RURITANIA NEWS. BRITAIN'S LEADING CRIME FAMILY: POPE CATEGORICALLY NOT CATHOLIC.

This is the news that Buckingham Palace has issued a statement categorically denying that the Pope is or ever was a catholic,  unequivocally rejecting the idea that bears defecate in the woods and rejecting comprehensively the outrageous and unfounded  allegation that the Earth is round.

 These suggestions, said Queen Brenda's spindoctor pursuivant,  Sir Reginald Llewellyn-Dingleberry, are utterly outrageous, entirely without foundation and  have long been rejected by right-thinking people as being little more than money-making schemes dreamed-up by common little tarts who are rarely featured in Tatler magazine.

We would not normally comment upon them, especially the one which says that his Highness, Prince RandyAndy was once  fucking a vulnerable teenager gifted to him by a distinguished and deliciously wealthy Yank nonce.  Her Majesty would like it to be known, however,  that her children are quite royally perfect and would categorically never do anything wrong. And nor would her grandchildren

HRH Prince Flasher

HRH Prince Nazi.


Which is why heir to the throne, 
Price Brian,

 is desperatley trying to stifle the PBC documentary about his own spindoctor, 

Mr Mark Bendover-FitzTightly, formerly of Mr Murdoch's News of the Screws, who was hired, at public expernse, to persuade said post morte de diana public that instead of Brian being a nasty, depraved, rude,  idle, thieving, tax-evading, repugnant bully, thief, liar and spouse-abuser he and his horse-faced, Nazi slapperbaggagetrollop, Duchess Camilla 

Oh. 
My. 
God.
Poor people. Poor people, Charles.
 Fucking do something. 
Have them shot.



are actually lovable, generous, down-to-Earth, yet serious and sincere monarchs-in-waiting and not the vile, parasitic filth whom  all perceived them to be;  it has, of course, worked. 
Until now.

Lawyers funded by you and I are presently trying to block the broadcasting of the programme by the PBC, just as other lawyers funded by you and I are trying to prevent the Guardian publishing letters which Brian has written to ministers attempting to influence policy, probably, knowing him, over matters relating to his business interests.  I mean ours, Highgrove and Cornwall and such.

My first day at grammar school, in the 'sixties, is memorable not for its welcome from staff and older boys, for there was nonesuch but for a long rebuke, alternately hissing and thundering, during Assembly, from the Headmaster, a fatuous prick called Cholmondeley.  Cholmondeley was an over-dressed, over confident caning freak who promoted fellow travellers. Dennis Marsden, my French teacher, was a loathsome, over-dressed, over-cologned, overweight bullyboy;  Jack Watson, (Oxon,) physics and maths, was a skeletal, SS-alike Christian sadist who crafted cats-of-several-tails from Bunsenburner tubing and who would, today, be arrested on sight and  spend his sentence falling down stairs and having shaving accidents;  Shifty Watson took rugger and physics and was a groper of arses and scrota, all good clean dirty fun;  Dave Buttress was my form teacher, an uptight hysteric who, in an instant would lose it and fling a blackboard ruler at a twelve-year old, wonder he didn't blind anyone;  he needed profound and lasting psychiatric care, Dave;    they were fucking awful people, most of them, and even the decent ones, then as now, conspired by their silence in the humiliation and brutalising of pupils. Dave Hill taught me English and together  with Miss Boulter and Mr Coe at primary school, inspired me for life, I hear their voices, the latter two,  every time I sit down here - you may not start a sentence with and or but or so, you may not follow and with a comma and so on; people who lived and learned and taught in a time, before Blair,  when hopefully was still an adverb.  Dave Hill, though, turned a blind eye to much which should have enraged him, as guilty as the perpetrators themselves.

Maybe it was their service and suffering in the war but my primary school teachers - one of them was a VC, another wounded in North Africa, another widowed - had all been, without exception, kindly, nurturing and inspiring;  these guys, my grammar school teachers, were, by comparison,  filth.

Chumley, anyway, during our first-ever Assembly, hissed and fumed at us about how, collectively, we had driven a poor music teacher,  that previous Summer, to throw himself in the Stratford-Upon-Avon canal and there drown. 

 I had never even met the deceased, never been taught by him, wasn't even at that school when it happened but no matter, we were all to blame, we children, hissed Chumley  from the stage, gowned, mortar-boarded and double-breasted up to fuck, the horrible fucking bastard; we had all made dreadful, unfounded  allegations against poor, young Mr Wotsisname, unfounded, without a shred of evidence and had ruined a promising career with our nastiness.  We had all just jolly well mind our step and not make any such categorically unfounded allegations against any other members of staff or Chumley would come down on us like a ton of bricks. Now, let us pray.  Heavenly Father, thou seeest all and knoweth all.........

