Thursday 27 February 2014


The last post was almost but not quite correct in every prediction - even my fitful dreams could not conjure a gang of temporarily licensed racists erecting a gallows and baying,  


Bee Enn Pee, Justice For Lee; apart from that 18th century apparition,  the post was spot-on.  (In passing, it was obviously wasted on the BNP lynch mob that the two convicted were actually British themselves.  Nigger British don't count, of course; Jew British, Paki British, Irish British, they don't count; there's only a tiny brave remnant of true Brits left, actually, unreformed, grunting, knuckle-dragging, pissed-up, face-stomping  skinhead Nazis, bless them.)  So keen was MediaMinster to further damn the two Michaels that all  the hacks continued their spermy dribbling as the chants of the fascist mob crescendoed, MediaMinster raisng its voice ever louder,  pretending that the vile background noise  wasn't happening, or pretending, even worse, that these were the voices of a raucous compassion. Shame on all of them, focusing their limited, bought-and-paid-for minds on -  how does it go? -  the beam in their own eyes.

In the scale of these things, were we to ever examine them rationally, the killing of Lee Rigby is a tiny footnote and compared with how  these atrocities  have usually been  conducted, it demonstrated  an internally logical heroism, altruism, even. 

Whatever Mr Justice Slag said 

- and one cannot see him risking his comfy, pompous life for anything on Earth, much less for Justice; doesn't this arsehole know that Justice, our Justice, in a system where the lawmakers pray daily to Jesus, demands a consciousness of the possibility that all may repent and reform and be forgiven, does this cunt of a judge think that his court trumps that of God - these two felt themselves to  be soldiers and were more than  willing to die  for their cause.  Their target was not a civilian, he may have been in civilian clothes but he was a squaddie and in Afghanistan - or anywhere else - Fusilier Rigby would not have refused orders to kill any number of civilian women and children - go on, when's the last time that happened ? -  it's not as though the modern BushBlairGlobaCorp war is conducted according to the Geneva Convention;  countless Asian mothers will have wept that they did not expect to see their sons killed on their own streets by the likes of Lee Rigby, why is their  loss meaningless to us?  And isn't our indifference to our foreign policy the true cause of the drummerboy's death?  Why is it OK, noble and brave for us to kill Muslims on their home streets but not OK for them to reciprocate, to return the bloody favour?

There is always a distortion of logic when a cop or a soldier gets killed but the unglossable truth of the matter is that both have chosen to join-up, both are, compared with most of us, well-pampered and pensioned, in return for which they are expected to insert themselves between Trouble and me;  that is what they get paid for, better, therefore,  that they die than that I do.  Lots of fishermen, oilmen  and construction workers die on duty, generally as a result of failure in those pesky, profit-hindering  health and safety regulations, nobody gives a flying fuck about that, nobody offers a silent prayer over their fish'n'chips, well, nobody but me. But a squaddie or a constable, Christ, you'd think that the sky had fallen-in, should one of their number die.

If the IRA, anyway,  had carried out this  grisly killing, they would not have stood, talking to women and waiting to be killed by the cops; no,  not  the HardNancyMen,  they would have planted booby-trap bombs to maim those women as they knelt to assist the victim, would have attempted to kill and maim their children and then they would have run away, sleekit,  to a network of safe houses and maybe eventually to friends and supporters in the United States.  The only bravery, the only willingness to die ever demonstrated by the IRA was displayed by Bobby Sands and the rest of the hunger strikers, Gerry Adams, the nonce and Marty Kneecaps always kept themselves well out of Harm's way. And, thanks to Tony Blair, they still do.  I do believe that they, Marty and Gerry,  are among a handful of - well, I was about to say Brits, but they're not Brits  - a handful of people in Britain who are allowed to carry concealed handguns, purely for self-defence.  We may not defend ourselves against terrorists but they may defend themselves against us.  Y'see, it's the logic of Ruin.

The Birmingham 'pub bombings  were truly cowardly; unlike the two Michaels, the IRA deliberately targeted  young civilians, killing and maiming scores of them and the West Midlands cops - scum, even by police standards - framed the first six paddies they got their hands on.  Lord Denning-Slag, among others, crushed their first appeal on the basis  that it didn't matter if the police had lied, it simply would not be good for public order, public confidence,  if he upheld the overwhelming evidence that they had lied their arses off.  Best in the world, envy of the world,  British justice. 

Doubtless for political reasons those guilty of the Birmingham 'pub bombings have never been convicted.  But if these cowardly bastards had been they would never have received a full-life penalty  and whatever sentence they did receive it would have been  hugged away, there-there'd by the ghastly Mo Mowlam and the rest of the NewLabour filth.

Yesterday was a sorry day. Mr Justice Slag's sentencing remarks run to about four pages and are pure Judge Jeffries' rhetoric of wickedness -  Me Good, you bad.  Translated, they mean, OK, I've done what my masters, the politicians and their masters wanted me to do.  And I have done what the tabloids wanted me to do. Now promote me.

