Sunday 30 March 2014


It was a bit like watching  one of those unspeakable talent shows on Cruelty TeeVee.   From the word Go,  Nick Fatman, 


his oily acreage squeezed into deftly tailored suiting, urged the audience to give a round of applause, a show of appreciation to the two posturing egomaniacs here foregathered.  It was as though they were doing us a favour, instead of the other way around.  Since when have we applauded people less sincere than estate agents, people less engaging than my dog, Harris; people with the intelligence of a fencepost;  when did that happen? What sort of a society applauds its tormentors?

 Happens on PBC all the time, studio audiences instructed to clap and cheer the filth on Question Time, for instance, even though, in most cases, these are already handsomely paid and pensioned public servants;  but they need applause, too, for their mewlings and pukings; some ranting, demagogueic,  spit-dribbling, hardfaced, peroxide  baggage like Anna Soubry, MP and gabshite, 
Now, listen to me. I used to be a lawyer.

give her a big hand folks, she used to be a lawyer and now here she is, entertaining you, here on the PBC, lesshearitforAnna. I dunno what it is about Anna and Rachel and Theresa and Harriet and the gang but they really do put me in touch with my normally suppressed inner chauvinist pig.  But just look at her, isn't she vile, yet another Thatcher manque

The applause, anyway,  for Farage, Clegg and Fatman, like a laughter track on a sitcom, guided - or sought to guide - one's  understanding of the "debate" - debate is a bit grandiose for what were just two interspliced party political broadcasts with a  greasy  dummy acting as some sort of psephological Master of Ceremonies; that turd, Ferrari, never seen him before, only read about him in Private Eye;  he's like a bloated-to-bursting Alan Partridge,where the fuck did MediaMinster find him, useless, bombastic  fucking nincompoop? Looks like he showers in lard.

I tried to ignore it, anyway, the studio clapping, and to score the rounds like a boxing match, giving two out of three to Farage;  it was a clear win by any rational judgement.  Just because Farageistes or Cleggons cheered  their man to the rafters, well, it shouldn't mean shit, should it, 'snot a boxing match. I thought, anyway, like most who watched, that FagAsh Lil  wiped the floor with Cunthead, not that I'd piss on either of them were they on fire.

I don't, myself, give a one-way-or-another fuck about Europe.  I like to go there but that's about it and since I still have to use a passport and be viewed as a criminal by every minimum-waged, shiny-headed, illiterate  security lout; still have to  be searched by  obnoxious customs arseholes; have machine guns pointed at me by constable Filth and generally be fucked-about just leaving or entering my own country  it doesn't seem to me that being IN Europe is any different  than it was  being OUT of Europe; if anything, it's harder to go to Europe now than it was fifty years ago. Not even as though one can freely do a boozecruise, which was one of the touted advantages of joining the Common Market, duty-harmonisation;  no, you can only bring back what some embittered jobsworth thinks is a reasonable amount of poisons, what sort of free trade area is that? It is a fucking outrage from start to finish, the only advantages that I can see are to the Old Contemptibles, the Kinnocks, 




et al and probably, soon, most of the parliamentray Liberal Democrat Party - shiteaters, child molesters and jailbirds;  Europe and NATO, I mean, what on Earth were Lord George Robertson of Dunblane's qualifications to be NATO General Secretary, 

apart from him being on the run from public scrutiny regarding his association with nonce and mass murderer Thomas Hamilton? 

 No, I don't give a fuck about Euromarkets or Eurojobs or the Euroenvironmentalist crusade.  No, I don't, come on, who does?  Who does, I mean who really does, give a fuck about anything? I'll be dead relatively soon, why should I care about the environment, or anything else for that matter?  Am I to go to my grave ranting like a mad eco-warrior, Make sure my coffin is biodegradeable, plant me 'neath an Ash grove, let me die responsible, yea, though I have spent my life arseholeing.

We can stay in Europe or we can re-enter Nigel's quaintly-imagined AngloSphere, it will make no difference to me whatsoever, I will still be shat upon from the Great Latrine of State. And so will you.


  But the tide,  the LibLabCon tide was turning before UKIP and maybe Nigel can launch upon it a little fireship, HMS Dissent, perhaps. It will probably founder on the rocks of GlobaCorp, most things do, but the tide, that's the thing.

