Monday 28 April 2014


We are all-a seeners, said Frankie, the holy one, and-a eet eesa only fair that we all-a pray for MaxieBoy, now-a that-a he-a has-a been-a found out. 

 I-a weel-a geeve-a heem a Papal Knighthood and pray-a for heem.  After all-a, hee has-a not-a done nuffink what we all of us in theesa business have-a done, een thee beegeening, now and-a for evermore.  Eesa like mr ishmael say, eesa no beesiness like-a show beesiness. Break a leg and say three Hail Marys.
 'Samazing how much cock y'can shove in the gob of a little lad, eh?
Yull do the right thing, wuntya, an' vote fer Nick Clegg.
(see ishmael passim, The Scum Also Rises.)

 Saint Cyril Smith?  He-a was ay great man, an inspiration to us all.  Sainthood eesa not good enough for heem.

In MediaMinster, Saint Nigel Evans  the Innocent could not be contacted about the troubling matter of a guilty beast being found guilty.

And I'm not kidding members and right honourable members, 
this bloke's cock was this big.

His faghag, though, Christine Hamilton, said Nigel was a great personal friend of hers, as she begged for money on the street. Says all you need to know about the former Mr Deputy Speaker, close personal friend of the Hamiltons.

Can you spare a teevee programme, guv?

Christ, the charmed circle of celebrity, it's like a descent into Hell. 

Sunday 27 April 2014



Good evening this is me, Kay Dog, 

with the six o clock news, here at skymadeupnewsandfilth. 
And at the top of the hour,
is this the missing flight recorder, the famous BlackBox from Malayasian Airlines, Flight wossaname, 370 something?  Over now to our Scottish correspondent. Angus Thug, who has some breaking news for us. Angus, what can you tell us?

Yes Kay, and thank you, well here from the north of Scotland the news is that I am joined by a man who was out walking his dog.........



I wasn't out walking my dog.

But you do have a dog?

Yes. Harris, he's my dog, well, he lives here.
 Dunno if he's exactly mine....


Well,  the house is mine,  the land, the cars, all that stuff's mine...if you believe in property, that is,  I'm never too sure, myself, about ownership. Of anything. Never mind ownership of somebody else, like Harris.

But if you own that other stuff  you must own Harris, too...surely?

Well, I dunno what he'd think.  About being owned.  I mean, he does do thinking, I've seen him do it. Sure, he lives here. And we care for him. Even though he doesn't do fuck all.  We work for him, he doesn't work for us. I pay his bills, he doesn't pay mine. Who owns whom, you tell me. I don't own anybody.  Harris is  the blogbog.

But can we tell the viewers that you have a dog?

Yeah, I guess so. Tell them  he's the dogbloke.  I mean, equally, equally to me having him, he has me but that's OK, tell 'em that.  Tell 'em what you  want. I don't care.

About what?

About your viewers.


About your viewers. You don't care about them either, do you?  In fact, you probably don't care about them more than I don't care about them.  I just don't care about them, one way or the other but you must hate them.  I know I would.  If I was you.

Well, be that as it may...

It is.

It is what?

It isn't may, it's is.  That's how it is.  You hate them.

Well,  we can edit all that, let's get back to the interview.

OK. If you like.

And so, mr ishmael, it is mr ishmael, isn't it, so  how did you and Harris find the BlackBox?

We didn't.

Didn't what?

Didn't find the BlackBox.

So how come you have it?

Whaddayamean, How come I have it?  It's mine.

But surely it belongs to Malaysia Airlines.  Are you saying you stole it. As in stole it by finding it.  On the beach?

No, I bought it.

Who from, was it terrorists?

No, it was from the local stationers.

Well, did they find it washed-up on the shore?

Dunno where they got it.  Where do stationers get stuff?  Stationery warehouse, I guess.

But what would a stationery warehouse be doing with the most sought after BlackBox in maritime history?

It's not.

It's not what?

It's not a BlackBox.

Course it is.  I can see it, there. In front of my eyes.
It's black and heavy and it's made of immensely strong,  steely material

No, that BlackBox, there, that's not a BlackBox.  BlackBoxes are orange.

BlackBoxes are orange???  So what's that then, if it's not a BlackBox?

Oh, this BlackBox IS a BlackBox.

So why isn't it orange, if it's a BlackBox?

Because it's a BlackBox, I told you.

For fuckssake, why are you telling me that this BlackBox, here,  isn't a BlackBox because it's not fucking orange. Are you people up here insane.  I have covered stories about you all being inbred?

