Thursday 31 July 2014


Good evening, and this is the SixaClock News from the Friends of Israel, or the PBC, as some of you may know it.  I'm Huw Welshman and tonight's top story  is that plucky little Israel is still managing to hold out against the onslaught being ruthlessly mounted against it by the schoolchildren of the Gaza Strip, where  Arab children are relentlessly hurling stones and firing drainpipe rockets at Israel, who  has only the entire arsenal of the United States with which to defend herself against these frankly feral little hooligans.

Our correspondent in Tel Aviv is the stupid man's Kelvin McKenzie, Mr Paul Staines of the Sun, Mr Good-Oh Fawkes of the Pizza House of Blood.  Good-Oh, what can you tell us?

Whoosaprettyboy, then?
One fat Irishman.

Well, Huw, it's like I always said, these ayrab kids, good for nothing they are and if you ask me and my readers the world's better off wiv 'em dead. Wossat? Yeah, course I got kids, two girls 'as it happens, apple of their Daddy, Good-Oh's bloodshot eye, they are, wossatgorradowivthepriceafish? Nah, never 'appen, my little darlins, getting blown-up, tits out fer the lads, more like, page free, like, my own little Tory totties. Whoar.

Thanks, Good-Oh, for that but what can you tell us about that jolly, well, I suppose, avuncular, jolly avuncular chap, Benjamin Netanyahoo, how's he bearing up, under the strain of it all, can't be easy, I shouldn't think.

That's right, Huw, 

and I think he's an inspiration to us, rather like Mr Rupert Murdoch is.  Now your viewers will know, Huw, that I am one of the country's foremost political historians, I can tell you, for instance, the names of all the UK prime ministers back to John Major, and there's not too many can do that, well, not among my circle, anyway,  and what I would say is that Benjy is far and away the greatest of them all.  Let's take you over now to the Israeli Parliament and hear what the great man has to say....

Mr Benjamin Netanyahoo, Israeli Fuhrer.

Ein volk, ein Middle East, ein Holy Land.
Ze land vot God gave to Cain und Abraham und Isaac.
Ve Jews, ve are God's chosen ones
Und fuck all ze uzzervuns.

Israeli citizens gather at the Knesset to read the Talmud.

And as if that wasn't inspiring enough let's check out the Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations.

Mr Ron Himmler,
Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations

, "we have the moral right, we had the duty to our people to do it, to kill this people who wanted to kill us. But we do not have the right to enrich ourselves with even one fur, with one Mark, with one cigarette, with one watch, with anything. That we do not have. Because at the end of this, we don't want, because we exterminated the bacillus, to become sick and die from the same bacillus. We have carried out this most difficult task for the love of our people. And we have taken on no defect within us, in our soul, or in our character."

That was Good-Oh Fawkes for us, there, he'll be off now, I expect for a lie-down in a bath of lard and to knock back a few litres of Vodka. Best hope the fat fuck's not driving again, like he does.



Funny how, even without anything inconvenient, like proof, we are happy to condemn Russia for supplying to Ukraine separatists an unknown number of surface-to-air weapons and yet we are silent about our supply to plucky little Israel  of the means of endless Armageddon upon the children of Gaza.  

Not funny, really,  breathtakingly, grotesquely hypocritical, made possible only by Ruin's stranglehold on all organs of mass communication, nearly all.

We have no means of knowing the cause of the destruction of the over-Ukraine aircraft but it is hard to see it being a deliberate action by those pesky rebels or their fiendish Russian puppetteers;  why would they do that, purposefully down a civilian aircraft filled with complete strangers? If it is not a black op, which it may be, it is likely to be a mistake, one for which the responsibility should be equally shared between  those who sent the fucking thing over a warzone in the first place and those who fired the SAM.  Hasn't been a good summer for Malaysian Airlines, what with one thing and another.

