ZORBA NEWS. THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE.

EuroGranny, Christine LaVache, 
currently Chief Gobster of the Bankers' Protection Union 

 

is proving to be more embarrassing  even than was Neil Kinnock, during his tenure at the European Tough of Earthly Delights. 

 

 Lord and Lady Kinnock, 

hard at work on behalf ot the people

All animals are equal,
some more equal than others.

Neil and his ghastly  old baggage, wotsername, Glenda, Gladys, Glenys, grabbed every Euro that wasn't nailed-down, shamelessly exploiting their expenses, claiming that as long as it was legal it was alright, alright, alright,  noble, even, socialist, didn't they come from the Valleys, and weren't they just as entitled to trough-it-up  as the rest  of them. The grunting swine of  Animal Farm made flesh, the  greedy Kinnocks and a vivid illustration of what was to come from  NewLabour, if only people had seen it. 
Never mind. 

Meantime, Boyo and his Bint  are running their various business interests from the House of Lords, with letterheads paid for by you and I, lavish entertaining facilities and offices and stationery paid for by you and I. 

 

 A pair of grubby, idle, inbred taffies,
 stepping-out.

That 'andbag, love, the one on yer arm, you didn't by some totally and utterly, and completely and comprehensively and entirely, totally and completely unlucky oversight pay for it yourself, did you?  Because you don't 'ave to. Pay for anything. Claim it on expenses or something. Yer married to me, don't forget, the man who gave the Labour party, the La-a-ay- ber party, not only Lord Mandelstein but Tony Blair, too. And John Major. We should never 'ave to pay for anything again.

Calm down, Neil. We don't

 We must just hope that age and infirmity bring them terror and pain. That's what I call rock'n'roll, piles and ulcers, stoma bags, injections, bullying nurses and smirking consultants , impatient relatives.  And Sergeant Death  crooning in their ears, his irresistible bidding prayer, Oh, Lady, lay your jewels aside, no more to glory in their pride, tarrying here there is no way, your time has come that you must away, and you must come to play.  Is an anxious, pained and fearful death something to wish on another? Well, not usually, certainly not,  but you have to make exceptions for special people  like Neil and Glenys  and better that Humility's correction comes even on the Deathbed, than not at all.

Anyway, that's my prayers said  for this morning; the lines are from My Name Is Death, by the Incredible String Band; uplifting, beautiful and energising in a strange way, despite their darkness and fatalism. Rather like mr bungalow bill's lonely, hopeless and guilty Early Music music.  I was glad  to come, I'll be sad to leave, but while I'm here, gonna have me a real good time.  Not sure who that was, Rod Stewart, Frankie Miller, maybe; les mots justes, in any event. 

Christine, though, was one of the dwarf, Sarkozy's, ooh-la-la babes ancien 
 
tottering about in some Republican ministerial position until the New York cops framed the then head of the IMF, 



Dominic Strauss Cock,
a legendary  Frog philanderer,  on rape charges;  he had to resign  from the IMF and the svelte, if wrinkly Christine stepped-up a la plat.  Just as well, because shortly thereafter Sarko was kicked-out of office  and she wouild have lost that job.

 Dominc's misfortune was a blessing for Christine and the since her appointment to what was his job she now totters about promoting Austerity and Colonisation  - punishment of the poor and sick by people like Junky George Osborne, famously saying, theatrically, the old tart,

  that she shivered, brrr-brrr,  at the thought of a relaxation of Tory/DogShooter economic policy. 

 

 'Ow else are les banquers felonistes to recoup their losses tres misfortunette, eef not by stealing from ze citizen, Non?

Apres moi...

(sings)

A-B-C, easy as Doh-Re-me, 1-2-3, A-B-C,

zats 'ow easy economics can be.

We all jus' 'ave to steal from ze poor, zey vil do nothink about it,

zey never do.

All together now, Encore...

(sings again) 

A-B-C, easy as Doh-Re-me, 1-2-3, A-B-C,

zats 'ow easy economics can be.

She's an utter cunt, Christine, ghastly, an entirely unprincipled career opportunist  and Satan will review her CV with great interest.

 

Christine la Vache qui rit.

Yesterday, the stupid cow was pontificating  on the matter of le Resistance a la Grecque.  Here's what she said, regarding the theft of Greece:   

"There will be no quick and dirty deal for Greece, we have rules, we have principles. There can be no half-baked program review."

Oddly, in, 2010,  she said this, about her masters' fates:
"....the Greek and Irish bailouts were major transgressions......we violate all the rules because we wanted to close ranks and save the Euro...."