Other societies do not, via their courts and media,  blitz and immolate themselves with rage and hatred and vengeance;  the Norwegians, recently, in the face of multiple terror killings, a slaughtering of their young, behaved with great dignity and decency, we will not let the savage make us savage, they said unanimously.  Mr Justice Slag, in his frock and wig, the negligent keeper of Justice's feeble flame, would laugh at them supersciliously, vengeance and hatred, he would scowl,  c'est moi.

This miserable, woebegone affair has resulted in the ruination of three young lives and judicial and prosecutorial backslapping, whilst to be expected, is a bitter draft for Sense to swallow.  The true authors of this horror will cruise still, in armoured  limos, LearJetting contemptuously above us, laughing at the two Michaels, at the ghost of Lee Rigby and at bewildered, grieving families and children on all sides, although it is, of course, only those on the Rigby side who are damaged by all this.  The black children, the black parents?  Well, fuck 'em, they shoulda been white.  BEE ENN PEE, Justice For Lee.  Aye, right.      


Wednesday 26 February 2014


 Despite a welter of slavering anticipation from MediaMinster, at the time of writing we don't know what these boys are going to receive from Mr Justice Slag, whatever it is, it will "send out a message to other terrorists," only it won't, well, not the message he wants to send; whatever it is, it will " deliver justice and closeya to Lee Rigby's assorted wives and family," only it won't; and it will placate the DailyMail-reading UKIP/BNP/wimmen-hating constituency who want these guys hanged over and over again, only it won't; it will be the usual British exercise in amoral, tabloid-pleasing tub-thumping. These young men brutally killed a young British soldier on the streets of London.

At the time of writing, we do know what  sentence this guy received.


 He, for his part, killed and injured many British soldiers on the streets of London.  He walked out of court, yesterday, without a blemish on his character, thanks to people like these.


The judge can take his predictable po-faced sanctimony and shove it up his poxy arse.  Mass murderers, bombers, torturers, steeped far more in blood, sadism and wickedness than these two guys might ever be are in government in the United Kingdom,  Scot-free,


 and the gabshite Afrikaaner,

Whatever happened to the Labour party that it could so accelerate the rise of foreign filth like this?
Hain, cheeky cunt, incredibly once Northern Ireland Seckatrty, speaking fluent I-Know-Best, reproaches us loftily and angrily for even mentioning his grubby deals with vile criminals.

Sunday 23 February 2014




This is the news that footballer, Wayne Potato, has re-renegotiated his contract with failing football team, Fuckpigs United.  The terms of the new contract are that Mr Potato doesn't actually have to play football  but merely has to not  keep on saying that he is thinking of leaving FU,  the rest of the time Mr Potato is free to spend his fortune in the GrannySlapper DayCare Home, situated conveniently close to his vulgar palace in the downtown Cheshire countryside, on vulgar, diamond-studded Range Rovers - or Range Rooneys, as some wags call them,  on  obviously vulgar hair transplants and - if time permits, of course - on designer reading and writing lessons. But not adding-up because his accountants do that for him. Or so he thinks.

Signing on the dotted line.
Will an X do? Only potatoes don't do writing.

Fuckpigs United fans, who will have to fund this latest moron levy through increased ticket prices and ever more costly but worthless memorabilia were delighted that the potato was staying with them and could be heard joyfully overturning cars, setting them alight with Fuckpigs City fans trapped inside them,  whilst singing, to the tune of Tipperary, It's a long way to Munich Ai-i-r-port, it's a long way to go....

And so, indeed, it is; what was once a true national treasure, the Manchester United football team of Matt Busby and Bobby Charlton,   is now just another corporation, a byword for greed, bullying and stupidity.  Surely there's a special place in Satan's heart for Alex Ferguson.


What was most surprising about the Chris Wossisname tax fiddle was not that he's a crook, everybody at the PBC is a criminal, either by deed or by omission.

The corporate plea of ignorance as to this bastard's conduct is laughable and the whole rotten place should be burned to the ground and turned into a carpark;  the PBC's  LardLord Chris Patten could probably run a carpark, with a bit of help. After he came out of jail.

Oxbridge Chris.
 Don't I look clever in this?
What?  A car park?  I daresay I could fit it in,
 depending on the pay, of course.

 Beardy git, Mark Sticky Fingers Thompson, 
former top thief at the PBC.
 No, no,  madam chairman, with respect, the way it worked with PBC salaries and bonuses and bungs and what have you was that the right hand didn't know what the left hand was doing.   Or was it the other way round? No matter, what it meant was that my mate,  I mean colleague,  could fix my salary and I could fix his. Anyway, I work in New York, now,  so the license payers can all go and eat shit. As usual. Savile, no, no idea, well yes, I am frightfully clever but I never suspected he was a beast, even though the dogs in the street knew he was.  Responsible?  No why should I feel responsible? Because I was in charge? Poppycock.

Start your Radio One Day with Chris Wossaname, below.

Moyles - is it Moyles - was, like most over-rich people, reluctant to pay his due tax, can't blame him for that, why should he, politicians don't, politicians' friends and advisers don't, Google doesn't, Amazon doesn't, Starbucks doesn't, Vodafone doesn't - anyone with a connection to slimy, squeaky George Osborne or anyone holding out the promise of a lucrative post-Treasury, post-HMRC job need not pay any tax;  Mr Murdoch doesn't pay any tax, Lord Daily Mail doesn't pay any tax.  London is stuffed to the rafters with international criminals who don't pay any tax whatsoever; so why should this relatively poor, gibbering, egomaniacal showbiz cocksucker gabshite  pay any tax? 
Chris Gob of the PBC
Seven years'd be about right.
Dartmoor's nice and warm,
with thick walls, nobody'd hear his gobbing and whining.