No rebuke, though, has been issued by those who marshal our thoughts, to this most careless of state airlines.  None urge that Malaya  return to her core skills of pineapple and rubber cultivation, re-draft  her mission statement vis a vis the mass transit of human cargoes.  No, you'll be fine, maties, just because there's a fucking war going on doesn't mean there's any danger; no, you're alright, we'll just bring a few of those search teams back from the Southern Ocrean, scrape-up the corpses, sort the black orange boxes that mr ishmael was on about and find some buncha beardy cunts to blame;   actually, do you know what, it all works out quite nicely, we all get to blame the Russians and we're all quids-in. The passengers? Well, airtravel remains the safest way to fly, statistics bear it out.  And anyway, who wants to live in a risk averse world?  

Fuck me, one aircraft disappeared off the face of the Earth and another one shot-down over a warzone;  this is competence of an Ian Duncan Smith order;  we should invite the board of Malaysian Airways to join Mr Clegg and Mr Cameron and Mr Miliband and Mr Fruitcake in the dismantling of British civilisation, get the job done twice as quickly. 

But the passengers, a lot of them, were white folks, not ragheads, so, I dunno what the equivalence of loss is, these days, but probably at least a hundred to one, coupla hundred decent white folks that needs to be, what, at least twenty thousand dead Gazans   before we reach a level playing field,  maybe if twenty thousand Gazans get roasted then the Powers-that-Be will lift up their eyes unto the hills. Maybe even  apply some sanctions to Benny and his murderous boys.

The main thing is that we keep a sense of moral perspective, here, a couple of hundred people mistakenly killed, or even deliberately killed in a warzone near Russia is a far greater outrage than the creation of a two-million person concentration camp and its regular  bulldozing and firebombing by a bunch of crazy, racist, religious maniacs.

Plucky Israelis watch the show from the Holocaust Odeon.

I was a kid during the 1967  Six Day War and like many I believed in the Leon Uris, fictionalised version of the story of plucky little Israel.  I didn't know I was being fed concentrated rabbi-shit;  the Israelis, after all, were good-looking, like the Nazis;  had smart uniforms, like the Nazis and better tanks and trucks, like the Nazis;  and at the head of the tanks was Moshe Dayan, a general from central casting, he even had a black patch where his eye used to be. Nobody told me that all this hardware came free from Uncle Sam's Department of Terror.

Later, I learned that Menachim Begin, eventually Israeli prime minister, was a filthy piece of shit, orchestrating the brutal,  terrorist murders of countless, including British soldiers, in his drive to uproot and make homeless Palestinians.  Later, still, I learned that the Israeli constitution insists that any Jew, from anywhere, is entitled to settle in Israel.  There is only one way, of course, for all the world's unhappy Jews to slobber all over the Holy Land - their Holy Land, stupid obnoxious bastards -  and that's for them to ethnically cleanse those who have been living there for centuries, but first, necessarily,  to demonise them, as is now happening.

It is or should be widely understood that those to whom evil is done do evil in return but to the best of my knowledge it was the Germans who wrought the Holocaust, not these kids in the Gaza concentration camp.  Why didn't the Jewish freedom fighters sail the Exodus up the Rhine, colonise Bavaria or some other part of Nazi Germany?  It is because regardless of their disproportionate share of History's artists and scientists they are hideously superstitious, stupid and malevolent, that's why;  they worship a bloody and frightful Iron Age God whose contract with them is cruelly, brutally punitive as well as patriarchal, racist, sexist and bigoted, bit of a Nazi, actually, Himself.  These mad, mad fuckers, today presenting as  misunderstood good guys, would see us all up in smoke in order to curry favour with the diseased imagining that is Jehovah. Doesn't matter to them, does it? They're all going to the Promised Land. 
Imagine that, Bob Dylan, Woody Allen, Simon Schama and Michael Howard,  Christ, you'd drown in an ocean of smug.


Google this for further reading. It's proper journalism.

The pro-Israel lobby in Britain: full text

Tuesday 15 July 2014


Away for a few days, maybe a week; enjoy the reshuffling of Ruin's knavish deck. And expect to be dealt from the bottom.


Hague hints at Hollywood future.
And I write books, too, about other politicians.
Yes, Willy, get your people to call my people and we'll do lunch.
Missing you already.