The press-induced clamour for Tough Patriarchy, for benefits theft and library closures amost drowns out the voice of reason.
Oh,  but it's the grandchildren, mr ishmael, mustn't leave them with debts, now, must we?  And, do you know what, mr ishmael,  this is the first generation that won't do better than their parents?  Do better?  Do better, how? Yes, you see, mr ishmael, things have always got better, from generation to generation, always. Aye, right, apart from the Black Death generation and the Wars of the Roses generation and the  Civil War  generation and the Napoleonic Wars generation, and  the First World War generation and the Jarrow generation  - fuck me, Jesus,  a bit of notional electronic debt would have seemed like Heaven to them, wouldn't it? Fuck off with your grandchildren-in-debt nonsense. Debt?  Fucking debt?  It was only in the recent, glorious, moral-compassing  reign of the Reverend Gordon Snot that the national debt due to Uncle Sam from World War 2 was paid off.  And now there's shitloads of other debt, debt, which, like the magic  money in which it is denominated, never existed in the first place, it isn't real, it is just a cyberstick with which to beat your dumb, willing, diffident, self-effacing arse. And if, during this lament, you also tell me that your son is not only your son but also your best friend I will hunt you down and cut your eyes out with my Swiss Army Knife.   Debt,  there's always been fucking debt, ever since there's been fucking money there's been fucking debt, that's how it works, money;  don't you whining, self-abasing fuckers know anything after all your wonderful, wonderful  years in grammar school and university and lifelong, ongoing fucking learning and professional fucking development?  Do you, after all this learning, really not know how the world works? Read, simply, mr yardarm on the Fairytale of Threadneedle Street, the scam of quantitative easing,  there's debt, you see, that rich thieves owe and debt which ordinary people owe and the larger the amount is, the less real it is;  your mortgage default, for instance, is tiny, a pittance but not only will rich usurers throw you onto  the street over it,  they will hound your  descendants for it, too; should, however, the double-barreled  gambling shysters of Lloyds of London  get into debt, why then, the rest of us must bail them out, PDQ. Seems to me that those now  pre-shamed by all this children's-children's indebtedness scam are as uneducated as it is possible to be;  these, the self-shaming ones, meekly helping-out with university fees, helping-out  with early-retirement-turned-childcare,  helping-out with mortgage deposits are as stupid and gullible a generation as has ever lived; seems to me that all they learned, most of my generation,  was the - as it has now been revealed to be -  shaky, groundless, childlike belief in the Rewards of Obedience.

My late friend, Dick, was one of Life's obedientiaries, a lesser official, not in the church but in the state, my use of the term obedientiary is like much of my stuff,  here, both corrupt and cogent, lyrical rather than precise, it'll do.  Dick did everything not rightly, at least not to the standard of the mutinous, Jesus-like righteousness to which I often catastrophically subscribe but certainly correctly, according to some post-war dogma which I believe, until now, no-one has written down.  His was not a turning of the cheek but a turning of the eye to the sins of the state.  If he did as he was told, they would look after him, don't rock the boat, lad, now you're on it.  Oh,  he wasn't like a chief constable, all of whom must be steeped in brutal criminality to have secured such an appointment  - how many killings,  kickings, framings, thievings, beastings must they have overlooked in their rush to suck Power's rank cock? How many cells  of shit-fright must they have walked past wherein innocents and not-so-innocents alike  have been equally wrongly savaged by DS Filth?  There's just no escape from a police cell, don't matter how loud you scream, nobody's gonna rescue you, you'll be lucky if you live and get charged with assaulting your attackers. Oh, don't start me talking about the police we could be here for years, for ever and ever, Amen, so be it, move along, now, nothing to see here.

He wasn't like that, my late friend, he just allowed himself to be blindsided by Wickedness and malpractice, by the insolence of office and by the law's delay.  Nothing he could do about it, is what he said.  The Paul Gambaccini Defence, he was lowly, the sinners were high, he would've lost his career.  Best work quietly to effect change from the inside.  'Twas ever thus;  for Evil to prosper good men need only think to their careers.

I met him when he was a young official, managing the poor on behalf of the rich and within that setting he was as decent a man as you might find.  But, Hey, a man must move with the times in order to protect his income and thus his family's prospects, and isn't a regular promotion just the first of the Rewards of Obedience?  And with every promotion comes not only a greater salary but a larger pension;  salary ladders, promotion ladders, property ladders, pension ladders, seems there's a forest of ladders, all of them climbing to SagaNirvana; a place where all your children have needlessly graduated in needless disciplines,  their gowned and boarded smugnesses leering from the mantelpiece at all comers;   a place where your employer will offer you an early retirement package in order to fuck you off, with your baldness and bad breath and your hernias;  a place where you can tend your tiny garden, go on your worthy, Saga holidays and, if you feel like it, brag about your voluntary work.  If you keep your nose clean - that is to say out of your betters' business - then there beckons an Elyseum of comfort, where you can justly enjoy, with only a little bit of intrusive guilt,   the Rewards of your lifelong Obedience.