Well, everybody's inbred.

Whaddayamean, everybody's inbred ?

Everybody's related to everybody else.  I'm related to David Cameron, y'know, WisteriaBollocks Cameron.  We come from the same Norman French lawyers who came to England, moved up to Ayrshire and became McAmbroses and Camerons.  See?

But your name's Smith.  Not Cameron.

No, it's not.

'Snot what.

It's not Smith, my name.

So you're not Ishmael Smith?

Oh yes I am.

But you just said you're not.

No. I didn't.

Yes, you did.

No, I didn't.  I said my name's not Ishmael Smith.  But that doesn't mean I'm not Ishmael Smith. What's in a name? My name isn't stanislav, either, a young polish plumber. But I am.

You are what. Whom?

stanislav, a young polish plumber.  I am he.  Inasmuch as anybody is he. I used to be he, anyway.

But I thought you said you were related to David Cameron.

I am.  We're not close.  Just related. Like most families.  Y'know, blood's thicker than brains.  That nonsense.

Does he know you have the missing BlackBox which isn't the missing BlackBox?

I never told you that this BlackBox wasn't a BlackBox, just that it wasn't an orange BlackBox.  Obviously.  If it was an orange BlackBox it would be orange, wouldn't it?

And not black?

That's right, BlackBoxes are orange.

 Then why are they called BlackBoxes?  If they're fucking orange.

That's two questions.

How's it two questions?

Well, it's two answers.  So it must be two questions.  And anyway, that's what people say, these days, politicians, filth like that, they say, well, Andrew, there's two questions, there, Andrew, and I'm afraid that as ever, the devil is in the detail and so if you don't mind I'll answer the one you didn't ask me.

I'm not Andrew.

I know you're not.  But he is.

Who is?

Andrew is.

Andrew who is?

Andrew Neil is.

Andrew Neil? Does he have the BlackBox?

The PBC's senior political journalist relaxing.

Shouldn't think so.

So why are we talking about him?

I'm not talking about him.  You're talking about him. I only used him as an example, coulda been anyone  of those fuckers, Christ, there's fucking hundreds of them.

You what?

Look, I said it was two questions...

What was two questions?

The two questions you asked me.

What two questions?

Well, you asked me why it was called a BlackBox.


And then you asked me why it was orange.


So that's two questions, then.

I suppose so.

Do you want me to answer them?

I'm not sure...

You're not sure? But you're supposed to be interviewing me....

It's just's just that I came up here on a report that you had a BlackBox.

That'll be the neighbours.

 What neighbours, you don't have any neighbours.

Well, look, there's Shotgun Johnnie, over there, across the bay and there's Keith GooGoogaJoob up on the hill, he sells eggs, from his hens, he's the Eggman.  And then there's Antoine Frog.  He's a Frenchman up on the other hill,  but he talks just like he'd been here ten thoosand years, d'ye ken, mon ami.  There's lots of distant neighbours and they all watch me with binoculars.

They all watch you with binoculars?

Not just me. Everybody.


Yeah.  Everybody watches everybody else. With binoculars. Apart from me. I couldn't care less.

So, the neighbours anonymously tipped me off that you had a BlackBox?

'Swhat they're like.  'Swhy there's no crime up here.

What's why?

Everybody's so fucking nosey.  You couldn't pick a blade of grass without some bastard scrutinising you and getting on the 'phone about it to his cousin,  Yon Englishman in the big hoose, he's been chewing grass from yon field, aye, that's right, you tell the others.

But you said you weren't English.

I'm not.

So why do they call you English?

Fucked if I know.  I'm more Scottish than any of them. 
D'ya ever see that numptie film?

Numptie film?

Yeah, the one starring Harrison Wood, numptiest actor in Hollywood ...

You mean Harrison Ford?

Nah, you mean Harrison Ford.  I mean Harrison Wood, I got lumps of pitch pine and oak and mahogany, stacked up in the byre that can do better acting than him. Cops, presidents, CIA blokes, archaeologists, space warriors, he just does that same stupid wooden stupidness acting.  Fuck me, Star Wars was the luckiest day of his life. Anyway, he was wooding his way through  a film which was set among the Amish people in,

 I dunno, Pennsylvania, one of those North Eastern states.  And the Amish, see, are stone fucking mad, ride around in horses and carts, have singsongs and picnics, read the Bible a lot, build barns at the drop of a hat,  

tut-tutting all day long and hate every other bastard on Earth so much that anybody who's not one of them - an inbred, technophobic, barn-building, hymn-singing, joyless, beardy,  proto-Nazi,  judgemental  hypocrite - they call English.  Don't have to be English.  Just like here, just like me, here; I don't have to be English to be English.