Well, mr deputy ishmael, it may be  ay long way, from here to Hollywood,  but as we say in Yorkshire, there's nowt s'queer as me, I mean folks.

No, I do think there may well be a film role or two  to be played by ay middle-aged man, ripplingly fit, with ay challengingly masculine haircut, ay rather, mr deputy ishmael, ay rather, if I may say so, better educated individual than is, for instance, Mr Bruce Willis.  And let's face it, having been foreign seckatry I can, in all sincerity, confirm that all the world's ay stage, mr deputy ishmael, and we are all, we are all wotsanames. And as you, mr deputy ishmael, as you yourself are constantly reminding us, here in MediaMinster,  there is no business like showbusiness.  Mrs Hague's uterus?  Yes it's fine, thanks, I can show you some x-rays; when I do that, it proves I'm  not gay,

or worse.

Monday 14 July 2014


Archbishop of Canterbury, Julian Woebegone, today won his fight to have Muslems in charge of the Church of England.
I think it is a true reflection of our modern church and our modern nation - gays, lesboes and ragheads chasing one another round the vestry - and it demonstrates something or other which is truly profound and spiritual about this corporation which I head-up, its shareholders and its market valuation. 
It will be a great adventure and a challenge for our dwindling numbers of old people to take communion from an imam and have their diocesan priorities determined by Sheikh Bishop Ali Baba but it is one to which we will rise.  And if it doesn't work out then we will simply convert the churches to Gay-Bisexual-Lesbian and Transgender drop-in centres, which, actually is mostly what they already are. 
Sorry, what?  Jesus? What would Jesus make of it all? Just who the fuck is Jesus when he's at home?


Well, now look, I want to be crystal clear about this, this, this misunderstanding, I think we should call it.  Lady Coronation Street has recused herself from this complicated and onerous task of rewriting history and walling-up skeletons behind the Official Secrets Act, a task for which, I still maintain, she was eminently qualified,  You can say there was a conflict of interest but what's wrong with that.  We are all men of the world.  A conflict of interest and being related to the person one is investigating are not in my judgement any reason for us not chosing the best man for the job. Woman.  I mean woman, or man, although, clearly, in this case, it's woman.

Wossat?  Recuse?  You don't know what recusing means?  Well, I should've thought it was perfectly clear; it means running away as fast as one is able to  when the shit hits the fan while you're standing in front of it, getting covered.

No, there was clearly no reason for Dame Elizabeth to resign, she has behaved throughout this tricky time with all the integrity which we have all come to expect from Lord or Lady Justice Slag.  But now that she has found out that a distant relative, whom she had never met - much less discussed criminal cover-ups with - was a devout beastworshipper, she has in the time honoured tradition of MediaMinster, resigned whilst having done nothing wrong, well not yet,anyway. Integrity?  I think you mean Great Integrity which is something I have a great deal of, myself, Great Integrity, which is  why I didn't resign over losing the Syria War Vote, or when it was found that my office was full of crooks and nonces.  Great Integrity is what you have when you charge the public for your own Wisteria plants and then, the minute you're found-out, whaddayoudo, what you do is  you voluntarily put your hand in own your pocket and  pay back the stolen money.  Yes, that's it, I suppose that is a good way of putting it - the rottener one is, the greater one's integrity.

No, any further questions to be directed to Mrs Tracey May, who is, for the time being, the home seckatry and who got us into all this shit.   


Sunday 13 July 2014



Given his relative health and safety, one worries on behalf of any individual or group which might wish Lord Janner QC conveniently and silently dead.  But he is 85 and might just croak. Mind you, Rolf Harris is 82 and he hasn't.

Mr Janner's  gaff in the House of Lords was raided by his local police force in March and in the unlikely event of  him not being completely vindicated one would normally expect him to die in mysterious circumstances.