No, the surprise is not that he tried to avoid tax, it is that we paid him seven hundred thousand pounds a year.  Better off, I think, burning the money in a brazier outside a food bank, keep a few people warm for an hour or two.

Still, he's said he's sorry, that's the main thing, deserves a second chance, eh?  Not as though he's one of the Wicked Poor. 

Welcome to Sky News, your first choice for madeupnewsandfilth.
 With me, Kay Bully.

               And this is the news that Rebekah Filth, the so-called witch of Chipping Norton has been compeletely cleared at the Old Bailey. of one of the charges     

Ms  Filth, 

Hubble bubble, toil and trouble, 
Blair burn and Murdoch bubble.
whose familiars have included EastEnders' tough guy-fairy, Mr Ross Cock, unelected prime minister Mr David Cameron, stable boy Mr Charlie Brooks, war criminal and fraudster Mr Tony "Butcher" Blair and the octogenarian sex-God Mr Rupert Murcock - none of whom were able to impregnate the rancid old bag - has all along maintained her innocence and told Skymadeupnewsandfilth that she now feels to'ally an'  u'erly vindicated. skymadeupnewsandfilth believes that Ms Filth still faces four other serious charges and will probably g to jail.

I put a spell on you, prime minister.
'Slong as there's some money in it for me.

Speaking from New York, Mr Murdoch said,  I fuckin' well hate that cunt, Tony fuckin' Blair, fucked my chink Sheila, he did, I'll have him.  I made the cunt and I'll unmake him. Tax, in the UK? Sorry cobber, I can't remember nothing about that.



 His Holiness Pope Frankie de los Fray Bentos.
Time Magazine's Nonce Protector General of the year.

Giving his Christmas orders to massed pilgrims in Rome and to believers around the world,   man of the people, Pope Frankie, said, muy caballeros, we are the veecar of Kar-ist, and eet ees the first time for an Argie,  best is not to wreck the boat, eh? And so ees all full ahead with same-as-before reforms, uzzerwise ees  my cock on ze  sacred choppin' block, eh, and then pop in some reliquary casket for fuckwits to pray at for hundred an' hundred of fuckin' year, eh? Is like that  instrument of Satan, mr ishmael, always say,  eesa no business like-a showbusiness. Fucking-a dog bones and-a bits of-a dried-up snot, and millions of silly, daft fuckers have-a been a-praying at this shit for-a fucking millenia. Por favor, Iyam  only ay poor peasant and not even wear ze posh red shoes, not like some fuckin' popes, eh? Am not namin' no popenames but FuckMeJesus, zis 'avin' a Pope fucking Emeritus, is taking the fuckin' piss, no?

both: Heavenly Father, make this bastard die.

No other poping bastard have had to put up with this shit.  
Previous pope should be fucking dead, no, and having serious bit of arse-roasting down there with competitor?
 Not fucking about, getting under feet of busy man like Frankie.

Anyhow, here they is, my list of reforms for new papacy. An' God bless everybody, especially priests, nuns and any other  mad bad fucker working for me. Not get no money y'know, priest and nuns,   not even minimum styarvation wage, like in UK, not on the fucking books, anyhow, otherwise would be paying tax. Render unto Caesar?  Fuck that shit.
Dominus vobiscum.

Frankie Reforms:
Proscribing birth control:  eesa no change.
Forbidding women priests and bishops: eesa no change.
Forbidding married priests: eesa no change.
Church co-operation with torture,  juntas, dictatorships and totalitarianism: eesa no change.
Vatican bank money laundering: eesa no change.
Redistributing Vatican  wealth to the poor: eesa no change.
Prosecution of Pope Nazi for long-term paedophile cover-up: eesa no change
Facilitating and protecting global noncing network: eesa no change, except-a maybe work a bit harder. Frankie always say You gotta love the sinner and hate the sin, so best thing is excommunicate moaning little brats and move noncing bastard to another diocese or maybe move to other country, or else bring to Rome and-a make him Cardinal in  fucking nonce's hat. 

 Princes of the Church,  O'Brien and Savile
You may kiss my ring, child.
An' mine, too, an' how's about that, then? 

Going the extra mile,
Prince Gormless and Princess Waitress

Some of the lesser royals.

A bit of rough has snuck in, by the looks of it.
Another ruggerbugger joins the cheatiest family in the country.

Meet the in-laws, 
le famille Windsor von Gormless with those catering  people, 
the Middletons.  
One believes thay made their own money, how frightfully common.

Why do unemployed people have so many children? 