Ah, I'm beginning to see what you mean.

What I mean?

Yes, it's starting to make sense.

Nah. It's just because of the italic.  You'll never understand what I mean. You don't do understanding.  You're part of skymadeupnewsandfilth.  Fuck me, understanding isn't in your job description.  Did I say job description?  I meant knob description.

Well, can you at least tell me about the amazing technicolour BlackBox?


Well, go on then.

Whaddayawannaknow about it?

Well, which aircraft is it from?  Is the data still intact?

It's not from an aircraft, I told you, it's from Rognald Thorfinn's Stationery Supplies.

What, they sell submersible data recorders alongside the staples and sellotape and A4 binders, how so cool is that?

It's not cool.  It's just a BlackBox.

Which turns orange.

No it doesn't turn orange.

Well how do you find it, then?

I don't have to find it.
It's just there, on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. 
Where it always is.

But what about when the sircraft crashes?

Which aircraft's that?

The one that you'd take the BlackBox on.

I wouldn't take it on an aircraft.  Why would I take it on an aircraft?

Because it's a BlackBox???

No,  I just call it a BlackBox because it's black and it's a box.  And it's indestructible.  Like a proper orange BlackBox is supposed to be.  Probably moreso, actually; they're shit, those BlackBoxes aren't they?  I mean, if they were any good they'd make the whole  fucking aeroplane out  of whatever it is they make the boxes from.  Wouldn't they?  Stands to reason.

So, this is not the Black or indeed the orange box from Flight Wotsaname, I forget, now... wossalthatabout, it drugs???

No. it's about visibility.  You know.  Can't see  much five miles down in the Southern Ocean, Didya ever read the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner? Nah, didn't think so. Wossitabout? 'Sabout guilt, remorse, redemption, penance - you wouldn't understand. But they're orange, anyway.  Mighta started off being black. Y'know, you can imagine the designer boffins, 

way back when, fag ash all down their shirts, saying, Now listen here, chaps, this recording box thingy is  a dashed serious piece of kit, dashed serious, pardon my French, and as we all know the right colour for Serious is, what, what's the right colour for Serious?  That's right, Smithers, good chap, Black is the only possible colour for a serious piece of kit like this.  Find it?  Find it?  Fucked if I know how they'll find it in the dark. I'm a fucking boffin, not a fucking crash-site investigator. 'Snot my fucking job to crawl through fish-eaten fucking corpses and soggy fucking luggage.

So they made them black, then?

Guess so. Why else would they be called BlackBoxes?

But then they made them orange but continued to call them black?

That's  what I've been trying to tell you.

But why have you got one?

I haven't.

Haven't what?

What I said.

Do you mean you haven't got one?

Well, I wouldn't put it like that .

How would you put it?

I'd say I don't have one.

That's just the same.

No. It's not. It's not just the same.
Not having one and not having got one are two different things.  But that's to do with English, which you neither speak nor understand, right?

Right. Why should I? I'm just a journalist. And as a journalist, I'm curious to know....



Just curious.  That's what you mean.

What's what I mean?

You mean you are curious.  Not curious to know.  The to know is redundant.  Do you know what redundant means?

Course I do.  It means workshy, the unemployed, a scrounger.  Everybody knows that.  Redundant people are scroungers.

I wasn't talking about people, I was talking about words, about words being redundant. More use pissing in the wind, than talking to you, eh, Angus?  It is, Angus, to satisfy your curiosity to know,  a deed box, mate.  I keep the deeds of the house in it, passports, that sort of thing, birth certifcates.

Keep them in what?

In my black fucking box, that's what, now will you fuck off out of here, before I set Harris on you?

Well, that's the breaking news here, a fascinating story, we'll keep you up to date on developments with the Orange I mean the Black Orange Box,  maybe it's the Orange Black Box.
 And now back to you, Kay, in the studio.

Thanks, Andy.  That was sky's Andy Thug for us there and over now to the Vatican where the late Jimmy Savile has just been made a double saint, not only by Pope Nazi but also by the current Nonce Protector General, Pope Frankie de los Fray Bentos, 

How do we get away with this shit?
Fucked if I know but don't knock it.

 the Morecambe and Wise of Holy Fathers. They are having a laugh, aren't they,  making saints of child molesting former CEOs?  Nil desperandum, as they say in the noncing business. Stay tuned.