And on the matter of transgression, Christine faces charges in the French courts that, whilst a minister, she surreptitiously funnelled large amounts of taxpayer money to a known criminal.
Her crookedness was widely discussed, even while she was in French government but we must expect that now she will enjoy the protection afforded most serious criminals and the charges will disappear. 
As a matter of principle.

Crooks, cheats, filthsters, whores, pimps, ponces, slags, exortionists, blackmailers, money-launderers, warmongers, drug addicts  and child molesters.  Shouldn't we be having a referendum, organised by ourselves, on the urgent matter of stringing these fuckers up? All of them.

My young friend, stanislav, ever urged the cause of UpAgainstTheWallMotherFuckerism.  
Need to be the Great Wall of fucking China, to accommodate all these vermin.

INSIDE THE MUSEUM. BBC Panorama on state terrorism.

Blair is tangentially in the frame, again, this time over his infamous Peace Proh-cess in Northern Ireland, the one which made heroic public servants of sadistic serial killers, torturers and incest wallahs, while telling their victims to just shut up, be quiet and fuck off.

Panorama, PBC 1, tonight, shone a light on British state-terrorism, throughout what we obediently euphemise as The Troubles; on countless murders perpetrated, by both factions, with the connivance and encouragement of the army and the more shadowy security services. A farrago of deliberately botched investigations, lost evidence and cover-ups protected the murderers of civilians and police officers, Republicans and Loyalists alike. Bizarrely, a weapon used in a multiple murder and long since claimed disappeared has been found on display in the Impetial War Museum. You'd lol out loud at this spectacular cack-handedness, as long as you weren't a young boy who'd seen his father killed by that weapon and endured a subsequent  lifetime of having his questions  stonewalled, obfuscated and rejected. He was one of many, bereaved and bewildered; one man, who had survived eighteen gunshot wounds in the mass murder of his workmates was told, over decades, that the case papers had been lost, burned, flooded, stolen, contaminated  with asbestos but had now, thirty-nine years after his ordeal, reappeared. You'd need a heart of stone, not to weep for him.

Blair, of course, and his arsemen,  glorying in themselves, pampered and protected, told all these poor people to fuck off, wrote comfort letters to their tormentors and declared peace where none was. As mr bungalow bill quietly raged on the previous commentary: " A psychopathic narcissist who persuades himself, from moment to moment, that whatever he says to suit his mood and interests must be the very truth."

It would need a huge shift in most people's ethical framework to make noble the early release of torturers and arsonists and murderers, not only that but to blanket-pardon any and all offences and then to permit the entry to government of sadistic, savage criminal masterminds, like Adams and McGuinness. Better war than peace at such a price.

mr bungalow bill continues to note that many if not most of those who voted for Blair would  now queue-up to strangle him with their bare hands. I suspect and hope that the lustre still clinging to the  so-called peace proh-cess -actually a surrendering to Terror - will dim and that all those cynically pardoned, largely by NewLabour, are charged and if guilty convicted and imprisoned. and that thus,  for those so cruelly and bitterly betrayed by the state, there may be Salvation, after a while.

SPORTS NEWS. BLAIR TO HEAD THIEFA.

This is Huw Welshman with the Six o Clock News from the PBC, where the top story is that former prime minister,

 

 Tony and Imelda Blair,  
is to step down from his role as Peacemaker to the World and assume the presidency of THIEFA,  the governing body of the world's organised crime syndicate of  bullies, crooks, knucklehead morons and gang rapists, other wise known as football.  Here's what he had to say.

Peepul of football. I simply say. My role as peacemaker is done. The world has never had.  So much peace. Especially in   Iraq.  Where I have succeeded.  Beyond my wildest. Expectations.  Syria, too.  Thanks to my efforts. Is now at peace.  The Palestinian question. Is now resolved.  

 

 Rabbi Blair.

And where one Israeli is killed, then quite rightly five hundred Palestinian children forfeit their lives, under masonry or tank tracks, doesn't matter, it's their  way of contributing  to Peace and stability in the region. And who would deny them that?

 

As it says in the scriptures, five hundred eyes for an eye. Fair's fair. And I'm known as a fair man, Oi Vay. 
And  Have a Negilah Day.

 My friend Benjamin Netanyahu. And my other friend. Wotsisname, the raghead bloke?   They enjoy a warm and constructive peaceful war.  Which sees their respective one and one-not  nation states not co-operating like never before.  