Trouble is, they've been nicked, those rewards.  Ah, you are told,  lessbeclear, everybody's living longer - even though they are not and many of those that are, are living with cruel illness and disability, some shitting the bed, some babbling and drooling. Ah, you are told, make no mistake,  the pension was never designed for this but don't worry, the very last thing we would do, as responsible politicians is  raise taxes in order to pay proper pensions - or, in the case of our own paymasters, even collect taxes from them, fuck me, no, more'n my jobsworth's worth -  no, you must work longer, dementia and incontinence must be in sight before you retire,  a few minutes away;  that's the only way your grandchildren can afford one of the houses which we are not building and never will build. Let no-one be in any doubt, if you all don't promptly drop dead - or some financial equivalent thereof - within, say, let's be generous, three months of retirement you are betraying your children and their children.

And when it comes to the property  - no, we simply do not  call them homes any more, far too sentimental - for which you have sacrificed every shred of decency, for which you have licked more arse than a  Westminster rentboy, for which you have stomped and stifled your right to query, when it comes to your property, well, I'm afraid it'll have to be sold to pay for your nursing care. Reward? For working hard all those years? Well, lessbeclear, we allowed you to live in it all those years, so's you could feel superior to council house tenants, think you were building up a whaddatheycallem? a nest egg to leave your children;  we let you borrow money on the strength of successive housing bubbles, encouraged you to spend it in the High Street but I'm afraid that now you're ill we'll have to have it off you;  seems fair to me, nobody gave me anything, if you don't count my trust fund.

And even the reward of a rising salary, that's been nicked, too;  the genius in the Treasury believes in a madness madder than that of his recent predecessors, he believes, repulsive, pasty-faced little freak, that rising prices and falling wages, shrunken entitlements  for the poor and huge tax holidays  for the rich are the ingredients of a larger economic pie.

Salaries have been eroded for years, now; pension entitlements will be pared to insignificance, an Englishman's home is his castle only until he falls ill or gets old at which point it will be sequestrated to pay for treatments which will only keep him alive after a fashion.

It worked since the 'fifties, the Rewards of Obedience stick, worked like magic on my dear old friend, a man who really knew better but just couldn't help himself; it was underscored by Whisky Maggie  flogging-off homes which weren't hers to sell - not that right ever bothered the mad, screeching bastard - and recruiting former oiks into her property-owning, non-societal democracy;  Dagenham Man'll be to'ally and u''erly gutted when he gets ill and has to sell-off his newly-pebbledashed and patioed gaff. And serve him right.

There are no longer any Rewards of Obedience, or if they still exist they are restricted to a shrinking elite.  What, then, can still the tremors of the recently dispossessed,  the De-Rewarded? Guilt, that's the thing;  worked in 1914, stupid, vicious totties, passing-out white feathers; stupid, vicious MediaMinsterites tub-thumping and railing at shirkers who, rather like themselves, were  unready to die for King and Country, it worked a treat and ArmaCorp made a bundle. 

And now blithely, spiritedly, those, for a few decades temporarily in the middle class, embrace their impoverishment at the hands of Usury, singing, as they march to penury, of their grandchildren and their grandchildren's grandchildren.  See, look back on your ragged trousered philanthropist greatgrandad and the sacrifices he made for you. It's fucking feudalism, that's what it is, silly cunts.

Fuck the LuvEm2BitsMe grandchildren, nasty little gits, let them stand up for  themselves, worthless, twittering, facebooking imbeciles, let them learn the noble art of the Molotov cocktail and the sharpened stick.  Let them perforce learn fighting, let them unseat Cotswoldia, put it to the fucking torch and the bulldozer;  let them nuke Oxbridge, let them be unslaved. And fuck social media, its standards, its policies;  I would hang Zuckerberg.

This is such a con, this grandchild blackmail shit, foisted on us by the  public school wealthy, the likes of Clegg and his gang;  the reintroduction of JamTomorrow's sanctimonious  deferred gratification; once we were told we must starve and freeze in order that we might know God - not now, of course, but up in Heaven, after a lifetime of slavery; a sour, shrunken life and an early death, this was our meet portion but no matter, God would feed us divine venison, after we were dead;  it is more secular, now, more - what's the word for degeneracy? - pluralist, that's it;  now we must be beggared anew, not for God but  in order that people yet unborn be wealthy, if you believe that fucking  rubbish you'll believe anything.  

Yet many do, many believe that their rebuking masters speak truth to them, that it's all their fault,  they have all had it too good, and now they must pay, everybody must give something back of what they have earned and already been taxed upon.  Not the crime families, of course,  not the bankers - why is it, in passing, that we never call them oligarchs,  they, after all have given a masterclass in looting the people's wealth ? -   not their spermfaced servants in politics, no, their rewards are just, sacrosanct, not dependent upon probity, merit or ability, just upon barefaced thuggery.  Round of applause, here, please, ye audience of tongue-tied, goatee-bearded fuckwits.