 Meanwhile, the world's leading liberal voice, as it pompously styles itself, the millionaires' co-operative, charity status broadsheet, the Guardian/Observer, today coyly reports the criminal career of a Labour peer  who  buggered children for years.  The married, family man, like so many in Labour, is a rich QC and has for decades managed to keep his name out of the press and his arse in the luxurious comfort of the House of Lords, where we pay nonces, crooks and war criminals three hundred quid a day plus subsidised food and drink, just for turning-up.

Legal experts insist that names should not be named until charges are brought, bless, always interested in fair play, only not towards the buggered children.

Saturday 12 July 2014


This is the PBC lunchtime news with me, Jayne Tits, and the top story of the day is that decent hard-working working parents all over the country have been forced to look after their own children, themselves.  For more on this story, over to Birmingham, where Samantha Tits has the latest for us.
Fifth columnists, marxists and paedophiles gather in Brum to molest children and undermine long-term economic reform and  growth and whatever.

Thanks, Jayne, and yes, that's right, this is the news that communist teachers, many of them of interest to the security services, have betrayed those many parents who expect teachers to do as they're told by the gabshite, mutant  lunatic,

Mr Spit, the education seckatry.  

I wrote the Bible, you know, children. Let's see, now....
  Chapter one, verse one, in the Beginning there were  Free schools.
And God looked on Mr Spit and was pleased.

Mr Spit has, today, reiterated his delusion that it is quite clearly the teachers' reponsibility, first and foremost,  to look after other citizen-suspect's children for them, while they, the hard-working parents, pursue their rewarding and important careers down Tesco or in the call centre. If it wasn't for their child-minding capacity, said the diminutive education seckatry, why, I could dispense with them and teach the nation's children myself, via television screens in their classrooms, bedrooms, nurseries, prams, buggies and so on; just imagine,  a constant LoopOfLearning,  A nineteen-fifties curriculum, for which we are all so nostalgic, for which the nation cries out  to me; me, Mr Gove, the nation's teacher.

  And I am joined now, Jayne, here in - whereisthisplace? - here in Birmingham's Victoria Square  by a local grandmother, Mrs Maxine Cough. 

Maxine, you're a local grandmother,  tell us what this strike has meant to you,  how has it impacted you? 

 How'sitwot, love, impacted me? 
 No, Oi'm a bit old fer that lark, me, bein' impacted.  Although there's them as does say, loike, that there's manys a good tune what gets  played on an old wossaname. But no, moy grandchildren, luvemtobits, me, doanyfinforem, 'snuffin's too good for 'em, phones, games, chips, pizza, if I got 'em, they got 'em; what's their names? Well, there's Delroy, loike, an' Winston an' Chardonnay an' Kylie an' Jason an little Manjit, only he lives wiv 'is dad, loike, in Pakistan. Never could take to 'im, Manjit's dad; nuffin' against them people, honest I int, right 'and up to God, so 'elp me, I int racialist, no way, Jose,  but they smell different, knowharramean, love, different than what we do.  Must be all them spoices, loike, what they 'ave in their dinner, Oi mean, you wooden wanna go in the smallest room, not right after Manjit's dad's been in there, prayin' to Allah, so to speak, break the 'eart of a bleedin' wheelbarrow, it would. Gorra face as  long as bleedin' Livery Street, they 'ave an' all, most on 'em, all beardy an' wearing frocks, loike, over pyjama bottoms.   An the blokes is just as bad. But 'ark at me, here's you wanting to know about the school stroike and I'm  gooin' all around the Wrekin, moaning about our Tracey's last husband, partner, achelly, don't seem no point in 'er marryin' em any more, all ends in bleedin' tears, dunnit ? Well, what can Oi tellya, love, it ain't roight, is it, them teachers'm  s'posed to look after the little uns, int they, I mean, swot we pay  'em for, innit?  Take me, Oi should be at 'ome doin' me online Bingo an' instead I gorra go traipsin' over to Druids 'eath and help our Trace out wiv the little darlins, and she ain't used to bein' up so early, at lunchtime, loike.  Diabolical liberty, 'sworrIcallit, them teachers gooin' on stroike an' expectin' us to do their work for 'em, idle bleedin' gits. That Nigel Fruitcake bloke, 'im wots on the telly, wiv 'is pint, loike, an'  puffin' on his B an' Haitches, he'd soon sort 'em out, send 'em all back where they come from, shouldn't wonder, send 'em all back to TeacherLand, or wurevver it is.