Friday 25 April 2014


 The Filth-o-Graph is predicting apocalypse over this Back In The USSR stuff, down there in whatever shithole it is, some horse-drawn economy, some invented five minutes ago nation-state or other, as if Barry and Vlad are going to run to the bunkers over it all.  Dave Wisteria, mind you,  the lardy, slab-faced moron,  is probly  going in, boldly, to chair a meeting of COBRA, y'know, chumps and nincompoops, like BillyBum Hague and Phil Clausewitz Hammond, closeted with dozens  of Field Marshals Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, all wondering where to send HM one working tank or HM one working helicopter, wondering how quickly they can mobilise a platoon of untrained, overweight, part-time territorial cowboys.  Fuck me, be a laugh a minute in there,  doubt that Vlad'll be shitting his Cossack pantaloons.

It may be that their - Barry and Vlad's - respective financial masters can wring a few dollar-roubles out of a bit of cross-border shooting but World War Three? Not a chance. Or is there?

The odd thing about this latest Obama misadventure is that Telegraph readers, who you would reasonably expect  to be pro-Uncle Sam and anti-Russian are overwhelmingly cynical about the role of the Leader of the Free World, as some still call him, comments run at about ten to one in favour of Putin over GlobaDeath.  The MediaMinster arm of GlobaCorp will be rattled that it can no longer so easily brainwash its own, native constituency. Maybe its due to the graffiti in the streets of  cyberspace, maybe to the MPS exes scandal, maybe part of it is due to UKIP, maybe it is the exposure of the PBC as a hotbed of beasting and corruption, maybe it is  the hatred now widely felt for whoever is Nonce Protector General in the Vatican but there has certainly been a change in the weather.  Seems that many now think  it is we who populate the Evil Empire, we who, in the form of Blair and Co  are the Great Satan.
For me, the best, if the hollowest laugh of the month was prompted by the Veep, Joe Bum, 


insisting that you just can't roll into countries and take them over. Joe, if he can read, and there's no reason to suspect he can, obviously hasn't read the ten-volume Smithsonian History of the US, the study of which currently occupies a lot of my time.

'In 1825 the federal government prohibited pioneers from settling in Oklahoma and reserved the land as Indian Territory, a place to relocate Indians who blocked the march of American civilisation (sic) east of the Mississippi.  Cherokee, Creek, Chocktaw, Chickasaw and some of the Florida Seminole - known as the five Civilised Tribes - owned fertile lands for growing cotton and crops, lands which the white settlers coveted.   So they were the first to be removed to Oklahoma, forcibly escorted by troops. Government forces burned houses and farms, shot resisters, drove away livestock and even opened  Cherokee graves to loot silver jewellery.  "I fought in the Civil War," a militiaman recounted much later "and have seen men shot to pieces and slaughtered by the thousands but the Cherokee removal was the cruelest work I ever knew."  Faced with hunger, insanitary conditions, extreme weather, disease  and heartbreak, about 4,000 of the 16,000 who started the journey perished and were buried along the way.  The Indians called the route to Oklahoma the Trail of Tears.  Cholera ravaged the Choctaw and some Creek walked to Oklahoma in chains.'  pp 339-340, The Smithsonian Guide to Historic America - Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, 1990.

This collection contains hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of such pages as those above; at every turn, in every century, in every state, at every opportunity white America has been monstrously criminal,  the vicious gutter dregs of Europe murdering, raping, robbin, enslaving and torturing in ways they could only dream of in the back streets of Glasgow and the bogs of  Killarney and the tenement swamps of  Antwerp and Munich and Paris and Madrid.  In a million years you would never wash the blood from the StarSpangled Banner.

Home of the Brave, land of the Free, eh, Mr Vice President Bum?

These people, the injuns, had occupied these lands for twenty-thouand years, through an ice age, originally surviving by  killing mammoth with flint-tipped  spears until, in an act of - for then -  unprecedented Earthcrime, Uncle Sam turned his Gatling guns on their buffalo, with whom they had lived in harmless symbiosis since God was a boy, and wiped them out.  People like Vice President Bum's monstrous, bastard, fuckpig  ancestors pioneered torture, slavery and ethnic cleansing in a land which their descendants still pollute, ravage  and destroy - as they would the world.  Someone, some stone-mad Apache or Sioux  should kick Joe Biden hard in the face;  it is the only language the sonofafuckinggbitch will understand. Leaders of the  free world?  Do fuck off.