My late friend eventually moved  within the circles of the Damned;  Jack Torture, he said, after a meeting at the home office, was very good.  He didn't mean very good in the sense of goodness, he meant he was very good - accomplished - at being home seckatry, no, not even that, just very good at speaking as home seckatry; it was a nuance, born of laziness, which I didn't discern  for a while.  I, you see, would never have put Straw and good in such confusing juxtaposition, I would have said accomplished or able or adroit or adept - and that's just the a-words.  My friend, though, in another conversation did clutch at an understanding of language denied him in his soulless,  jargonised day job;  he said that one of his public sector mentors had told him, years before, that it didn't matter how good it sounded in a professional meeting, it had to make sense to the bloke in the 'pub, whatever the strategy or the policy was - and in the case of this conversation it was the location in residential areas of hostels for released sex offenders - it must make sense to the man in the 'pub.   

I don't know if that's true, I don't know what the imperative is, there,  the must, for in reality it doesn't matter a fuck what the man in the 'pub thinks, even though, increasingly the 'pub is not there and the man drinks at home he remains, psephologically,  the man in the 'pub, mr dtp's the man on the Clapham omnibus, he remains the maligned and patronised Everyman.

And  it was clear to anyone, really, that Nigel Farrage was far more fluent in ManInThePubSpeak than was the poltroon, Clegg; best of all he eschewed the patronising lessbeclears and makenomistakeaboutits with which the fuckwit Clegg started his every answer.  Not only did Farrage sound  better than Clegg, he was - and it is a razored-thin distinction - better than Clegg, I know it's not saying much but he is a better human being, for now, and it showed.  I, as everyone here knows, fucking hate him but I'd rather he and his nutters than Clegg and his. MediaMinster disagreed;  used to hearing it's own  shifting, vague, rumoured, unattributable, sources close to the prime minister tell me, contradictory claptrap,  its spokespersons, from the so-called left to the so-called right,  don't care even for the idea of  Everyman and they laughed at the instant victory awarded Farrage by some radio voxpop, but then none of their wise evangelising saw the financial clusterfuck which was staring most of us hugely right in the face, none of them broke cover on the SavileBeasting,  they are, all of them, good for fuck all,  their imprimatur is the last thing that Farrage needs.

Farrage, though, was and is only talking of the one betrayal, the one con-trick,  the one heist,  the one turd in the face from on high;  here, we talk of the shit tsunami. Europe is small beer, if it wasn't that it would be something else, equally unwholesome, from which people like Farrage could promise Messiahanic, man in the 'pub deliverance. But maybe the one shitfest - Europe -  is all that people can deal with and maybe a regular bout of Farrageisme is enough for now; it may inspire others and it may sow discomfort and wreak dissent in the camps of Wickedness Rampant.

The presence in MediaMinster of  a significant number of UKIP MPs would merely perpetuate the party political system, a wholly undemocratic jobclub for arseholes, it would have become   a little more variegated but even more monstrous;  ruinous coalitions of Ulster Undertakers, Greenbastards and JohnBullers, God help us, all bound to their parties more tightly than to their electors, all having more in common with each other than with us.  Just like now, only worse.   But if the TeeVee show persuaded even a few people that  the grossest hot-air balloon, in this case, Clegg's, can be pricked and if it savages the LibDem presence in Europe then it will have been something for which we should offer not applause but reserved and muted thanks. 

Wednesday 26 March 2014



Well, clearly, this aircraft business is unhelpful.  Just as Cilla and I are launching a new push to find liddle wossername   and then all this happens.  Not for the first time I feel it is clearly incumbent on me to remind viewers that it's us, we who are the real victims here.  But remember.  If everyone sent us just two pounds a week, or preferably a day then some of our anguish might be relieved. What?  Find the girl we left alone in a strange room, in a strange town, in a strange country, whilst we quite properly  and very responsibly went on the piss with some very professional friends?  Well, yes, that would be a bonus. I suppose.  But lessbeclear, all this talk of Chinese people, well, it's not as though there's any shortage of them.  What?  What, grief counsellors, me and Cilla?  Like global ambassadors, easing the hurt of all these angry chinks?
 Well, 'spossible, what's the pay?
Kill all running dog pineappleheads, kill now.
Kill all Malayabloke, chop off fucking head.
Chinese 'planecrash relatives prepare to invade Malaysia. 


Well, yes, that's right,  at the request of Mr and Mrs Dr Gerry and Dr Cilla McCann, the Met is considering relocating to Portugal.  What we are all about is value for the London ratepayers. And, of course, Leicestershire child neglecters.   Value, frame-ups and racist beatings. Or Irish.  Or anyone, really. And what with large numbers of senior detectives flying back and forth every five minutes  trying to frame some fucker for the little girl that the parents left alone, we might as well just move the whole shebang over there.  I mean, why should they have all the fun?  Lady Hagan Daaz likes the sun and a slimhipped dago waiter just as much as the next elderly lady. And, for that matter, so do I, although I draw the line at kissing. Careful how you go home, now.