That was Birmingham grandmother, Maxine Cough,  there, telling us what, frankly, Jayne, we are hearing from all over the country.  People are utterly dismayed at being dumped with the care of their own children; it's absolutely not what we had them for, complain many, to look after them,  that's why we have teachers in the first place,  as child minders, so we can go out to work to pay the mortgage; isn't that what the property ladder is for, isn't that where it leads, slavery?

Thanks, Samantha, that was Samantha Tits for us there, in Birmingham or Wolverhampton, one of those dirty places, anyway, but to discuss this crisis further, here in the studio, we have professor Germaine Drongo of Oxford University, the Daily Telegraph, The Sun, Nuts Magazinee, The Times Literary Supplement, Have I Got News For You, I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, Big Brother and Screw Magazine.
 Professor Filth, 
writing in the NewYork Quarterly Shrubbery Review,
Professor Drongo, you are a widely respected educationalist, drunk, gabshite and pornographer  who is addicted to appearing naked in public, even in your late sixties, and you have no children;

 what does this tell us about the teachers' strike?

Nothing, babes, sweet Fanny Adams, zilch. Teachers?  Fuck 'em. If they don't wanna get their kit off for the camera, pointin' it where the Sun don't shine, that's their problem.  But I love it. It's the essence, actually, of feminism. 

 Now, babes, what about you an' me slippin' outa here an' doin' some girly stuff to each other? 
I got loadsa fags and fuckin' cases fulla strong lager.
 How about it, bitch? 
  I bet  you bang like a shithouse door in a gale, sweet thing. What? Clive James?  What? 'Strewth.  I'd  fuck a kangaroo before I'd do that.

Well, we're interrupting the programme there because our political editor,  

Nick Toenails, 
is at the prime minister and that other bloke, the one who's always asking himself questions, at their press conference at the White House, I mean, in Downing Street. Just looks like the White House, with those flags and seals. Let's hear what the unelected prime minister has to say.

My fellow motherfuckers.
 And suspects, Yo, suspects, because that's what y'all are now. 
Lets be quite clear about this, we have to read all your mail and listen to all your 'phone calls because, well, just because I say so. I know it's illegal but I am a great respecter of the law, so that's why I'm doing this, it may well actually be illegal, but actually it's not. And as I never tire of telling people, only those who fear totalitarian dictatorship have anything to fear.  Would you rather that we appointed paedophiles to run the place?  What? Sorry? We already do? Always have? Mr Patrick Rock?  Well, Nick, I think you'll find that he never actually ran anything in Downing Street, apart from kiddyporn programmes on my computer, er, his computer...... no, no, neither of us's computer, your computer, you, the public's computer, you own it, paid for it.  Now, do you see why we have to watch you so closely? Over to you, deputy prime minsiter.

And look,  and I want to be quite clear about this, am I the sort of person who would see his party wiped-out in the polls just so's I could play at being deputy prime minister? No, of course I am. Am I the sort of liberal who would attack the poor, the old and the sick? No, of course I am.  Did I become leader of this great, tiny, shrinking party just in order to usher in a police state? Well, that's a question which modesty forbids me answering.  But yes, of course I am. You know, I didn't come into politics to do anything other than burnish my ego and line my pockets...wossat? yes, of course, and to bully people, taken as read, to bully people.  But let's be quite clear about this, liberal democrats, labour politicians, me and the other prime minister, we have all  had our struggles about this legislation

 but - and I stress this - if we want to protect the govament from you, the suspects, or the public, if you prefer;  protect the elect from the electorate, even, then  we simply must have the powers to keep a close eye on you in case you disobey me, I mean us;  this is a democracy, after all. 