Thanks to my efforts with the late Mr Gadaffi, is it Gadaffi, Gaddafffi,  fucked if I know, but you know who I mean.  The gentleman who, as a result of my global statesmanship, had a scaffold pole rammed up his jacksie and his corpse violated by nig-nogs.  Gosh, I hope that doesn't  happen to anyone close to me. Like myself.  Better double my security guard. 'Sokay, the British taxpayer foots that bill. Quite right, too.

 

 Don't get much more peaceful transitions than that. Thanks to that, my initiative, things can only get better. My Gaddafi intervention. And I think it speaks for itself. People. Many thousands of people. Are leaving Libya daily. To seek a new life.

 

  At the bottom of the Mediterranean.  

 In Iraq, where once there was brutality - as well as the very real threat of Weapons of Mass Destruction, made-up by my friend, Porno-Al

 Alright, it was all made-up. So fucking what?

What's a few million roasted wogs?

What? Don't you dare call me racist.

And vote Labour. You stupid cunts.

- there is now a widening sense of peace and civilised democratic governance,

as the Blair Peace Revolution sweeps over the Middle East.

And Egypt, too, after the Arab Spring, is now firmly in the hands of an exceptionally peace-conscious brutal miltary dictatorship which executes its opponents by the hundreds.

Now is not the time for soundbites. But I feel I might pat myself on the back and say, the Middle East and North Africa, aflame, now, for decades.

 

 JobDone.

I always said that I wanted to do more with my life than promote division, greed, war and torture and so now, as I retire as WarMaker-in-Chief, I look for further challenges, further opportunities to serve the common man.
 And what, frankly, can be more common than football?

 

Here's me, pretending to play it. With some wog children.
Yes, I know, they still have all their limbs but quite frankly, expecting me to maim all the world's wog children is a bit much.
Not as though I haven't done my best.

Mr Blatter has done a fine job, these past years, in promoting the timeless values of bribery and corruption but if I might say so, I am sure that I can do better.  The decision to award the World Cup to some stinking little Hellhole does urgently need to be revisited.  In my judgement, I feel that the raghead princes paid nowhere near enough to Mr Blatter and his colleagues but you can be sure that if they want to keep the fixture they will have to reimburse me rather more generously.  I mean, world statesmen don't come cheap, do they?  I think I can show the world's football lovers how the sport can be run for the benefit of everyone. But mainly me. And Lady Imelda of course. And I look forward to being of service.

The British General Election? Well, it was a bit of a disappointment but at least we got a majority, yes, I know, only thirteen but better than nothing.

Scotland? Yes, it looks as though I am vindicated there, too; I always knew that Devolution would break-up the Union.  And now it is.  My principals in Europe will be delighted.

Chilcott Enquiry?  What's that?

That'll be twenty-five thousands pounds, please, Huw. 

Yes, cheque to Imelda, as usual.

That was the prime minister for you there.  Talking Truth to Power. As usual.

NATIONALIST NEWS.

IRA COMES OUT OF THE CLOSET 

We always said  that these so-called HardMen of the Provisional IRA were actually all fairies; albeit down at the dark end of Enchantment's corridor.  Now Gerry the Nonce proclaims another branch of the family business. 

 Now, look youse, the Adams family, plc, Erin go bragh,  has always been deeply committed to murder, torture, kidnap, kneecapping,  burying-alive and especially to  covering-up the molestation of our niece by our brother, so we have, only testifying against him when there was no other option, so there wasn't. 

 But now, on this great and glorious day, when Ireland has  voted in favour of LadyManism as the one true faith, me and Deputy First Minister Kneecaps are happy to reveal that we were on Freedom's side all along, so we were, SinnFein always being deeply committed not only to cawn-flict resolution and the peace proh-cess but also to buggery and bondage on the streets of this land, rather than British troops, anyway, so we were.

In Glasgow, 

Mrs Gnasher of the Tribesmen took a break from calling for the crucifixion of Mr Big Al Carmichael 

  

to express the view that since the Irish Arse Referendum had resulted in a vote of sixty-forty in favour of gay people's Right To Be Straight the sovereign view, therefore, the sovereign will, the sovereign, inalienable  sovereignness of Ireland's voters, speaking as one voice, had declared that homosexuality be  punishable by death, as should be membership of any political party other than the Tribesmen. 

 Look, just because a majority of voters voted for something it  doesn't mean that they won, at least, that's not the way it works in Scotland.  Just because a majority of voters voted No to Independence, it doesn't mean that they have any right to thwart the settled, sovereign will of the minority, who quite rightly voted Yes. 