If Mr Bum knew anything, which he doesn't, the dumbfuck,  he would know that just  rolling into countries and just taking them over is just  the founding philosophy, the practice, the custom, the habit and the default setting  of Uncle Sam;  unless you just don't count America as a country, that is, and just don't count its native people as native people, which, of course, Mr Bum just doesn't.



I suppose it might just be that now, more than ever widely despised and ridiculed, even amongs his former satraps, Uncle Sam may kick-off; such an economy as he  has is, after all, a war economy;  without more wars the rich won't continue getting richer. And the rich stealing from the poor - their land, their labour, their resources - is what Uncle Sam does.


Thursday 24 April 2014





Now look, let's be quite frank about this, in running a personal knocking shop at the taxpayers' expense I have done absolutely nothing wrong. And, to be quite frank it's not exactly the taxpayers' money once it's been given to me, now, is it?  You see, that's the trouble with you journalists, don't like it up you, do you, unlike, to be quite frank, my ladies.  But no, it's making  a mountain out of a good old fashioned media molehill. Simply put, Europe gives me hundreds of thousands of pounds for which I don't have to acount and I spend it on pussy and I put it to you - and to them. ho-ho-ho - that if a man wants to spend his own taxpayers' money on pussy that is no-one's business but his own. Did I tell you I used to be a banker and I could probly still earn far mire that I do as a bent  MEP? Well, almost, to be fair.

Some more Faragiste whores. 
 Christine Whore and Neil Whore,
 now, sadly, not to be Nigel's brothelkeepers, a job which Madam Christine had longed for.
Neil would just have laid on the floor and been pissed over by Arabs, as usual.

Wednesday 23 April 2014


 Former prime minister Tony Murder.

 I wanna see blood, guts, things hanging in my teeth, burned babies, tortured children;  I wanna see marines gangbanging dusky begging-for-it teenagers, skoolzanozpitals bombed and burning; I wanna see raghead fathers carrying their dead brats in their arms, I love that shit.
 I have only one priority, 
Annihilation, Annihilation, Anihilation.

 The case for capital punishment was re-awakened today by the appearance in public of war envoy, Tony Blair, an employee of GlobaDeath Corp.  Speaking at a fundraiser for himself and his vulgar trollop, Imelda,

 Tony and Imelda jeer at Decency.

the mass murderer said, Look, I simply say that we have to attack the ragheads or I'm out of a job.  Surely we can all agree about this.

I'm a pretty, straight guy, even though they called me Miranda in chambers when I was pretending to be a lawyer, so, Look, all I would say is, Would I lie to you?
 That'll be a hundred thousand pounds, please; 
no, no, we don't do receipts, had you forgotten? 

A prominent British organised crime family poses for the cameras. 

I think the entire country, well me, anyway, and my brother, owe Tony Murder a great debt of wotsaname. Promotion that's it, promotion beyond, way beyond our merits or abilities.  Mr Snot, too, we are all in his debt, only it's probly best not to say so.

Labour, the party of the Killing Class.

Monday 21 April 2014


 After  tour de force performances in the entire Shakespearian canon, after being accclaimed for his lying down  skills in a chain of cheap hotels, Darling Lenny Henry turns his ferocious talent to the world of truly representative ethnic minorityism  at the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation.  Black people like me have no choice, said the overweight campaigner but to enter showbusiness mocking our parents' attitudes  and accents, their clothes, their customs, even their dinners.  And I know because that's exactly what I did, it's what I had to do, simply to have a chance of knobbing an Oxbridge hottie like  Dawn French,
 I mean playing Hamlet, or was it Lear, Othello, maybe, the darkie. 

Although, to be fair, she preferred her chocolate treats to come wrapped in orange tinfoil, knowhaddamean, nudge-nudge,

 fat cow, how dare she divorce me? Me, the great, campaigning Theophilus P Wildebeest, making fun of black people, as I did so successfully.

But no, it's time for all that Gollywog stuff to stop, what TeeVee needs is more fat, over the hill, has-been, never really was deadbeats during the commercial breaks.  I mean, I worked for Tesco, I work for Premier Inns what more do I need to do to prove myself as a wossaname,  I am actually the king of the TeeVee sandwich-board men,  I can advertise anything, as long as I'm not asked to do anything connected to acting or making people laugh.  Or even think. C'mon, all my fans, I know kiddy-beasting is important, and managers bunging each other massive sums, and  the PBC News department just being a govament press office but Lessgetreal, people, none of these are as important as me not being on telly all the time, are they?