Just ask yourselves, suspects. Would you rather my party fiddled its expenses,  stole housing benefits, lied to the public, lied to the courts, took bungs from dodgy donors, bashed queer people and covered-up sexual harrassment by our peers; covered-up the  noncing of the mentally ill and  decades of kiddybeasting by our MPs?  No, of course you would.

And let me just come back in, here, Nick,

 and remind people that,  as with bringing Mr Murdoch's obnoxious  deviant thug,  Mr Coulson,

 whom I have never actually met and will never meet again,  into  the centre of govament, ignoring the irrefutable  evidence that he was a crook, 

well,  just as with that, if it turns out that these security measures are undemocratic, alien, unconstitutional, improper and wholly illegal,  I will of course apologise and take full reponsibility. And what does that mean, you may ask.  Nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, it means nothing at all. Except that, well, nothing really, it means nothing. It's like the Deputy Prime Minister says,  if any of us wanted to be held accountable - for anything -  this is the very last place we'd be. Let me be quite clear, doesn't matter what we do;  just because we pass the laws, doesn't mean we have to abide by them.  I'll take some safe questions from safe journalists,  Nick Robinson, of the BBC.

Prime minister, what do you say to the charge that historically your party has been a hotbed of child sex assault, torture, even murder...?

Historically, did you say historically, Nick, I think you'll find that it's a bit more.......whoops, got my wires crossed there, Nick, but look, we were both at Oxford, let's not make a mountain out of a mountain, eh?  There's a good chap.  No, I think you'll find that that nice actor chap, Mr Nigel Havers, 


yes, him  off Coronation Street, he's bang on the money.  No, no, his Dad was a great guy, a simply great guy, 

 a great govament law officer who simply wouldn't let his mate off  a charge of noncing, and even if that is what he did, which it is, he never told his son about it, so, obviously it can't have happened, can it? If the man from Coronation Street says he doesn't know that his Dad had a rewarding career as HM Nonce-Protector General, 
 then that should be good enough for ordinary people, who aren't in Downing Street, I mean Coronation Street.  And I would remind people that his aunt, Lady Coronation Street, 

whom I have appointed to head-up this very important, full and far-reaching cover-up, Mrs  Butler WhiteSchloss, is lovely, too, her nephew said so,  and furthermore she actually never met her brother, 
his Dad, never met him once, so how could she be compromised in investigating him?  I mean, and let's be quite clear about this, Lord Havers and  his sister, Lady Butler WhiteSchloss,  were only brother and sister, it is not as though they were related or anything.  Look,  to be quite frank, they never even met, let alone spoke to one another.  Yes, like myself and Mr Coulson and myself and Mr Rock. No, I think the nation will thoroughly admire the cut of Mr Nigel Havers's jib.
  I mean, it's not everyday a man stands up so impartially  for his own family, now, is it? 
 I think the very least we could do for him is a knighthood, he is one of us, after all, not that that would influence his judgement, of course. Just because a man loves his aunt, that's no reason not to give him a second chance.  Not that he does.  Not in that sense.

And what happens, prime minister, if she, if Auntie dies before accomplishing the desired whiteschloss, I mean wash, forgive me, been reading that ishmael, no I don't think you should;  what would happen, were her Ladyship to die before finishing the whiteschloss, damnit, wash,  the whitewash?

Well look, Nick, it's quite simple.  If Dame Not-Actually-Related-To-Her-Own-Brother should pass away, which, let's be fair, is highly unlikely,

not as though she looks like Death warmed-up, is it, 

and she's only in  her eighties, if, however, she should croak, well, then I will accept full responsibility for appointing her and, should I still be prime minister, appoint some other old coffin-dodging lawyer to start all over again, with  a safe, if shaking and palsied pair of hands.

But prime minister, this enquiry could take years.
Yes, Nick. 
And years and years and years.

And finally, if I may say so,Nick, to you and your colleagues, it's not us, the rich and powerful, that you should be investigating. If, despite Francis Maude's best efforts, you hadn't noticed, the fucking teachers are on strike, yes I know they only teach in ordinary schools but even so, And the strike is entirely legal.  It's the teachers you should be attacking, not, if you don't mind me saying so, not harmless old gentlemen, generally from good families,  whose only crime is buggering a few children to death, whilst laughing their heads off. Long grass, Mum's the word.