Still on the subject of Gerry, the IRA's pin-up Nonce, if he'd killed my elderly uncle and a trio of entirely innocent children I'd have, given the opportunity, 

 
  punched his horrid teeth down his fucking throat, the filthy fucking bastard.  
Wouldn't that have made the world smile?


The Carmichael caper is turning-out out be really unpleasant;  he lives here, his wife is Harris's vet, his kids go to school and Tribesmen are roaming the streets, calling for his head, waving placards calling him a liar.  The things we must endure, in order to realise a truly totalitarian, racist, one-party state.  Cunts, they are, all of them.

Sorry, been away, been a bit ill and have suffered a complete mental  breakdown at the hands of those nice people at Firefox, who creep in here while I'm asleep and fuck everything up. Update-ing, I believe they call it.

FROM THE WHITE HOUSE.

 My fellow Limey motherfuckers. I have today congratulated  your new President, Dave Whoosits, the barbecue guy, on beatin' the ass off the communists  and I extend to him and the Conservative people of Southern England my very best wishes for a long period of rioting, civil war  and nigger-shooting.
Cos that's what coming. 
Them four million nazis, they ain't gonna sit still fer all this shit.  I mean, four million a the sonsafuckingbitches voted for the final solution and they didden get but one congressman elected.
That'd be bad shit even here, in the land of the free.

 

I unnerstand, from Seckatry Kerry, yeah, the dude with the serial facelifts, yeah, and the big hair, yeah, and the phoney teeth, yeah, that guy, yeah, the one who got President Hillary Trouserses job, at State, yeah, 

Typical American girl-next-door, 
with a billion dollars to spend

so's she could go get her ass transplanted to her face, 


I wanna champion the liddel people.

in time for her turn, here, in the White House, yeah, that's right, with Spunky Bill, as First Lady, yeah, great days ahead. No, he don't smoke cee-gars no more, not after his heart by-pass, but I'm sure he'll find sumpn to amuse the young interns,  yeah, he coulda used legal Havanas now, shame, he's a helluva guy, Spunky Bill. An' you know what, my fellow Limey motherfuckers, here in the US of A, people're  plumb delighted  to death at the thought of there bein' a nasty old dyke, like my good friend Hills,  in the White House, hissin' an' spittin' an' hairpullin'. Yeah, a real psychobitch, like that one in the Scotch White House. Yeah, Nicky Gnasher, I know she's married, 


to that fat, pasty, sick-lookin'  guy, about seventy fuckin' years old, yeah, one foot in the grave,  who runs  the Tribesmen, yeah, an' she staggers about on them high heels, like she was in the whore business but fuck me Jesus, if that scrawny little bitch  ain't munchin' the  Tartan carpet my name ain't  Barak Hussein Obama.

 Talkin' awhich, as Seckatry Kerry was sayin', them Scotch niggers're all gay, dressin' up in skirts and paintin' each others assholes blue, I mean, c'mon, how fag is that?

An' Seckatry Kerry says, there's sixty  a them blue-ass fairies and diesels, all a-marchin' on the London White House right now, the Scotchmen elected sixty of 'em, to give my barbecue partner a hard time in the Limey Congress. Well, he got any sense, he'll open up a branch a Camp Guantanamo, down there, in the Isle of White, and rendit their blue Scotch fag asses down there for a bit of education, 'bout how democracy really works.  


     

I mean, special relationship's all very well, but not with a country run by cross-dressin ladymen, fuck no. You Limeys can rely on me, those fuckers start playing up an' Uncle Sam be over there an' sail the Sixth motherfuckin Fleet right up the fuckin' Clyde. See what them Scotchmen make a that nuclear deterrent. 

Fuck with  my Trident missiles? 

 I'll fry their fucking asses.

A UKIP EVENSONG. Jon Boden & The Remnant Kings perform "Hard Times of Old England" at Cec...

This is a protest song from the Napoleonic wars, when soldiers came home crippled, destitute and neglected and trade and employment, for most,  were depressed.  

The song has been kept alive by seven generations of the Copper family of Rottingdean and the version by the sixth or maybe fifth generation is my favourite, it can be found on their Topic album, Come, Write Me Down and on youtube.  The Coppers' family songbooks provided much of the material for the early days of the so-called British Folk Boom - Spencer the Rover, Banks of the Sweet Primroses, Lovely Nancy,  The Lark in the Morning, Babes in the Wood, The Honest Labourer, songs recorded by Fairport Convention, Steeleye Span, Nic Jones, The Strawbs, John Martyn and recently by the unspeakable, verminous Billy Bragg, among others.