Look,  you stupid horsefaced git, your mother had to be stopped otherwise she'da fucked the balls off of every Muslem celebrity in the world 

and your brat, here,  would've had a clutch of nig-nog half-brothers, throwing stones over the palace walls.
Your father is right, for once,  she would have destroyed the entire business which I have worked so hard to maintain.  Man-up, you useless streak of piss, she was only your mother, I'm your fucking Queen         

A family moment as Queen von Brenda,  ArchDuke Brian  Gormless, Prince William Gormless
 and Prince BabyGeorge Born-Fucking-Gormless look optimistically towards a pampered, parasitical future. 
Christ, what a fucking bunch on inbred, deviant misfits.

The Queen's Speech.

 At this time, when we remember the tens of millions slaughtered in World War One, there is no point in mentioning that lots of the trouble was caused by squabbles amongst one's own family, one's great uncles, Kaisers and Czars and whatnot and no point at all in mentioning that one's uncle, David, you know him as Edward the Seventh, was a keen supporter of uncle Adolf.  That the crown has passed to me through scores of nasty, degenerate warmongering cocksuckers is, frankly, none of your fucking business. Being your Qieen is one's job, given one by no less than God alfuckingmighty, Himself. 
 So you can all just pay your taxes and fuck off. 
God bless you all.


Now look, at this very special time of the year,  let's be absolutely clear about this, it was a huge disappointmeht that I wasn't able to fulfill my prime ministerial (unelected) humanitarian destiny and bomb the arse off working class Syrian people but I didn't come into politics just to bomb niggers or other poor people, no, the main thing, let's be quite clear, is that Syria, even without my involvement and that of foreign seckatry,  Mr Miscarriages, is a quite unprecedented humanitarian catastrophe and if we can't add to it by bombing the bastards, the best thing we can do is just keep the fucking refugees out of the UK,  the place is already over-run with Gippoes and Bulgars, last thing we want is starving, limbless Syrian babies  clogging up the NHS, the NHS which I, as an orphaned parent,  have more reason to value than most and that is why I am selling it off, to the highest donor, I mean bidder, no, I mean to the foreign corporation most in tune with the ethos of a public health service free at the point of need;  there is much to be done; here at home, some people, I gather, still have wheelchairs and crutches when they could perfectly well be working and making a contribution to the community.  Some people still expcct that their health care and education should be free, claiming that their taxes should be spent on those services rather than on quite proply paying off the debts of and awarding bonuses to  my friends and relations working in the City of London. No, bombing the Syrians is one humanitarian thing, having some of them come and live here,  that's an entirely different humanitarian thing.  It's a subtle difference, between killing people and caring for them but one which we in the Coalition understand.  Letsbeclearaboutthis. Killing large numbers of foreigners doesn't cost anything because the money is magic money from the contingency fund.  It doesn't really exist you see.  All the cruise missiles and depleted uranium shells, therefore, they don't actually cost anything.  But caring for people, well that costs real money, which, let's face it, we need to use in order to recapitalise the banks. Wossat? No, no, it's not because they're all jumped-up barrowboy crooks. Absolutely not. It's because of the last govament. 

No water?  The Syrians? Well, they can drink piss can't they, let's be clear, lots of honourable and right honourable members do it regularly. Chateau Rentboy, I believe thay call it.  No, no, I don't think it's just the Liberal Democrats.  Nigella?  No, not to the  best of my knowledge.  But she might. If the price was right

Let's be clear, I wish all of my subjects a very Happy New Year and let's be equally clear that if the Scottish people vote for Independence from my govament that will, let's be very clear about this, spell the end of Labour govaments in the United Kingdom.  Or what's left of it.  For ever. And that, let's be clear,  is exactly why I have appointed Mr Alastair Carmichael, KingEarl and Bishop  of Orkney to persuade the Jock tribesmen that they should vote for an end to the Labour Party in Westminster. Wossat? Well, he might well think that his task is to persuade them of the exact opposite but my considered judgement is that whatever he tells them to do, they'll do the opposite.  Wouldn't you?  I know I would. 


Wishing you all a merry, child molesting, allowances fiddling, justice perverting, library closing, jail-birding, intern-groping, NHS privatising, foodbanking, zero-hours contracting, pawn-shopping, loan-sharking, warmongering, lying, thieving, self-aggrandising Liberal Democrat Christmas. 

LibDems celebrating Christmas.

 Remember, our LibDem motto: You have to be cruel to be cruel.  I mean kind.

Friday 21 February 2014


This is the six o clock news from the PBC, the home of institutionalised noncing, AND Chris Patten, with me, Huw Welshman.  And the top story is the rioting in some Russian shithole - angry ragheads, angry neo-nazis, angry communists and angry lesbian pop groups, I shouldn't fucking wonder. Oh and some braindead,  angry cops. Gay most of them, coppers, same the whole world over. And as for fucking Russia, well it's run by gay gangsters isn't it, look you, boyo. And Vladimir Putin?  Don't start me talking, bent as a nine-bob note, as we used to say back in Merthyr Tydfil, when I was a lad, isn't it.   Over now, anyway, to Downing Street and that fucking numptie, CallHimDave.