All dead, now, all these noncing fucking brutes.  And the worst of it is that those groomed by them, academically and carnally,  would not hear a word said against them. Never did me any harm, mr ishmael, you musta been a softy or a poof.

I was reminded of Spanker Chumley when I heard the Palace Reptile House defending Brenda's boy, Andy, reminded of that deep, brown voice, that  dodgy over-confidence, that insistence that we and not you know best, that despite all the evidence of your own senses you are wrong;  how could this person possibly have behaved like that? He is better than you.   Just believe as I tell you to believe.  If you know what's good for you.

The facts are that Andy did hang-out for years with a man clearly besotted by underage flesh, 

 

that Andy was photographed with his hands upon a clearly vulnerable teenager,  

that his former wife, the wretched Fergie,

 

begged fifteen grand from the nonce, 

 

 that even after the nonce had been released from jail,  Andy  continued to hang-out with him in his various knocking shops. 

I have mentioned previously that I have always left the room - and the woman - rather than stay and watch a Woody Allen film; the dimunitive freak, adored by luvvie showbiz, as is Roman Polanski,  has always had the same effect upon me as did Jimmy Savile and just the body language in this photograph - with his step-child bride and Andy's best friend,  Epstein the nonce - ought to see Allen arrested, Epstein arrested and all his mates, especially the Queen's son,  hauled in for enhanced interrogation. 

What are they doing with that lead?
Why are they heating that lead up?

Hey, that funnel, why are they putting that funnel in that guy's arse?
No.  Wait a minute.
They're not putting that hot lead in that funnel in the guy's arse, are they?
Oh, shit.
Whaddayawanna know? 
Yawannaknow secrets?
 I'll tellya secrets.
Shit, I'll fucking make-up secrets.
Just don't pour that hot lead up my arse.

Befriending an industrial-scale, billionaire beast is one thing, staying in his homes, which, festooned with pictures of naked teenagers,  are clearly shrines to beasting and remaining loyal to him after his conduct had been revealed are entirely different and it really falls to Andrew and not to publicly-funded courtier-ponces to explain his conduct, if he can. 

This is Andrew Battenberg and his beasting chums,
hunting our animals,
on our land. 
Categorically and unequivocally doing nothing wrong.

 I never learned any more about the music teacher, save that he was being investigated by the police and killed himself;  Chumley, therefore, logician, linguist, classicist and ponce, was wrong to claim the allegations were unfounded

 

when what they were - as with those against Sir Jimmy Savile, seen here with a fan -  was unproven.  Chastising the victims, as did Chumley, is what they do, these people, may their arses fall out and they trip over their intestines.

And that is as much as can be said about  Brenda's favourite son, the allegations against him are unproven. It remains to be seen whether or not they are unfounded.

How old are you, then? 
Old enough to give old Dukey a massage, 
I should think. 

Hard-working families, eh?

Doing their bit  for the country.

He's off doing a bit of ski-ing at the moment, Andy, 
bless.

What is not unproven, however, is that this wretched, pampered oaf, Airmiles Andy,  misused his sinecure as trade ambassador to fly around the world in order to play golf with his family's friend's

Very well, then, 

one can never have too many stolen jewels in one's collection,

 can one?

Brenda Battenberg, thieving old fucking crow. 

- head-chopping, wimmen-stoning, coke-snorting Arab child molesters.

 

Never quite show us proper respect, our subjects.

Then chop their fucking heads off, Majesty.

If only, brother prince, if only.

That whilst in their company he complained that the British press, notably the Guardian, was not - unlike he, presumably - acting in the nation's interest and generally maligned those who pay taxes to keep the idle fucking slag in luxury, him and his gang of benefits  cheats and scroungers. 

 aka Tatler people.

2015, if people hold their nerve, will be the Year of the Beast;  the cops are at last investigating the doings in Dolphin Close and elsewhere, alarm bells are ringing in the royal palaces and in the houses of parliament and in masonic lodges up and down the land   and no matter how much the ghastly old dame, Butler-Schloss,  bitches about it, victim dog will have his day, be sure of it;  the times are askew, if  a  drunken chancer like Sid Farage can come within an inch of parliament,  then a regiment of angry nonce victims will out their tormentors. 

A peer in a spiv suit.

The entire weight -  political, judicial, ecclesiastical  and financial - of Power will attempt to crush this insurrection; we are theirs, after all, are we not, to fuck as they please, by  some secretive, Masonic, corporate droit de seigneur and the slithering,  hissing Tebbits and the bristling Brittans, the bent cops, the noncing peers, the beasting judges, they will all  move Heaven and Earth to silence Truth and Decency.  They always have and they always will.  And right at the top of the beastpile, keeping it going nicely, pulling the deadly strings, is this gang, 


with its nods and winks, knowing whispers,  secret handshakes and categorical denials.


Hanging, it's too good for them.

RESERVED, THE HOUSE OF WINDSOR.