Friday 18 April 2014


It's one of those triumphs of Ruin that great art is ever hijacked by Filth. I don't play it much, these days, but the Choral movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony was played on Radio Three a while back; I came late to it, in my twenties, at the kindly urging of an older friend, and for most of my life since, I have listened to it, what, several times a year, until the past few years; I had forgotten its power, not forgotten, it had just gone out of my mind, stuff does. A couple of days before hearing it and weeping afresh I had witnessed the entirely worthless Nick Clegg painfully, almost pathetically being put through his limited and unconvincing paces by Sergeant Farage, Ist Ukippers Batallion. As I listened to poor, mad Ludwig's gigantic, magnificent imagination I was conscious not only that God was bowing the strings of my heart but also - thanks to Clegg acting as unknowing reminder - that our masters in Europe had claimed it for their own, as their very own anthem, as though a bunch of crooks, degenerates and shysters could, from their bureaux of tyranny, align and conflate themselves with divine, artistic genius. How fucking dare they? 

 Listening to Beethoven and thinking of Clegg; Christ, it's enough to give you a brain haemorrhage.

 I have always felt conflicted about more formally sacred music, songs celebrating a wretched blood sacrifice, and the entire Baroque  movement was, after all, patronised, primarily, as a weapon of Counter-reformation, propaganda, first and foremost for centuries-old beasting and torture and extortion, for wicked, degenerate, greedybastard Popes, prelates, princes and priests. Even so, it works on me as its creators intended and even as a non-believer I am comforted by St Augustine's maxim, above - doesn't matter if it's Jackson Browne or the Choir of King's College - To Sing Is To Pray Twice.

 Ruin may purloin and suborn the good tunes
 but we own them.
Have a happy and reflective Easter. 

Oh, haupt voll blut und wunden,
(Oh, sacred head, now wounded)
St Mattew's Passion,
JS Bach.

Wednesday 16 April 2014


Good Afternoon,  this is SkyNews,

 with me, Kay Burley.

 And we're taking you straight away to Sky's Jeremy Filth in Pistoria, where he is covering the trial of Oscar Testosterone, the legless runner, spoiled brat, celebrity and gun-crazy psychobastard who murdered his harmless, gentle, beautiful, undisabled, gold-digging trollop, Wotsername, Rhona,
 is it,
 Rhona Steamkettle?

 Jeremy, what's been happening today?
Thanks, Kay and Good Evening from  Pistoria where it has been another dramatic day with the  murderer being cross-examined by State Prosecutor, Mr Harry Knobkerrie. 


 It's just been one dramatic interchange after another, with the murderer sobbing his socks off, vomiting and pissing himself as he has tried to deflect the questions of ace state prosecutor Harry Knob. This is from this morning,  just before the judge adjourned proceedings for the vicious mutant to compose himself:

I put it to you, Meesta Testosterone,  

that there were no intruders and thet you jest shot the bitch for badness, jest to show her who wes boss. She wes dissing you, wasn't she, the dirty sleg, mebbe admiring a proper man with both legs, end you killed her, didden you? 

She ren into the shithouse, locked the door end then you shot her four times through the fecking door end now you come here with all this bollocks about fecking intruders end fecking ladders end fecking dancing magazine racks when in fact all thet heppened wes that you were pissed at the bitch end you chased her and fecking shot her fecking arse off, 


end, Mahlaydee, her fecking head, too, shot her fecking head off, is whet you did, why don't you jest fucking admit it?

 Feck me, Mahlaydee, weth the greatest respect, her fecking brains was all over the fecking shop. Tell the court, Meesta Testosterone, how you came up weth all this shit about burglars when every fecker end his fecking dog heard her screaming for you not to shoot her and you just kept on firing your fecking gun at her like a fecking lunatic.

That's not true, Mahlaydee,  I did jest shoot the bitch bet I didden know it wes the bitch when I shot her,  I didden  know et was four shots I fired into the bitch, I jest sort of  fired accidentally, Mahlaydee, eet wes the most terrible thing even though it wes accidental, it wes deliberate, too, but in self defence,  when you consider thet it might have been heavily armed burglars hiding in my shithouse like they was silly totties, instead of it being en actual  silly totty, I mean my beloved Wossername, who was actually very comfortable in our relationship,  Mahlaydee,  end thet wes why she wes cowering in the shithouse with the door firmly locked end screaming her fecking head off for me not to kill her, even though I couldn't hear the bitch because I wes repeatedly firing my weapon accidentally end I couldn't hear nothing, end everymorning I pray thet you will let me off shooting the bitch, which I didden  do enyway, or if I did, I didden mean to, in fect, es I have said to Mr Knob, I thought she wes a gang of armed robbers end I definitely didden mean to shoot them with my weapon...... Oh, oh, I thenk I am going to be seck. Bluuurrrrrrgh.........