Now listen, lessbeclear, just like everyone else, Mrs prime  minister and I like  nothing more  than sitting  down watching Cruelty TeeVee, and having the butler serve us  a plate of mini chickenKievs, on  a bed of Evesham asparagus,  with some Dauphinoise potatoes  on the side, washed down with a nice Mouton Cadet Rothschild.  Now, lessbeevenmoreclear,  the Ukraine capital, Kiev,  is named after this very tasty British chicken dish, created in, Oh, I dunno, Melton Mowbray, isn't it,  and we cannot sit idly by and let all this happen, whatever it is;  the police probly attacking the citizens.  'Snot as though Kiev is London, after all, where that shit happens all the time, no, certainly not, lessbeabsolutelyclear, the mini chickenKiev industry is vital to our economy, countless highly skilled and poorly paid  workers are engaged in reclaiming all the under-utilised bits from chickens - the lips, the eyes, the beaks, the claws and the bowels and so on, all perfectly delicious - 

 mixing it all up in a big sort of bowl thing, adding some chicken flavouring, colourings and stabilisers and what-not, rolling it into tempting little balls, dipping it in delicious crumb coating and then injecting it with a garlic-flavoured synthetic butter product, quite ingeniously made  from petroleum by-products

 so that all the busy housewife has to do when she comes home from her badly paid zero-hours contract employment is pop the delicious little chicken Kievs in the microwave and have her butler prepare the asparagus and les pommes dauphinoise, best to let the Mouton Cadet breathe for a while, so the footman can probably do that before the working Mum gets home. It's easy to see why a Russian city would want to name itself after such a delicious part of British cuisine.  Team Nigella?  No, no, I shouldn't think so. Don't think she does mechanically reclaimed meat. Unless you mean her tits and her big fat arse  Cocaine??? Instead of garlic?? Now look.  Let me make this clear, I am on record as saying that we have all done things when we were younger which should never be mentioned.  How much younger? Well, yesterday. Simply not fair to quiz me about what I said or did yesterday.  

And I'd just like to remind people of the other aspect of BrandKiev which is that while it may be true that the employers in this fine, traditional British industry are too mean to pay the workers a living wage and so the taxpayer has to help them out with scrounger-benefits this doesn't matter because with the money they save on wages the employers are able to make significant donations to  the Conservative party, so, the country, in a very real sense, gets the money back.  Tax?  No, I don't believe you have your facts right, they actually pay a rate of 0.010 per cent and not the 0.001 per cent  you wrongly stated.  I am sure you will agree that this is a huge saving to the Treasury and further evidence that the Chancellor, the Governor of the Bank and the CBI are all lying from the same hymn sheet.  Mr Coulson??

Well, as I've already said, I believe in giving people a second chance, And a third and fourth and fifth.  But only, lessbeclear, if, like myself, they work for Mr Murdoch.
And they help me stay fit and trim, those mini Chicken Kievs.
I mean, look, how can we let some rioting Russian  gay people jeopardise such a vital part of our, um,  thing, the GD wotsaname. 'Snot as though I didn't invent gay marriage for them.  I did. But,  and it is in my judgement a very big but, lessbefair, miniChickenKievs are bigger than all of us, gay, straight or Hagueish.

So that's that, then. As a  scholar, myself, and a distinguished military historian I am happy, not only to have been able to rescue the nation from whatever it was that we are all together against, but to have been able to deliver this small lecture on history and geography, and, of course, gastronomy; if only Mr Gove could recruit teachers as able as myself; if only, some might say, poor Mr Gove was in his right mind, and not a dribbling, delusional, spit-flecked nutter.

That was the unelected prime minister for you there, outside number ten Downing Street and FuckMeJesus he really is as thick as pigshit, isn't he, all that money squandered on his education.  That other cunt's at it again, too,  the Yorkshire Fairy, William Miscarriage,  he's  gobbing-off, look you, like he does,  about what he will and will not put up with, like anybody gives a fuck;  Syria all over again.  Emphatic this, emphatic that, stupid cunt, blustering his poxy arse off. Mark my words, viewers, and I don't want to put you off your teas or anything, isn't it,  but some big Russian fairy'll grab him and give him the old Balalaika Shuffle  up the jacksie,  that'll shut the stupid fucker up, look you, boyo.

Sings: Do not forsake me, Oh, my rentboy.

I must say that in my judgement an  international response is necessary to all this homosexual rioting, blahblahblah,  especially the dykey ones and I and my fellow foreign ministers are discussing sanctions and immediate and far-reaching changes.  Just as we did in Syria, which we don't talk about now, even though it was a triumph of diplomacy.  For Mr Putin and his team.
It is not right to describe protesters as terrorists, although it is exactly how we describe strikers and poor people back in the UK. And disabled people. You may say that ay great many of them are simply seeking ay better future for their country but in fact, mr tiny speaker, what they are doing is seeking to subvert  the efforts of ay democratically unelected govament, consisting of talentless, criminal hypocrites such as my right honourable and determinedly heterosexual self.
I think the European Union has to act in a way that helps to stop the violence. There has to be an international response to what has happened over the last few days, whatever it is, fucked if I know.
It is time on all sides for people to turn away from violence, apart, obviously, from the very necessary violence towards vulnerable people which is the hallmark of any responsible govamant,  but the Ukrainian government bears a particular responsibility to take the lead in making sure that happens. So there. And I would remind people that I speak as a sixteen-pints a night man.