And this is the very sad news that the pineapple capital of the world is in mourning for some chinks, missing, presumed dead on one of their aircraft;  held together, I shouldn't wonder, with rubber bands, 'sabout all they're good for, isn't it, look you, pineapple rings and latex from latexrubber trees. Remember it from school, I do, some bloke in a DavidBeckham dress comes around daily, draining rubber juice from the trees, smiling at the white man's camera, hated fucking geography, I did. They haven't actually found anything, any bodies or bits of 'plane floating in the water and to discuss this I am joined  by Professor Simon  Gob of the University of Central England, or GostaGreenPoly, as was. 

Professor Gob,  your field is oceanography, isn't it, tell us, if you will, what the fuck's going on down there, in the arsehole of the world.  Well the first thing to tell viewers, Huw, is that the sea is very wet,  very wet indeed.  But isn't that what you would expect?  Well, you say that, but people quite frankly have little or no idea of the nature of the wetness which can range from what you would call a soppy wetness, right up to what you would call  an almost dry type of wetness.  Dry type of wetness?  Yes and then there's the motion... The motion?  Yes, people who are not professors of oceanography often think that the ocean just sort of sits there, like in a painting sort of thing but in fact it's almost constantly in motion. So, professor, what you are saying is that even if there was any wreckage floating about it could be, well, any fucking place,  could wash-up even on a Northern shore, in front of mr ishmael's gaff?  That's right, y'see there's things called currents and they're like big magical forces sort of inside the ocean and they sort of make it move;  and then there's tides, too which, I believe, are sort of  magical gravitational field, a bit like in Star Trek, y'know, that tractor beam thingy, well there's some of them pulling at the sea, making it flow all over the fucking shop.  So, in short, professor, you don't know anything about this suspected 'plane crash.  That's right, Huw, sweet fuck all, but I do like being here in the studio with you, pretending that I do. And what about the depth, then, what are we talking about here?  Well, as  a teevee oceanographer, depth isn't really my field but I should say, at an educated guess, that the Southern Ocean is quite deep, oh, two to three metres, at least, maybe four in some places but I must stress, yet again, that, when we are talking about things like this, or anything, really,  none of us has the foggiest fucking idea of what  it is that we're actually talking about,  that's the very nature of science punditry in the media age.  I mean, one knows how to talk, of course, it's just the what part that's, how shall we say, a moveable feast, yes, that's it, a moveable feast. Quite. Thank you professor, I expect we'll be seeing more of you.  That was Professor Simon Gob there for us and it's over, now,  to our showbiz correspondent, Kirsty Wark, who has news of another, tragic death in the world of advanced haberdashery. 

 That's right, Huw and thank you and first it was the woman-hating fairy Versace, gunned-down by a crazed rentboy, and if that wasn't bad enough the brilliant Alexander McQueer topped himself and just when viewers might have thought that things couldn't get any worse comes this awful; tragedy when the megatalented L'Wren Wotsit has hanged herself off her apartment door.....

Must been a fucking big door, eh, Kirsty, she was about ten feet fucking tall, wasn't she? Woulda needed a stepladder to hoist the JollyRoger from her crow's nest, knowaddamean.  

Yes, Huw, that's right and   the fragile world of the ragtrade is shocked to its seams and gussets by the
 news that Sir Mick Jagger has lost what some commentators are calling the love of his life and others are describing as just another freakish bit of totty.  Be that as it may we are joined here in the Newsnight studio by Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Paul, what's your take on this tragic wotsaname?  


Well, thanks, Kirsty - didn I write a song called Kirsty, kinda plaintive and haunting, with a string quartet, yeah, sure, musta done:  Kirrrstee, for me, she's the girl that fills me up with glee, my-y-y Kirrstee;  that'll be copyrighted, by the way, like forever - but anyway, yeah, I know Mick and I loveim2bits, both of us being kinda rock'n'roll knights - didn't I write a song called Rock'n'Roll Nights? musta done - but no, we came up together, Mick an' me an' I'm just gutted for him, me. We've now both kinda lost wives, who we doted upon, although  despite my pain I've remarried twice - keep on rocking, y'know, 'swhat I do -  and so I can really like empathise with my old mate, Mick.   Although, Kirsty,  I must say, as a Little Richard fan meself, like - did I tellya that when me and John were like starting out we'd just sit with two acoustics like and try to plagiarise Little Richard songs,  not do much plagiarise as steal,  an' I know that Mick and the other one, the druggy, wossisname, Keef, yeah, Keef the Junky, Mick an Keef. like, they loved alla those great rock'n'rollers, too.
 I really miss John, me, it was a great liddle band, the Beatles, I'm a big fan, but no, where was I, yeah,  Mick, much as me and him both loved Little Richard I think that, y'know, you can take this Long Tall Sally thing a bit too far, knowharramean?  Fab, Kirsty, great talkin' to you.