Not for them, however, the gaudy life of showbusiness, up until recently they were all Suffolk agricultural workers and the current crop, I believe, work locally, a carpenter, a builder, a teacher,  I think, coming together to sing these old, family songs, with nothing but a tuning fork and a finger in the ear to help them.  

Scotland, for all its incessant gobbing about culture, has nothing to rival the Copper Family.

I had never heard this version or these performers until this evening, the song is abridged - the full lyric is below  - and the recording is poor; I find it charming, though, that a new generation keeps this stuff alive.

The Copper Family, however, for those who have the time, really are a national treasure.

Come all brother tradesmen that travel alone, 
O, pray come and tell me where the trade is all gone, 
Long time I have travelled and cannot find none, 
And it's O, the hard times of old England, 
In old England very hard times. 

Provisions you buy at the shop it is true, 
But if you've no money there's none there for you. 
So what's a poor man and his family to do? 
And it's O, the hard times of old England, 
In old England very hard times. 

 If you go to a shop and you ask for a job
 They will answer you there with a shake and a nod. 
That's enough to make a poor man to turn out and rob, 
And it's O, the hard times of old England, 
In old England very hard times. 

You will see the poor tradesmen a-walking the street
From morning till night for employment to seek. 
And scarcely they have any shoes to their feet,
And it's O, the hard times of old England, 
In old England very hard times. 

Our soldiers and sailors have just come from war, 
Been fighting for their King and their country sure, 
Come home to be starved better have stayed where they were, 
And it's O, the hard times of old England, 
In old England very hard times. 

 So now to conclude and to finish my song 
Let us hope that these hard times they will not last long. 
And I may soon have occasion to alter my song, 
And sing O, the good times of old England, 
In old England very good times.

WHEN YOU GOT NOTHIN', YOU GOT NOTHIN' TO LOSE.

The Chiltern Hundreds is about to get a couple  more applicants.  It's the mythical constituency to which members wishing to resign can be appointed Steward, the arseholes not technically being allowed to resign, just as they are not allowed to do, fuck, steal, bully, abuse, claim-for or lie about all manner of things.  The Chiltern hundreds is one of those entirely crooked procedures which maintains the myth of parliamentary honour.

Gordon Snot, having suffered the worst defeat ever, whilst retaining his own seat,  didn't bother with applying for the Chiltern Hundreds, he just continued to draw his salary and exes without turning-up for work.


Clegg, though, will want to be deploying his vast talents elsewhere than in the Commons, where he will be, deliciously, a figure of fun and hatred. He should go.


 Miliband has no elder statesmanship with which to pad-out his days and make interesting his comments from the backbenches, nor would he want to be looking at the back of Fat Alec Salmond's head, while he  performs for his  braying bumboys in the SNP. He should go.

Buy your cheap earthquakes here, 
they don't work but whaddayawant for fifty pee?

Mr FiftyPeeLand, Nige, well, he never even got elected so has nowhere officially to hide his shame, save by going off on the piss and hoping to come back to work when all is forgiven and forgotten, which it won't be. 

Not by  UKIP Suzi, anyway.

Brunhilde, Empress of FiftyPeeLand

LABOUR, WE NAME THE GUILTY.

Been a long time coming, this, ever since they tore up Clause Four, Labour has been heading to History's dustbin. Come now, I can hear people say, can't maintain that sort of nonsense in the modern day, people owning the means of production, distribution and exchange; well, if you can't or at least if you can't maintain the threat of it then we see what happens -  GlobaCorp, the post-capitalist gangsterism which privatises profits and nationalises losses, which pays no tax, which pays penury wages and which, now, is able to sue us if we don't allow them to steal from us such endeavours as remain in collective ownership, the NHS;  these are Blair's chickens come home to roost; Mandelstein's buffet of wealthy fairies, gone septic; Campbell's mendacious bullying, biting him in the arse and Brown's and Balllses bankers' prawn cocktails spewing-up, over their designer shirt fronts. The useless fuckwit - how dare anyone call him an itellectual - Miliband dutifully completed the rout of organised labour, much of it already sold-out by its union masters.  I remember that prat, six-figure Dave Prentiss, selling-out his members in exchange for a handshake with Blair, the Warwick Agreement, thay called ir, and I'm fucked if I know how anyone could call Len McFuck a leftie, him crowning Miliband, when there were other, better candidates around.