It is one of the more distressing aspects of my later life that this revolting creature, Hague, head polished, teeth filed and corseted into his ridiculous suit'n'tie outfits minces round the world claiming to speak for I and my ordinary fellow citizens. Like the obnoxious, blackmailing fairy, Mandelstein, before him, Hague is the darling of MediaMinster's degenerate horde;  oh, I could wet myself when I hear him speaking, so clever, so erudite, say most Tory MPs. And he's fit, too. Fuck him, the freak; fuck all MPs,  I hope he dies of the arse-pox.

Young-ish love in happier days, young Chris with fists clenched, perhaps in memory, perhaps in anticipation, perhaps both.
Yes, Chris and I sleep together but just to save money on hotel bills, says millionaire homosexual.

Thursday 20 February 2014



There came an e-mail. 

Hi, Ishmael!!! Remember me???!!! From when you were nineteen??!! Well, I have terminal cancer and and I understand that what you do in these circumstances is try to reconnect with old friends!!! I found you through the wonders of the Internet!!!

What - as the young people say - the fuck?  This relationship had lasted, what, maybe two years and effectively finished around nineteen-seventy.  Funny thing was that although I hadn't thought about Colin for forty years I had, just a few days previously, dug out an old photo of him, of us; an early, tiny, black-and-white Polaroid, taken in his first, proud, matrimonial home - chunky Cotswold stone fireplace with no chimney and an oak-framed, leather three-piece, old codgers here will remember the style.  Why on Earth would he be reaching out to me, of all people, advising me of and involving me in his death? 

Cheeky bastard, is what I thought, at first. Fuck off out of it, you could have contacted me years ago, why now, when you have outlived your three-year prognosis?  Is it that you think I have no troubles of my own,  that I sit here in my stony fastness just waiting for a forty years dead friendship to revive itself, now that it has at least one foot in the grave;  what is the point of that? Go and suffer your own burden of mortality, as the rest of us do, or else don't, go and some quietus make, with a bare bodkin or, in your case, one of a matching set of cooking knives, from Habitat, or some other, prats' designer confessional,  Bless-me,-Father-Conran,-for-I-know-not-what-I-like-unless-you-tell-me outlet.

I became quite angry but only for a moment or two.  When we were kids he was a good-natured boy, industrious, reliable, a clean cut kid.  Unlike me, he had parents and they, too, were kindly;  he was generous and had a quirky sensayuma.  He was decent,  as straight as a die and I guess a proto-Thatcherite materialist; a ghastly, little Barret house on an arid, make-believe estate and a company Ford Escort Mk 1,  these were the spurs in Colin's flanks.  Not me, fuck no, anything but;  William Blake's road of Excess had me marching unsteadily, the soles of my feet smoking  on its molten cobbles.  And the last time I saw Colin I glimpsed him, from within a disintegrating marriage at which he had been my best man - Gosh, the things we did,  then, before before,  the worthless, paltry rituals to which we slavishly subscribed - as he carried the coffin of his infant son, stolen away in the night, freighted off to darkness and memory and disappointment, courtesy of cot death syndrome.  

We see it all the time, now, in Arabia and Asia, fathers carrying dead infants,  but somehow these bereaved men  have about them the dark dignity of rage, generally against Uncle Sam and the UK; there's  no help for these heroes, no collections, no gabshite actors  bleating their phony lines on behalf of  hundreds of thousands sentenced to cruel bereavement.  Only wogs after all, and niggers. No, no, don't get me wrong, I'm not racist or nothing, I value the right sort of foreigners, but lessfaceit, lessbeclear, these nignogs, I mean, they're all terrist scum, int they? ( from Paul Staines' Guido's  Big Book Of Political Science For KnobHeads.)  But where you can see, in Abdul's eyes, his almost comforting hatred of our warmachine; in Colin's, on  that day so long ago, all I could see was weary, resigned bewilderment;  his beloved, pre-ordained  consumerist lifestyle had short-changed him, in the worst possible way.

And after a lifetime abidng with all that,  all that suppressed guilty regret, now he was dying, not suddenly, on a day to surprise he and his, but measuredly, on what they call a journey, his course set by - whaddayacallem? - oncologists; his hands held by MacMillan nurses and other ghouls, as these things are now ordered; maybe a hospice of horror, an unashamedly public dying.  A Cotswold stone fireplace of a death.  Bogus and non-functional. There for all to see.  Including me.

I mellowed quite quickly, though, a matter of seconds.  He had never done me any harm, only kindness and fellowship, never caused me an instant's hurt, what did it matter that his ancient choices were crass and vulgar, they were certainly not as bad, as  damaging as my own, and they were probably more his parents' - and her's - than his own.  If he wanted to make contact with me then he was entitled, I felt.  I know that in many hospitals they are denied even a sip of water but amongst the rest of us the dying must have some entitlements, mustn't they?

