Wednesday 29 April 2015


Albert Pierrepoint was the last great British executioner.  He was so good at what he did that for the Nuremberg hangings he was commissioned into the British Army as a lieutenant-colonel and sent out to hang the Nazis - the ones that weren't any good to the Russians or the Yanks, anyway.

Uncle Sam's necktie artistes were so inept, with their cowboy nooses, that they were either strangling Hermann to death, with shit and eyballs everywhere, or ripping his fucking head off completely. The Limey hangman demonstrated to them the finer points of his trade, despatching the Hermanns neatly and swiftly, ripping-off not even one Kraut head

 Pierrepoint came from a family of hangmen, his Da' and his uncle had been the official executioners for both England &Wales and Ireland, when we still owned her and Albert assisted them both, learning, forgive me, the ropes and when he  inherited the official executioner post and the little case containing the notes and tables on hanging and the deadly little noose he  made a steady living travelling the British Isles, killing people.

He was very adroit, Albert.  He kind of boasted that he would enter the condemned cell as the clock began to strike eight and his client would be dead before the eighth peal of the bell. The condemned cell door would swing open, Morning, old chap, he'd say, grasping the prisoner's hand and quickly walking him to the trap-door in the adjacent cell, the Topping Shop, pinioning his arms as they walked; once on the trap-door Albert's assistant would strap the man's legs together whilst Albert pulled a hood over his head, the assistant would draw back the safety catch on the trap-door and Albert would step back pulling the lever as he went.  The poor bastard never knew what was happening and in most cases died instantly, Albert having carefully calculated the length of his drop by means of reference to  Home Office tables compiled over many decades and by means of his own hangman's eye.  Having, the previous evening,  surreptitiously viewed the man through the Judas hole  in the cell door, Albert would minutely adjust the home office recommendations depending upon the idiosyncracies of each victim's musculature, if he was five feet eight with a thick neck and shoulders  he would need a longer drop than a five feet eight man of slight build. In nearly all of Albert's executions the spinal cord was severed at exactly the right vertebrae to cause instantaneous death.  Just the same, they'd leave him or her hanging there for an hour whilst Albert, the prison Governor  and his guests all went and had a hearty breakfast;  hungry work, hanging. Even so, if, before Abolition, you had been sentenced to death I am sure you would have paid good money to have Albert doing the business for you.

Those horrid, snarling little brown bastards in Indonesia, the ones with too many teeth in their mouths, those ugly little monsters could do with an Albert Pierrepoint, to help them execute people humaneley, well, less inhumanely. Gotta be more economical, too,  one hangman, one fee, one breakast.  I don't know if each of the eight executionees had their own firing squad, all to themselves but if they did that's ninety-six of the little brown bastards  and  nearly a hundred bullets. I was going to say that these shootings have put me in touch with my inner Farage, made me hate every last little angry brown bastard in Indonesia  but I guess he'd applaud the Indonesians' death penalty as being a litle corner of a foreign field that is forever England.

 I don't know what it was, today, why this particular obscenity shook me so  but a huge, red rage overtook me.  If there was an Indonesian charge d'affaires' gaff here, I'd have set fire to it and happily  beaten the diplomats to death, calling them rotten little brown bastards as I did so, cursing their rotten little brown bastard parents and their rotten little brown bastard children. And don't start me about how the NHS would be fucked sideways to Christmas if it wasn't for Indonesian arse-wipers.  I don't care, I don't want to be nursed or tended by nasty, angry little brown bastards, beardy women and angry,  conceited men, fuck 'em.

I read a lot about Pierepoint when I was younger   and was struck not by his humanity, that would be ridiculous, but by his efficiency;  he did that dire duty as well as it could be done and that included sparing the condemned as much distress as was possible, given the circumstances, and sparing him a slow, painful and probably unimaginably humiliating death.  