Well, long tall Sally, she's built for speed
She got everything that Uncle John need...

Because I used to love her
But it's all over now.

 Oh, wow, man. It's kno-o-ow, man? I mean, I really dig the know, man, and I loved his chick, I just love that freaky sex, like with cripples and amputees and monsters, man; if you got wings ya better just fly, you know. It just seems like,  that a lotta cats - and chicks, man, chicks, too -  hang around the Rolling Stones and wind-up dead.  What can you do?  How should I know?  I'm just a guitarplayer, right? But no,  I'm here for him, man, he can dig that. Even though I hate his fuckin' guts, man, I still love him like a brother, man.  I mean, like I should be dead meself, right? So there you go, man. I guess that's why they call it the blues, man.


Thanks, Kirsty  and now more news on the fate of MH Flight 370, as it's now become known in gleeful newsrooms all over the world,  and this is the sighting by intergalactic x-ray equipment of some more bits of shit bobbing about in the Southern Ocean,  the most hostile and inhospitable place on Earth and over now to professor Brian Gob, professor of shipwreckology in the university of his spare room in the West Country.

 Professor, these bits of shit, what are they likely to be? Well Huw, the thing is, nobody knows, not until they actually get 'em aboard a ship and see if they have Malaysian Airlines written on them somewhere.  People have described this as looking for a needle in a haystack when you don't even know which country the needle was made in or whether the haystacks were square or pointy ones but it's actually much worse than that.  Could be Osama bin Laden, or bits of him.  Hows that, then, professor?  Well, Huw, that's a good question but I'm just reminding viewers that the late Sultan of Terror was buried, as they call it, in some of these very waters and could have floated down to wherever it is that they've found all this shit and might well be having the last laugh.

So what you're saying is that there might well be a terrorist dimension to this mystery?  There might well, Huw, there might well.  I have been studying shipwreckology for, oh, some time now, from here in my spare room and what my experience tells me is that when it comes to shipwrecks you can't rule anything out and you can't rule anything in.

What, are you saying that Osama bin Wotsit brought down Flight 370?
Almost certainly, Huw, almost certainly.


In other news, the education minister, Mr David Laws,
has condemned striking teachers.  
What people should do, if they want more money, even when they already have lots, is become benefit cheats, like me.  But this strategy only works, obviously, if they are in govament and can claim that being gay is something to be ashamed of, not that I was, of course, just that I was.  Anyway, all done and dusted now and I have fully returned  to bullying poor people.  Nick Clegg, yes, I expect him to do very well against Mr Farrage, tonight.  And like all LibDem MPs I shall stand ready and willing to stab him in the arse, I mean back, if he doesn't.

That was the thieving git, Laws, there, for you, reminding us of those two wankers slugging it out later on BBC 2.
Nick Robinson will be here later to tell you what it all meant because, obviously, you are all too stupid to see through it for yourselves and he has to do something for his half-mill a year.  And Jerry Paxman, and Emily Maitless, and Kirsty, and Laura Koonisberg,  they'll all be here, telling you what it means to you, even though it doesn't mean shit.  That's it from me and the team and it's over now to Jayne Tits with the weather. But just before I go viewers,  sometimes, you know, this job, reading all this shit, interviewing  all these talking  arseholes, I think to myself, Huw, bach, a dog is better treated that you are, boyo, look you, isn't it.

Tuesday 11 March 2014



I try to avoid stepping in this shit but I'm having to limit  my movement for a while and the other night I couldn't find the remote control - or the remote, as we call it in word-saving Britain, it's as though words cost money, the number of them we try to save. As adjective becomes noun, we all conscientiously save using the word "phone," Christ, such an effort it is, saying phone, and we gleefully and obediently cull these wasteful words even though we refer, in any event, not to a mobile phone, but to a portable one,  the mobile  telephone has no mobility but that doesn't matter a fuck, does it, it's all bollocks, modern Britain, texting bollocks and twittering cunts everywhere you look - anyway, I was kinda stuck, watching the grotesque, suppurating arsehole, Andrew Hair-Transpant bullying his ancient way through another week of tripe.

The hypocrisy - not to mention the arse-numbing stupidity - of Diane Lard  is stupefying;  more proof, if it were needed, of the garbage  first and second-class honoured from Oxbridge,  Lard cannot frame a sentence and communicates in a sequence of shrill malcontentments, amplified by thrusting palms and pointing fingers seeking to impose  silence upon those bewildered by her shitheaded stupidity.