I have nothing in  the way of kin and my parents died an eternity ago; death, therefore - somebody dying - , well, its rarity is a suckerpunch to me.  In my forties, through Mrs Ishmael,  I met  a woman, Celia,  who had been first the mistress and then the wife of one of my teachers at grammar school.  He was, like most of them, a contemptible bastard, your foot would break before you tired of kicking him in the balls and I was cheered to learn from Celia that he had died young.  Her  then current husband, John, was in the middle of a longdrawnout dying and everytime we met he, like the Ancient Mariner, fixed me with his glittering, cancerous eye and rehearsed all the sins and duplicities and shortcomings and betrayals of his previous wife. I just listened to him; he wasn't interested in listening to me.  He barely paused for breath, hour after hour, in merciless detail.  He had been going to kill her and some or all of her lovers but he had thrown his revolver in the River Fleet to stop himself so doing.  But Christ, was she a bitch, did I tell you about the time she went off with this solicitor and I got the Law Society involved, didn't stop her, she was just a slag and then there was the time she flew  to Israel with one of the tribe, a Jewboy, but that didn't last.  Must've amounted to days, the hours he ranted at me, about someone I had never met.  Celia would, whilst John was frothing at the mouth, just talk to Mrs Ishmael, as though nothing untoward was happening.  I didn't realise until after John had died that Celia was just waiting - gasping -  for it to happen so that she, in her blowsy sixties, could take up with an utter arsehole of a humanist minister;  quite how there can be such a thing as a sermonising humanist minister seems as bizarrely and improperly  illogical as, say,  the existence of  Nigel Farrage, but never mind, Celia had the oldy hots, bless her,  for this unspeakable cunt and actually couldn't wait for whining old, dying old  John to pass over, taking with him his ragingly unresolved first marriage.  I thought John was entitled, you see,  thought it was the least I could do, listen to a dying man's woes. She later dragooned me into helping her scatter his ashes over an old hill fort in Presteigne;  I never knew why, still don't,  there were many other closer, more appropriate people. It wasn't until  some years afterwards that I felt a little soiled, a little used, by both Celia, in her time of lusting and by  John, in his time of dying. 

I have suffered  no such beleaguering from Colin's correspondence, no such bilious filibustering.  I did write back to him as best I could, as warmly and thoughtfully as I could, as amusingly as I could, as profoundly and elegantly and as rhythmically as I could.  A list of sales-repping career achievements is all I have read in return, nothing of him or his life or his dying but then not everybody can write these things down, not everybody knows themselves.  Maybe, I more or less resolved,  his contact was just a form of naughty, pre-mortem,  public announcement; maybe that's all he wanted to do, a dark showing-off, a little boy, waving his tinkle at the world, while he still can.


I haven't died or yet been pronounced dying but I have been terribly fatigued.  There is a disc in my neck which has popped out and is pressing, like a tiny, malevolent guillotine blade through the spinal fluid and into the spinal cord. Fatigue is a symptom, fatigue and pain, or pain and then  fatigue and no wonder,  I nearly fell over when I saw the MRI scan.

 I have cupboards full of narcotics but unless you're taking them for fun they're no fun at all and so I don't; with the opiates and opioids I work to Phil Spector's gun maxim -  Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.  It's good advice for anyone in serious chronic pain - just knowing that you possess something that will almost instantly engender a warm sense of painfree wellbeing is better than actually using it, because once you use it you will want more and more and it will work less and less; quite medieval, I am, about suffering pain;  I must deserve its horror, its transcendence. 

My consultation with the  neuro surgeon was difficult.  I guess that in the strict sense of the word he could speak English but he knew nothing of nuance or idiom and on top of that, in any language, he was slipshod, pompous and self-regarding. Oh, he said, there'll be plenty of notice of it becoming an urgent condition;  seemed a contradiction to me, a non sequiteur.  Odd and frustrating, because in the same hospital, over the same period just recently, I have been treated, for another matter, by a world-famous plastic surgeon, Aegean, I guess, South Mediterranean, North African, maybe, who is a precise, fluent and gracious communicator.  There oughta be a law, hadn't there,  this is life and death stuff,  you need to understand what's being said to you. I asked, anyway, for a second opinion. Maybe I'll get one I can understand.

Sorry, anyway, not to have been in touch.


 General Eisenhower, storming across war-torn  Europe in his staff car mused to his driver, 

Honeybabe, these Godamned Autofuckinbahns are some hot shit; they're as smooth as yo sweet ass, flat as a Godamned pancake and they run from here to fuckin' eternity. How come these Kraut sonsafuckinbitches got highways like these while back home we just got motherfuckin' dirt tracks, dusty fuckin' lanes like the kind that Bonnie an' fucking Clyde got shot to fucking pieces on.  Now, pull the fuck over here an' gimme somea that sweet peaches an' cream y'all been keepin' warm  for me all the way from fuckin' Normandy.

And so it was. When Ike became president his very first project was the design and construction of Uncle Sam's Interstate Highway System;

This was and remains - it is still being built - a massive, massive civil engineering project.  Wherever it has gone it has attracted economic growth.  Aside from the thousands employed in its construction and in the design and manufacture of its machinery,  the Interstate Highway network spawned hotels everywhere - Hiltons and Holiday Inns -  diners and fast food outlets, filling stations;  towns sprung up, airports, car hire firms, Highway Patrol law enforcement agencies, huge transport fleets of Mack trucks, criss-crossing the country.