With these  brown bastards, it is the savagery of the process as much as the cruelty of the fact - shooting someone for something he did a decade ago, when he was someone else -  some poor smallfry, dragging him, screaming,  to a post or a wall, taking aim, firing and then checking that a dozen rounds have done the trick, and all whilst government and lawnforcement cartels grow rich on the continued absurdity of the War on Drugs - the Indonesians are planning to shoot a British granny for handling  three or four kilos of smack, I wonder how many kilos young parent, Sir Elton John consumed, when he was playing-up, Elt; of course, a rich junkie, was soireed in Downing Street, Granny a poor mule, will be shot to pieces.

Little Big Man
President Nasty Little Brown Bastard.
 Hanging's too good for them, Indonesians. Another  Boxing Day Tsunami, that's what they need, 
the last one taught them nothing.

Friday 17 April 2015


Mr Thomas B Hall commented on the last post that he was content to support a tiny, electorally insignificant and hopeless but uncompromising political party. Dave Nellist was the last MediaMinster politician for whom I had any respect and on the couple of occasions on which we spoke he struck me as gracious and sincere. Too gracious for the cunt, Kinnock, who, enraged by Nellist's only taking from his MP's salary the same wage as a skilled worker in his Coventry constituency, had him deselected.

 I post this broadcast not to proselytise but just in case others missed it, which would not be surprising, although I will say that I wish Dave and his comrades well, they should be neither insignificant nor hopeless. 

 Tearful Tommy Sheridan destroyed the left in  Scotland, snorting it away with cocaine bought from  party members' subscriptions, and Gorgeous George Galloway has pimped it away in England; maybe, in providing a collectivist's counterpoint to Poundland's lurid, discordant singularity Dave Nellist may yet, though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, rattle the cages of the unGodly. 

Thursday 16 April 2015


Waddawewant? Anal rape.
Whendowewannit? In the next Cleggalition.
Clegg supporters at the launch of  his party's ShitBook, yesterday.

My fellow child molesters,

All Cyril did was assault some children; what's so bad about that? Dave Boy Steel, former Chief Shitman.

my fellow shit-eaters,
 ShitParty copraphiliac shadow home secretary, 
Mark Oaten.
 look, I've eaten so much teenage fecal matter
 it's made my hair fall out.
How so Liberal is that?

my fellow wealthy benefit cheats,
 So I only stole fifty grand because I was gay and I didn't want my parents to know. ShitParty Education minister and ShitBook author, Dave Laws. 
So yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow jailbirds,
 Yes, I deeply regret it, being found out. 
Former ShitParty energy minister, Chris Huhne, 
writing in the Guardian,
 on wife-bullying and perverting the course of justice.
And on claiming twenty grand of taxpayer pounds when his criminality forced him out of the Cabinet, as they call organised crime's HQ.
Yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow incompetents,
The building contractors' friend, 
Lord Boy Steel-Shitman, 
presided over the Holyrood parliament building costs rising from fifty million pounds,
 to five hundred million pounds, half a billion fucking pounds for a talking shop.
It was a foreign architect, said  adulterer, Steel, Liberally; 
what do you expect from foreigners? 
Yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow gropers, grabbers and bottom fingerers,
Mike Hairy Hancock, CBE,  ShitParty Portsmouth MP, 
where he molested every constituent he encountered.
 Now believed to be standing  as a Groping Independent.

my fellow dipsomaniacs,
Charlie Pisshead, deeply principled former Chief Shitman and TeeVee non-personality, courageously  admitted to incompetence and unsuitability  through alcohol addiction a full ninety seconds  before his former aide was to blow the whistle on him.

my fellow raving lunatics

Field Marshal Lord Paddy Rupert-Golightly-Jockstrap-Narcissus, PC; VC, Croix de Guerre, Congressional Medal of Honour;
Nobel laureate, Oscar winner;
former Commanding Officer, Queen's Own Shitmen Regiment;
war hero, visionary, historian, distinguished statesman, orator, writer, philosopher, economist,  theologist,
TeeVee personality, adulterer and steely-eyed delusional maniac.

