SOUTHERN OCEAN BLUES.

 DISASTER LATEST.

McCANNS FLY OUT TO CHINA.

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. 

POLICE FIVE GRAND'LL SEE THE CHARGES DROPPED

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.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE.

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?  

IF THERE'S ANYTHING THAT YOU WANT
IF THERE'S ANYTHING I CAN DO.

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.
 
A-WOP-BOMALOOMA-AWOP-BAM-BOO
 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.

A LEGEND IN MOURNING

 Oh, wow, man. It's  like.....you kno-o-ow, man? I mean, I really dig the cat......you 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.

CORPSE OF OSAMA BIN LADEN SPOTTED IN SOUTHERN OCEAN.

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.

GAY FRAUDSTER ATTACKS TEACHERS.

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.