This, today, is their victory, NewLabour's and the union bosses'.  Fuck 'em, useless, scheming, traitorous bastards. This is Toilets Maguire's victory, a supposed socialist hack, sucking Murdoch's rank, ancient knob by night, waving a red flag by day in his shitawful newspaper.  This is Polly Toynbee's victory, the Guardian's victory, it is the victory of many of those sophisticated metrosexual tossers, who thought they knew better  the road to Jerusalem, even though their preferred destination was Rotherham-on-Sodom.

Look, I said it enough times,

apres moi, le deluge.

That'll be a hundred thousand pounds, please

and make the cheque out to Imelda, would you?

MY BIG FAT GIPSY GENERAL ELECTION BABY, SPECIAL REPORT.

ELECTION SPECIAL.
JOY IN RURITANIA.

This is Huw Welshman, here, with the Six O Clock News from the PBC. 

And the top story tonight, look you, is that Princess and Prince Gormless 

have been safely delivered of a baby girl, who will be  known by her adoring subjects as Her Royal Highness, Princess Kayleigh Demelza Chardonnay Gormless, isn't it.  

The birth increases the number of welfare claimants 

all belonging to the same, German immigrant family, and I should just tell viewers, look you, that  our 'photo shows only the tip,  as it were, of the benefits iceberg, the von Battenbergs of Windsor being very careful never to be photographed together, en masse, isn't it, look you, as it were, fucking hundreds of them, there are, all with uniforms and medals and palaces. All paid for by you and me. And if the nation saw them, all in one place, like, you'd all shit yourselves, bust a gut, you would. Never mind your disabled bastard neighbour, dozing behind his curtains, if you saw Brenda's extended family of ponces and pimps and prossies you'd be tearing-up paving slabs, just like proper citizens. And don't pay no mind to that crap about them being good value, only costing us a halfpenny each every decade, that's bollocks, all that, same with the tourism scam; France doesn't have a family of immigrant benefit cheats in the Elysee Palace and they have plenty of tourists.  Cut their fucking heads off, they did, the Frogs, isn't it, and about time we did the same thing, if you ask me, although no bastard ever does, just expect me to read out all this fucking rubbish every night 

gimme a MickeyMouse doctorate and expect me to keep quiet, 
look you, about all this fucking garbage I have to read out,
 off the autocue, written by some fucking teenager; 'snot easy, y'know, night after night, like.

But viewers should look on the bright side, we were going to bring you a report from our royal correspondent, Nicholas Knobcheese, 

hanging about the palace, like a broken-hearted,  old rent boy. 

But he's quite overcome by news of the royal birth, he is, fell down in a swoon, he did, daft old prat, dribbling about wanting to go to the Christening, about being a Godparent.  If you ask me, we should sack the pathetic, fawning old git and bring back Jenny No-Knickers.

 I mean, I know she's a mad old slapper but so're most of the royals, isn't it, look you.


 So in the absence of our royal correspondent we have this report for you, from  the unelected prime minister. And CallHimDaveBoyo was in celebratory mood about the latest burden on the nation's finances.

Now look. 
Lessbeclear about this.
 In a very real sense, this latest addition to the royal family pumps me right up, bloody right it does. I mean, firstly, there's the growth in employment, the further bloody growth, I should say, and yes I am excited, my govament having created ten hundred  million new jobs in just the last few months, more than in the rest of the entire world. Ever. Yeah! Too right! Way to go! 
Where's my hardhat and my hi-wotsaname vest? 
Oh, right, already got 'em on.


But I just wanna say,
 because it's really important.
 That like the rest of her family, Princess Kaley, Kaley, is it? No?  With a GH? As in Ghaley? No?  At the end? Kayleygh? No? And with an I? What the fuck sort of name is that?  Is it German, like them? No?  Kilo-Alpha-Yankee-Lima-Echo-India-Golf-Hotel? Kayleigh? Fuck me, wasswrong with a proper Christian name. Have they gone fucking Muslim, the Royals? Doesn't make my job any easier, if they have, I mean, not with Mr Poundland breathing down my neck, just imagine what he and the swivel-eyed loons would say about a raghead monarchy. I know I said it was time for a Muslim Tory prime minister, but a Muslim Queen Brenda, that's taking the piss a bit, never get that past the 1922 Committee.  But no, back to the Princess,  just think of the jobs, all those servants required to look after the little poppet, because her parents are too busy and important, dressing-up and what-have-you, nannies and cooks and nurses and servants and drivers and grooms and stableboys and chauffeurs and teachers, no, sorry, decent Tatler people don't have teachers, they have tutors, still turn out thick as pigshit, though,  and bodyguards and dressers and jewellers and hairdressers and I believe some of them have special employees to open the toothpaste and sort-of squeeze it out;  can be quite a distraction, that, squeezing one's own toothpaste when one is so terribly important and I think it is vitally important that we as a nation provide their Royal Highnesses with that type of employee. I mean, what a thing to have on your CV - squeezed toothpaste for Prince Brian, the idle fucking bastard. And what with the new arrival the employment figures are just gonna go up and up, 


look, there they go, me and my colleague, JunkyGeorge, simply cannot keep track of them. 