Thursday 10 July 2014



Norman Tebbit is now an old man, his wife disabled by the doings of noted conflict resolution expert and statesman, Mr Marty Kneecaps, deputy first minister of the house of horrors which is the Northern Ireland Assembly. 

Ever since he was forced to return the Range Rover donated to he and his wife  by Mohammed al Fayed - of whose bribes his Lordship of course knew nothing - Tebbit has grown more unpleasant, his incessant Why-Oh-Whying sometimes like a national rash,  the answer to his querulous, whining  enquiries is,  obviously, Because of you, you cunt, and your fellow spivs, flogging-off the national silver and holding Greed's coat for him, that's Why-Oh-fucking-Why,  Lord fucking Telecom.

One can understand there being bitterness in his daily round but his own wounds do not warm his snide cold-bloodedness;  he was a ghastly reptile before the Brighton bombing and he remains hissing, scaly,  untrustworthy and venomous.

He is adored, yet, by followers of his Filth-O-Graph blog, by other sclerotic old men who delight in addressing him, in their comments, as my Lord or your Lordship, as though he was a noble warrior king and they his sturdy yeomanry; not for them the notion  that he is a  cruelly disgraceful old bandit and they a bunch of cranks clinging in their dotage to their illusions of Whisky Maggie is a shiny armoured delusion,  unoxidised by the rainfall of Time's realism but  burnished, instead,   by Lord Snide's undimmed hatreds and resentments, by  his readers' fretful, aged alienation.

It may well be the case that his recent - customarily veiled - references to the Great Noncing Cover-Up by his government are an attempt to get his own retaliation in first, as we now say, blaming others for his own actions.

Tebbit was close to Savile, not a crime but surely a huge misjudgement, perhaps worse than a misjudgement;  what ordinary person could not be repelled by Sir Jim's bespoke bestiality, his monstrous, bullying ego, who could admire him?  Well, Tebbit did.
And who would not sue the ghastly trollop, Currie, for her remarks, below, regarding Tebbit's acceptance of another nonce into the inner sanctum.  If I was him  I would have had the lawyerly mr umbungo all over the case.

Tebbit  often whines that he is misquoted, misrepresented over his On yer bike remarks, he never meant it quite like that or didn't say it but few would doubt that his thinlipped, cadaverous,  greedy soul meant exactly that, and worse. Wasn't his gang of bent spivs determined that (someone else's)  employment was a price worth paying, and do we not see, all around us,  the generational consequences of their filthy cynicism? 

The sneer is Tebbit's default expression and as he sneered at those dashed on the rocks of his vicious policies so he licked the arses of the City gangsteriste noueveau, begging for his crumbs.  It is easy to see him sneering, too, at the fate of worthless social services rentboys, what were they, compared to Greed's Crusade.

Somebody should ask his fucking Lordship about this Morrison business.  And be quick about it, before he, like his mate, Jim, is feeling Satan's poker up his arse.

Well, of course,  if I had known that the kiddybuggering and killing were fact and not rumour, I'd have privatised them.  And yes, probably taken on a non-executive directorship after retirement, but not for the money, just to protect the taxpayers' interests.

Old friends.
Jolly nice chap, Jimmy Savile, and rather sharp.
Self-made man, just like me. 

 In 1986, Edwina Currie wrote in her diary: 

‘One appointment in the recent reshuffle has attracted a lot of gossip and could be very dangerous: Peter Morrison has become the PM’s PPS [Parliamentary Private Secretary]. Now he’s what they call a ‘noted pederast’, with a liking for young boys; he admitted as much to Norman Tebbit when he became deputy chairman of the party but added ‘However, I’m very discreet’ – and he must be! She [Thatcher] either knows and is taking a chance, or doesn’t; either way, it’s a really dumb move.

The lady's not for turning.