And it was like that, Kay,  you there, Kay?...
 all fucking day long, cunt was screeching and throwing-up like a virgin at a News Of The World gangbang.
You there, Kay?

Yes, Jeremy, still here, I was wondering about a facelift, what's your take on that?
Well, as you know, Kay, I always think you look great.  Rough as a bears arse mind, but great, all the same.  And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of the old PolyFilla mightn't go amiss.

Another Murdoch bint in plastic surgery viewer fraud.

But what else is happening in Pistoria, Jeremy?

Well, Kay, Bow-Wow, Whoosagoodgirl? No, only joking. Anyway,  for an expert view as to whether he's guilty or extremely fucking guilty I'm joined here by our South African legal expert, Lllllewelllyn KaffirBasher, 

a member of the South African bar. 

 Lllllewelllyn, how's it going, from your point of view?  Thenks, Jeremy and well, the bestard is geelty es fucking sin and we should jest hang him up by his goolies until he coughs, thet's how we used to do things in South Efrica, only mainly to darkies, but this git is helf way there, isn't he being  desabled, as they call it, fucking freak.  No,  Harry Knob is doing  a first rate job, tripping the bestard up, whether he hes his fecking legs on or not, a-ha-ha, give the fecker an even chance, sort of; mind you, the Judge is a fucking kaffir so there's no fecking telling which way she might jump.  Did you see her fecking hair, Jeremy,
 looks like a fucking savage, neh? Wooden be fecking surprised to see her coming to court with a fecking great bone in her fecking nose. I jest dunno how it came to this shit....

What shit's that, then, Lllewelllyn ?

How we heff ay fecking voodoowoman, setting up there on the fecking bench, like a proper judge. 
 I betcha, Jerry, thet she goes home at night to her fecking tent and instead of reviewing the evidence that says this fecking bestard is fecking geelty she slaughters some fecking chickens or goats or some sheet like thet and smears her fecking self wiuth their fecking guts end rolls around in the fecking dirt. 'Sjust the sort of thing they do, these fecking savages.

Thanks for that, Llllewellyn, that was Mr Llewelyn Curlewis there for us, and like all of us here and you too, at home, Mr Curwotsit is absolutely convinced of CryingBoy's guilt.   And it's back now to Kay in the UK where it seems the education seckatry has declared war on  Birmingham.


That's right, Jeremy, and we go over now to the Daily Filth-O-Graph's Toby Young 

who is, to Michael Spit-Gove what Adam Werrity was to Dr Liam Foxx............a sort of a, whatchamacallit, sort of, well, boy, yes, that's it, Michael Gove's boy,

 Toby Cock, one of MediaMinster's boys.

Toby, as a grotesquely pushy parent, a gobby, empty-headed self-publicist;  a grubby, seedy wanker on-the-make  and as an all round worthless piece of MediaMinster shit, what's your take on this quite extraordinary development, where the Education Seckatry has appointed the former head of national counter-terrorism to investigate a couple of school governors, meeting-up in Brum and dribbling over the Koran, like they do.

Well, Kay and thanks, by the way, for having me on the show again but if I might just, before I answer that question, correct a widespread misapprehension  that I am a pushy parent, I am absolutely nothing of the sort, it's just that I can recognise that my children are intensely special, not just to me, although of course they are, but it's more that I see them as an invaluable resource to the world and so in wanting the very best for them that someone else's money can buy I am being entirely selfless; frankly, Kay, the world needs my sperm, I mean my kids, like never before. And it is only by diverting resources from less special people's children to children of my own issue that we can make any, wossaname, headway, yes, that's it, headway.  And if you can call that pushy parenting, well, I suggest that you are entirely mistaken.

Yes, but about Govey, he's a bit of a nutter, 
isn't he...?

No, Kay, no, absolutely not, Michael has the very best interests of the nation at heart, 

Nutter Alert.

moreso, I might say, than does a closely-knit cabal of public schoolboys which I could mention and  he and wossername are great, personal friends of mine.

Mr and Mrs Spit-Gove, living it up.

But sometimes, you know, Kay, in the life of a great statesman like Michael,


 he needs to strike whilst the iron is wossaname.

Like invading Birmingham and executing school governors, you mean?