The project continues to this day, government initiated, the Interstate Highway has created trillions of dollars worth of good.  If only, instead of a cabal of up-each-others-arses public schoolboy, trustfund spivs, ponces, slags, extortionists  and child molesters we had someone with Ike's courageous vision.

 The floods have presented a perfect opportunity for a sensible government to commit to a civil engineering project  that would both safeguard parts of the country and put it back to constructive work.  Instead, punitive and mean spirited, we have retarded mutants like Ian Duncan Smith throwing aged and vulnerable people out of their homes, the shameless, criminal poltroon Cameron, promising access to, Oh, ten million pounds, for flood victims;  that must be all of  two, maybe three bankers' annual bonuses.

The Deluge of river, sea and sewer water has, I'm afraid,  made me laugh.  I live perilously close to the ocean and only a few metres in sea-level terms above it and that's why the house and contents insurance is so costly.  We have never flooded but a big, freaky sea would wash the place down with us in it and the four-figure insurance premiums wouldn't matter a fuck. When the winds blow, therefore, I set myself in the watchtower and take catastrophe precautions. This much is obvious -  if you live close to the sea or  a river or on a flood plain then Peril is your chosen next-door neighbour, Peril is your problem, not mine.

There is, of course,  no question but that govament has failed miserably, shamefully, ignominiously and disreputably  to maintain let alone improve flood defences but what else would accrue  from people like these, Underpants Major, ButcherBlair, Gordon Snot and this wretched Coalition of Cruelty and Criminality.  What do people expect from Chris Huhne, David Laws, Nick Clegg, Eric Pickles and the rest, these people are all dangerous criminal incompetents.  David Cameron believes that the USA won the Battle of Britain;  Nick Clegg averred that the state pension was Oh, about thirty quid a week.  These people shouldn't be in charge of wiping their own arses, never mind the safety of the nation in a time of erratic climatology;  they should be in a secure care home for the criminally insane, instead, their rancid cocks sucked dry by les invigilateurs faux et mechant,  JockyNeil, Young Parent John Humphrys, Jerry Million Pounds A Year Paxman, Adam Lard and the rest, MediaMinster's best continue shitting in our faces, unchallenged.

But even so, it is a measure of the stupidity of the nation that we tolerate all this deluvian bleating and skriking from fuckwits, chancers and opportunists.  There was a publican, demanding that I compensate him for his loss of business, cheeky fucking bastard;  he should insure himself adequately or give his pub away to some other dummy.  Oh, but Mr Ishmael, you dunno how hard the pub trade is; d'yaknow there's four thousand pubs shutting every hour and now this, people being too, well, too  flooded to come and prop up the bar, like in the good old days, playing darts and munching on hearty ploughpersons' lunches;  heart of the community, it was, the 'pub, dunno what the world's coming to, me. Global warming? Nah, dunbelieve in it. Lefty nonsense, innit. But I do need compensating.

No, no, no, in my considered and costly opinion it's all these food banks that're causing the problem, simply throw the scrounging bastards into the Thames, that'll sort it. Cocaine? Never heard of it. Nigella Coke?  No, never heard of her, either; she that fat, greasy cook, the one with her tits hanging out, was married to that barrowboy, Saatchi?

Funniest thing of all, though, was Prince Billy Gormless and his oik brother, Prince Harry Moron, the pair of them posing with one or maybe as many as two sandbags that they had filled photo-opportunistically, taking a half-hour break from their lives of permanent holiday and eighty-quid-a-throw cocktails, worthless, pampered cunts; 

 Christ on a fucking rope, if people will swallow that sort of shit then they deserve anything they get.  Drowning's too good for them.


The rat family.
Just two pounds a month. 
That's all it takes.

No, don't worry, love, I'll get the taxpayer to fund my advice to you. 
And then you'll shred the receipts, right? Brilliant.

Tony and Rebekah Rat have worked tirelessly to promote, well, murder, filth, pornography; don't let them go under just for the sake of two pounds a month.

No degrees of separation.

 David, Andy and Rebekah Rat have toiled tirelessly to suborn what Tony Rat left of democracy in this country; don't let them down, now when they might, even David Rat, eventually be looking at an unfair prison sentence. Andy mated with Rebekah and quite possibly with David, too.  Don't let these closely-knit rodents be separated. Two pounds a month's all it takes.

Rebekah Rat  and the RatFamily driver,  Jeremy FatRat;  they need your help so badly; Jeremy as his car show descends even further into schoolboy farce and Rebekah as the RatExterminators gather outside her homes.

And are one's prisons really like holiday camps?
One hopes you don't find out for yourself.

 In a quiet moment Queen Rat and Rebekah Rat discuss  their anti poisons strategy. You scratch one's back and one will scratch yours.

A greasy, slab-faced spiv and a pasty-looking, nasty slapper.
Dave Rat and Rebekah Rat,
Boogie-ing the truth away.
I mean the night. 
No, I don't, I mean the truth.

Funny, isn't it, how many of the unelected prime minister's chums are, well, crooks. Like him, the Wisteria bandit.

Never quite understood the phrase Self-fulfilling prophecy, always seemed like just another bit of jargon. Maestro Browne's major opus, here re-orchestrated a l'Africaine, clarifies it a little.