.

Imagine what Edward I would have made of Charlie.

Straight out of the window with the cunt, I'll wager.

We're fucked. Right royally.


Mike said...

I sympathise Mr Vincent. Here, down under, I like many voted to retain the monarchy - only because the alternative was clearly worse. We have no illusions about our political class. But when Charlie takes over then all bets will be off. I wouldn't hesitate pulling the chord on Mme G in his case

I suspect we will be leading the way on this, as we do on other social issues. It won't be long before you adoopt our immigrant policies from what I see.