From the Daily Filth.
The standards committee's  findings, seen by the Daily Mail, are critical of the makers of This Week, saying that 'Abbott's appearances on the programme since becoming a shadow minister had been too frequent'.
The committee added that paying Miss Abbott, who earned between £839 and £869 per edition, 'such substantial appearance fees since she took up her front bench position in 2010 was a breach of the guidelines'.
The complaint dates back to January when crossbench peer Lord Laird wrote to BBC Director-General Mark Thompson arguing it was wrong that, as a shadow minister, Miss Abbott should 'profit financially' via the BBC licence fee for expressing political opinions and discussing Labour policy as a pundit on the programme, hosted by Andrew Neil.

Even so, the fact that Lard is an obnoxious, troughing bully, herself, doesn't mean that Andrew Jock should be licensed to bully her, on his joke politics show, implicity bullying her on behalf of us..  On this occasion he read to his bloated victim a piece written by the hideous Mrs Michael Gove-Spit of the Daily Filth,  damning those who paid for their child's private education, those, in short, like  Abbott.

Abbott, with her own privately educated child.

Despite a face like icy thunder Diane wasn't able to respond to Neil's relentless, coarse goading.  It would've been acceptable for a decent person to tax her about her infamous hypocrisy - whoring a living from the poorest constituency in the country whilst sending her own brat away for Money's dark tuition - but Neil is such a piece of shit - the PBC's in-house Kelvin McKenzie,  that, like mrs narcolept feeling the anguish of Gordon Snot, one almost felt for her.  But not quite.

Neil has succeeded in persuading us that he is Everyman's journalist.  he's actually nothing of the sort and thirty years ago he should have been standing where Rebekah Brooks and her gang stand now;  Neil, it was, who first opened his whoremouth for Rupert Murdoch's septic media cock and its diseased pissing all over Decency. Neil's subsequent greedy, hypocritical unprincipled career - see his wiki rapsheet - has seen him become the Beeb's go-to political hack, much as Sir Jimmy Savile was its go-to charity worker. An' howsaboutthat then, nighty-night and don't let the PaedoChannel bite.

It is Abbott's own greed and vanity which puts her in Neil's firing line, just as it is with Tory thug Michael Portillo - Oh, I think he is here for the money, sneered Andy in the same grim show - so maybe we should have no sympathy for them,

 or for that other prat, Johnson, the singing, cuckolded postman.  It is not, though, a  sympathy which I feel for this trio of filthsters but a sympathy for Decency's  boundaries, so regularly trampled by Glasgow's finest.

Oh but mr ishmael, he really has a go at the politicians, they're scared of him, he holds them to account.  Aye, that's why they queue-up to be on his miserable fucking excuse of a Daily Politics show, to be held to account. Ah, so.


Well, what can one say, socialismus mortem bellissima, what??  And now my fellow Londoners and myself can press on with the vital task of forcing down wages in order to drive up living standards, well, living standards of myself, what, ho ho ho.  No, confutatis maledictus tradeunionismus.  My own salary, what, ho ho ho, I knew you'd ask that, not as much as I jolly well deserve, what? Health and safety?  Load of old tosh, look at me, I ride a bike.

Boris Johnson is bribed  a quarter of a  million pounds a year by the Daily Filth-O-Graph in order to write dire, predictable and boring anti-democracy stories on behalf of its owner, the Bizarro Twins.  His mayoral salary is much less than this and is widely seen just as coke'n'totty money.


Well, lessbeclear, as leader of the Labour party, I don't believe in working people myself but I must say that mr wossisname was a very effective thingummy  for them, - advocate, is that it? - and he will be sadly missed and my thoughts are with his friends and wossanames.

Well, when they broke him they made the mould. In all my time in well-paid and untaxed public service I never thought this moment would come but now that it has it would be foolish of me to say that I won't stand again for mayor because I will. Without wossisname the people really need me to get rich for them, not that I do it for the money.   No he's right up there, wossisname,  in my own pantheon of heroes, right next to Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness.  That'll be twelve hundred pounds, please.

sings: Maybe it's because I'm a Lahndunner.



He's learned how to march but to his own tune,
 he is acting outwith the Better Together Campaign,

 No, piss off, Darling,  or ye'll get a Nokiaphone in the heid.
I am perfectly capable of fucking this up myself.

 just as he always has,  Gordon knows best;  if he saved the financial world - by privatisng its profits and nationalising  its losses -  why, he can easily save the Union.  He thinks he's aping the oratorical style of Mr Nick I-agree-with-Nick Clegg, who wanders around the stage asking himself questions such as 


Does this mean I am a liar,
No, of course it doesn't,  even though patently I am, and so on...

 CallHimDave, the unelected prime minister, spiv, cheat and nincompoop  has also taken to bestriding the stage, only not like a Colossus, more like a gibbon in a suit;  it is, in short, the new style of bullshit al le Bretagne, they all do it and we can bet that if he could be hooked-up to a portable autocue,  Uncle Sam's  Commander in Chief would similarly address his fellow  motherfuckers.  Gordon though, as you would expect, can't carry it off,  the casual, just-having-a-chat-with-you-approach,

One nation, Scotland and England, under me.

no, he marches, as though he has metronome psychosis, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like one of those Greek ceremonial guards, flinging each  leg in the air and swivelling, just-so, after just-so-many paces and returning across the stage. march, march, march.  You'd have a wee bIt more respect for him if he just stood at a lectern, and clawed it to bits.