 Do you know what it is?  I'll tell you what it is, it's nothing short of a longtermeconomicplan and it proves that even though Ed Miliband caused the global financial collapse, something for which he still hasn't apologised to me, we, in my party, and perhaps with the help of Mr Poundland, this time, and the Ulster Undertakers Party, we stand ready to take the tough decisions necessary to fuck things up completely in an act of unparallelled, stupid, vengeful  class warfare, not seen since the Peterloo Massacre and carried out with great compassion by Field Marshal Duncan Smith, MA (Oxon)  whose mission is to completely destroy the welfare state and all of its clients - ie everybody but us.

But back to the royal birth. What we are witnessing is  what we in my party call a baby bounce.  
And lessbeclear, a baby bounce is a precise, scientific term which means that if people - quite foolishly - feel all gooey at the birth of yet another Ruritanian princess who's gonna shit in their faces while they cheer,  they'll vote for me.  Because of my dead son. Did I mention him?  So it's thanks to Baby Wossaname for getting me re-elected as prime minister. Yes, I know people say I was never elected prime minister in the first place but that's just talking the country down. And quite frankly, do you know what, the country made a judgement, did all the math, and, voting precisely, in effect as one man -  or woman, of course,  or lesbian, bisexual or transgenderperson or poofter, did I say poofter already,  living happily, if temporarily, in a Thanks2Dave GayMarriage, although not obviously in a churchy sense, unless the church wants to, of course, solemnise arse banditry, which I suspect it does, if the clergy are anything to go by - to put me in Downing Street with Mr Clegg as TeaBoy Without Portfolio

But let's get back to the real nitty-gritty, here, the jobs. Good quality menial, low-paid jobs, servant jobs,  which is just what we need in this country if we are ever going to become the favoured destination of tax-free organised crime.  Changing the nappies of other people's kids for a pittance.  Let me tell you, I hear this on the doorstep every day, and I don't mind saying that it pumps me right up; they say to me, Mr Prime Minister Dave, to an unemployed former teacher or nurse of firefighter, like me, laid-off as a result of punitive shitbrain zombie economics,  these sort of opportunities are simply too good to be missed, and they're all thanks to your  party having a longtermeconomicplan to impoverish everyone, apart from the foreign wealth creators, and the honourable and right honourable members of what that Ishmael chappie calls MediaMinster.  I think you'll find very genuine and sincere agreement across all the parties on that subject in a fine example of politicians burying their differences in the interests of themselves, I mean the nation.  And I think that's especially true when it comes to Mrs Gnasher, Leaderess of the Tribesmen.  Did you know, and this is a fact, honest, not invent, that she, as the first minister of that pretend parliament, is paid more than I am;  three grand a week, 'swhat we pay the shrieking wee monster. And her old man, he's the head kiltweaver of the SNP Party, on about a hundred grand a year.

 Quarter of a million quid a year between them, with exes and pensions to match.  

Why bother having bairns, when we're the parents of the nation?

Not exactly austerity in the Gnasher household. But nobody mentions that, up North. And in all honesty it's the Gnashers' own business that they don't have any children. Just saying.



As a parent, myself, a proper one,  I know how demanding the little blighters can be in those years before they're sent off to school and that's why it's best to pay some other bastard to do it, look after 'em. Did I tell you my son died and I love the NHS?  And so, lessbeclear, of course the happy Gormless parents'll need help but thankfully it is on hand in the persons of His Royal  HighGrandadness, 

Prince Brian and Countess FagAsh, 

I say, old thing, these Gormlesses, the one married to the waitress, and the ginger hooligan one, are they yours? Mine? Oh, Diana's?  Well,  one of them, anyway? That explains a lot.

in grandmama Queen Brenda and in Granpops Phil the Greek and of course in  great uncle, the Grand Old Duke of Nonce, 

Well, yes, of course I can get you an introduction to the new princess, but she's a bit young, even for us.
 
all of whom have had exemplary marriages  and been nigh-on perfect parents. Yes, yes, it will probably require the building of a few more palaces, can't have a princess without a palace or two, can we, with us all being in this together, but it'll be good for the construction industry. What? Council houses, for non-princess people to live in ? I should fucking co-co. Bastards'd only want to buy them, at a discount, like Mr and Mrs Gnasher Senior did.