But Kay, if you don't mind my correcting you - even though I do have the ear of His Michaelness -  these people, these so-called governors are actually highly dangerous terrorists, dangerous to all out children but especially mine, I mean, just look at them.
One of the governors of Small Heath Primary School, 
(photo: Daily Filth-O-Graph, UKIP, DofE.) 

That was Toby Cock, there for us, shedding some light on events in the second city.

And now to showbiz,  And this is the griefparty at Anfield football ground, where former NewLabour minister, Andy Burnham addressed a capacity crowd about himself and his part in their whateveritis.


What is it with Liverfuckingpudlians.? Instead of marching on South Yorks Police HQ and tearing it down, they all get together and have a fucking sing-song, waving their footie scarves aloft, naming, with great respect, naturally, virtually every citizen of the city.

I have been to three football matches in my entire life and on each occasion I was terrified by the potentially uncontrollable, drunken  vicious tribalism of the crowd, thousands of nincompoops alco-welded for a few hours into a juggernaut of reckless malice, fuck 'em, I thought,  they're all fucking mad, they deserve whatever they get.  And they got it at Hillsborough.

There's one guy, particularly, gets me mad, grown eloquent with years of self-pitying, he whines about his two daughters getting crushed to death, as though permitting two teenage girls to enter a stadium full of shouting, drunken neanderthals was the act of a responsible parent.  It is not something which I would ever have done;  those places were and are intrinsically dangerous.   Everywhere, of course,  is intrinsically dangerous in our infinity of paranoid possibilities  but sending your kids into football stadia has clear and present dangers;  regardless of the quality of policing, stewarding and constructional safety it is a chance you take with the lives of your children;  that all three were bad at Hillsborough does not relieve parents of their duty of care. 

Oh, there's no question but that Chief Inspector Filth

 is a lying, crooked, cheating  bastard but surely it didn't take Hillsborough to persuade people of that,  surely everybody knows that.  Doesn't everybody know that PC Plod sits with his mates and writes up invented evidence so's it all matches, just so; surely everybody knows  that his seniors call him in  for a quiet word

and tell him what to say in a big case;  surely everybody knows that governments will always side with the police against the citizen unless, of course, the citizen is Andrew Mitchell, MP and flogger or Nigel Evans, MP and predatory homosexual. 

 What is the matter with these maudlin, self-pitying Scousers that they'll sell their lost family members' memories for a poxy, meaningless, showy, full and far-reaching cover-up of an inquest, one which opens, disgustingly, with a name-check of every concerned participant? Do they really think that the filthsters who covered-up this cack-handed policing of a football match  and then slandered the dead

Kelvin McFilth, Hillsborough Sun editor, PBC pundit and Murdoch dingleberry,
 enjoys himself with Piers ShitFerBrains Moron.
( When is he going to jail?)

give a flying fuck for anything that this service of mewling and puking and this showbiz inquest reveal? They must all be pissing themselves, the cops and MediaMinster,  as Liverpool does what it does best, moans and whinges.

And as for this arsehole, well, there aren't any words which would do justice to his performance, unless they are spelt BAFTA.  Bubbles Burnham sank to the occasion. 

Repeatedly  linking himself to the very existence of the post-Hillsborough presure group, this smirking turd, this obnoxious, Oxbridge, career politico front-and-centred himself, spinning patronising yarns about Footie and Mams and shit.
We all know that shame and embarrassment are alien to the likes of he but this really was vintage, premier cru sick-bucket stuff.

I am humbled, Liverpool, before you, as you give me this opportunity to act like a give a fuck, you stupid cunts.  If it wasn't fer me mam, an' me loyalty to a certain other football club - giggles - and for the friendship of all these great, millionaire, gang-raping, coke-snorting, repulsive and vulgar sporting heroes, here today, I never would've been able to wash me 'ands, like, of the twelve hundred or so deaths in that Staffordshire Health Trust, what I was in charge of. 

Andy Bubbles Burnham, NewLabour scoundrel and the most dangerous health seckatry in history, takes a Staffordshire bow.

That, of course, should read Faculty of Death, 
prop HM Seckatry of state for health, Andy Burnham.

It is not for their meaningless crowd-sentimentality that I abhor this gang, it is not that I dismiss their righteous indignation, it is that, in exchange for Grieving's tacky celebrity,  they do.

Never mind singing You'll Never Walk Alone,  never mind applauding shit like Andy Burnham,  these people should have seen to it that Kelvin McKenzie, fatwahed,  left the country; should have pelted Andy Burnham with stones and should, even now,  be ripping up paving slabs.