Set yer moral compasS, Scotland. 
It's my way or the highway.

 Look, there's no snot on this tie, not yet.

 I have tae go, the noo, it's time fer ma medi-cay-shuns.
(sings) So ye'll tak' the highroad and Ah'll tak the lowroad
An' Ah'll be in the loonybin afore ye.

  He has been schooled, obviously, in his new, Trust-me-I-can-walk style of haranguing people.  But it's the same old shit,  he no longer has a despatch box so, with his nailbitten Claws of Doom, he slaps the air itself, chopping downwards as though striking Tony Blair's Adam's Apple, he still does that thing with his jaw, his infamous, feverish drywank jawdrop and he still over-articulates his words in the ghastly, showy way he always has - dee-vohl-you-shun;  he still admonishes and harangues, he is still as mad as a fucking hatter, didactic I-Know-Bestism, ranting, growling, bullying and bad to boot. 

 First the leaden, hamfisted dunderhead. Fat Al Carmichael 
 Och, will you just get me, 
 mincing intae Downing Street as  Scottish Seckatry.

and now Gordon Snot;  greedybastard and lying fuckpig, Alec Salmond, is surely having it his own way......

Gordon, an' wisnae he the most hated politician in living memeory?

Thursday 6 March 2014


Well, yes -  applause, cheers - no, no need, I haven't said anything yet . Not -  chuckle-chuckle - that I won't. You all know me by now - cheers applause, shouts of nigger-nigger-nigger, out-out-out - you all know me, I tell it like it is. Seig Heil.

 There was an Englishman -  cheers, applause - an Englishman - more cheers and more applause - and another Englishman, and they all went into this pub. 

Those were the days, weren't they, when a group of Englishmen could go into a pub, if there was a pub left that the EU hadn't destroyed, sit down together, drink six or eight pints, splash piss down their trousers and not, definitely NOT wash their hands, as.....cheers... as....cheers... as,  I might say, we are continually being told to by the health and safety police in Brussels -  loud cheers, footstamping and whistling -   in the good old days, back to which I will, if you'll allow me, lead you, do you know what, we could all sit, trousers damp with beery urine, hands unwashed, sharing the fellowship of a packet of cheese'n'onion crisps,  pissed as fucking rats and  enjoying a few Bee'n'Aitches without having to go outside and - eyes bulge, veins throb on forehead - catch fucking cold, yes, catch fucking cold,  whilst enjoying a healthy, freedom of choice cigarette,


 which, quite frankly, never did me any harm, apart from that it'll kill me, like it kills everybody.  I mean, how dare they, the unelected EU, how dare they ban smoking in English pubs? Back in the good old days we could sit in our pub  OUR pubs, mind and discuss the latest hanging - cheers, applause, whistling -  and quite frankly which of us wouldn't like to see the return of hanging for, well let's just say for those who have overstayed their welcome.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with immigrants. But they need to be the right sort,  they need to be OUR sort, not foreign immigrants.  Wossat? Why were there no Englishwimmen in the pub story? Well, that's a good question and quite frankly, do you know what, I'm glad you asked it.  There weren't any Englishwimmen in the pub because she was busy winning a parliamentary by-election for UKIP.

Well, if you want to split hairs like the old parties do, she may not have won in the narrow sense of winning but she certainly won a terrific victory in the sense of not winning.  So there.

The UKIPPERS, they don't believe in political parties, apart from their own, which consists entirely of this nincompoop,
 Farrage, a not-safe pair of hands, being pulled from the wreckage of his leader's aircraft, pilot was probably pissed. 

 anyone else attracting any attention gets the Bums Rush. Farrage is  lavishly funded by the parliament which he claims to despise.  It was Baron Hattersley of Spit, wasn't it, 

said he only went to the House of Lords to destroy it, that was, how many years ago, 1997, seventeen years of free dinners, free brandies and a few hundred quid  a day for clocking-in and immediately clocking-out;  FagAsh Farrage is one of those, the Hatterjee de nos jours, went to Brussels to bring it down or get us out of it. Still a man needs something to do when the pubs are shut;  why not form a political party for the stupid, the old and the dying?
Eng-land, Eng-land uber alles.

One wonders what one has to do with the dummies,  the personality cultists - North or South of the border -  who maintain, from the dark, oceanic  depths of their  narrow-minded stupidity  that their politican isn't like any of the other politicians; no, no, they insist, he's not like the others, he'll do things differently. No, he's not and No, he fucking won't.