Delirious, stark, staring, raving, dribbling, foot-stomping, door-punching, climbing the walls bonkers, is Paddy; raging, unhinged, preposterous, rabid, demented, frantic, Napoleonic, gibbering out of his mind, mad as a box of fucking frogs;  Paddy is the ShitParty Election Supremo; how can it lose?

and last but not least, sickening hypocrites.

Straight Simon Hughes, 
warty, pervy,  bisexual queerbasher; liar, ponce, pseudo-Christian, cynical polytheist and all-round creepily untrustworthy bastard;  the ShitParty's justice minister.

What I say to you, all my colleagues, in the parliamentary party. And those several dozens of members and activists up and down the country, in the nation's public conveniences. What I say to you. Is this. 

Has it been  easy for me, a lifelong Tory, to lead my party into coalition with other lifelong Tories. Yes, of course it has.

And the nation should give me credit for doing the easy thing.   Not the hard thing, it's easy to do the hard thing. Not everyone would have done it the easy way. Some would have stood on their principles. And let the Tories fall, within a few months. But not me.  

Did I desperately want to be Deputy Tory Prime Minister?  Of course I did. It's what I came into politics for. I'd rather have been Tory prime minister. But we all have to make sacrifices. And I am sure the voters will give me credit for it. Has it been easy to pretend  that I'm not a Tory? Yes, of course it has. The main thing is that I have been in govament. And that I have managed  to keep the Tory faith, whilst destroying the prospects of you Liberals ever being taken seriously again.

Did I ever doubt what we were doing to Britain, throwing sick people out of their homes because they had an extra broom cupboard, where they kept their wheelchairs or dialysis machines? No, of course not.

People will know that as Tories our manifesto is our solemn word to the British people that we can be relied upon to break our every pledge, piss on our every promise and betray our every principle, not that we have any. And this one offers people the stark choice of me being in Downing Street, shafting poor people

 or him

 or him

People ask me if this election is about one thing and one thing only.
 Of course it is.

Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

Wednesday 15 April 2015


I thought UKIP Suzy was great. I promise, I was not watching the Poundland manifesto show, it was just on, mrs ishmael having watched Breakfast TeeVee with her breakfast and departed, heedless of  my discomfort. It doesn't matter how often I complain that I don't care what they say, about anything, she insists on telling me what they've just said about the latest scandal, abduction, health or fashion fad, although, this morning she was also bemoaning their clumsy language- what do they mean, ahead of the election?

It was still on, anyway, as I carefully prepared my  spinach and soya breakfast roulade and I couldn't help but be struck at how comprehensive and entirely  achievable were her remedies for the nations ills.

All we have to do is leave the EU and we'll all be fully-costed millionaires, tended by a superior health service in public ownership, guarded by the best army since the Roman Empire and best of all NO WOGS.

 Suzy and Sid's Great Book of Shite.

Well, to be honest  with you,  and although Suzanne has done a great job making-up my manifesto for me, we don't actually mean no wogs, we want the right sort of wogs.
No, no racists in my party, absolutely none.
And just to prove it I will, quite frankly, let's be honest, do you know what, close the show with a little cabaret, dedicated to the many black members of my party. 
They've been a bit noisy today but that's just the way they are. 
Have to shout to be heard in the jungle, where they come from. 
Anyway, a-one-two-three......

If U-Kip Suzy, like I-kip Suzy,
Oh, Oh, Oh what a gal.

She was very good, I thought, UKIP Suzy, as these things go, especially on foreign aid and cutting ministries but  most especially when compared to Sid, himself, who looked and sounded knackered.

The sharpest televisual contrast of this morning, however, was not between Suzy and Sid but between Suzy and Nick Clegg.  If you saw and heard someone, down the library, say, if you still had one, ranting like NickClegg was, you'd contact the Community Psychiatric Nurse, if you still had one.

I know she's just another hustler, Suzy, but she made a good fist of it this morning.  
Sid must be hoping she doesn't shove it up his arse.