Funny, how she's so opposed to the Right2Buy.

Wossat?  Bedroom tax? 

On Buckingham Palace and Saint James' and Windsor and Balmoral and Sandringham? No, no, fuck me, no; lessbeclear, the bedroom tax is only for those people occupying a publicly-owned property. Well, yes, the royal palaces are publicly-owned but it's not as though the royals don't need upwards of a hundred rooms each, is it, lessbefair; it's not as though they don't need the rooms.  I mean, where would they keep all the jewels and paintings 

if they didn't have vast empty palaces with hundreds of surplus rooms?  And where would they put-up their distinguished, tinpot, arsehole, headchopping, women-stoning, child molesting, coke-snorting guests

if we restricted their absolute right to have whatever they want?
It's not as though they're poor people or  sick people, cluttering up a perfectly good  - is it boxrooms, they call them? - cluttering up a perfectly good boxroom with wheelchairs  and dialysis machines, which, I should just point-out, these poor people  don't even own but borrow from the NHS. I should think that's a task for Field Marshal Duncan-Smith, finding-out if people with renal failure really do need dialysis machines, or whether they are taking advantage of their neighbours who do the decent thing and go to work. And pay taxes.  Don't get me wrong, I love the NHS, but I hate to see it abused by people who should really be working. Did I tell you about my son and the NHS?  Yes, I know Mr Snot banged-on shamelessly about his dead child, every time anyone mentioned the NHS but that's not what I'm doing, no way. I am simply saying that my child died young and that you, the hard-working families of this country, doing the right thing,  should vote for me out of sympathy. No, no, I know I have no sympathy for anyone else but that's not the point. And stop keep asking me why I am selling-off the good bits of the NHS to Mr Lansley's friends in America. They wouldn't like it. And, as of very soon, anyone who complains about them can be extradited. Just saying. Princess Kayleigh? No, she won't need the NHS;  some people's lives are just too precious to be left to the public sector.  Good enough for me, mind, but not good enough for the nation's premier benefits scroungers.


In this interview, Mr Cameron was asked,  where had Mr Gove gone?


Who?

Mr Gove, prime minister, the Chief Whip.

The Chief what?
Oh, yes, gotcha, now, noisy little oik, full of himself, could never shut him up, used to rant like a lunatic, spit flying everywhere, Michael Spit, yeah. Do you know what? I dunno where he is.
 Fucked if I know.

Gone on holiday, I shouldn't wonder. 
With his ghastly baggage of a wife.

 Yes, yes, I know when we sacked him, before he wrecked the education system completely, when we did that we said it was because I needed him to run the election for me and so even though he was demoted and took a paycut he could claim that he was actually being promoted to this grand Sevengali figure, is it Sevengali?  Maybe it's Machiavellus.  I dunno, I was away from Eton that day, lots of days actually but never mind. No, no idea what Michael Spit is up to.

Not a lot, I shouldn't think.


Mr Hague's the real chief whip. Oh, I know he's retired, covered in shit after his little coup against Mr Tiny Speaker went wrong but people do love him, 
a certain kind of people, anyway,
young, vulnerable and pretty men,
for instance.

But do you know what, 
I think the nation has moved-on from that odd couple 

And this one.

And this one.
No, let me make it quite clear that when I said Mr Coulson deserved a second chance I was only doing what Mr Murdoch told me.
And lessbefair, it's him I answer to.

That was the unelected prime minister, there for us, on the royal baby and on the right royal fuck-up he's made of the country.
And not just this country.

HMS Cameron, 
overloaded with refugees fleeing North Africa.


It has been truly fucking awful, this time, like in one of those Big Fat Gipsy Weddings, everywhere you look is a horror show, one grotesque colliding with another, talking shit, as though they could think in a straight line. Doesn't matter which branch of the festival they represent, hackslags, politicians or the people, they're all fucking retards, mutants, shouldn't be allowed to vote and saddle me with fucking thieving, child-molesting nincompoops. Anyone who votes in this farce should be stripped of their citizenship and sent to a labour camp.
  The only sane person I have seen was Peter Hitchens, poxing all their houses, praying for the death of the Tories, which would mean the death of Labour  and the possible emergence of  something better.
But not until afterwards.
I'd vote for him, even if he is mad.