SOMEBODY'S HAVIN' A LAFF.

One of  the issues raised by Lord Sewel's exposure 



is that his nobleness was  once connected to NATO and his character and behaviour may, now revealed,  present a security risk.  

This is the same NATO which hosted  George ArseFace



as secretery general, hot on the heels of the Dunblane outrage, with which he had nothing to do, and if he did it was all above board, him signing a firearms license  application for the killer, Thomas Hamilton.  

But no worries, the papers are sealed for another 85 years or so. To protect the innocent. Alhough it's the innocent who are all dead and only the guilty, therefore, who need protecting.

SKY NEWS ON THE BBC. THE CYCLING BLUES.

This is the Six o clock news from the PBC, with me, Martine Thicko 

and the top story in the world is that a British man has won the Tour de France, twice, despite being soaked in FrogPiss, thrown at him by,well, Frog spectators. Cycling is of course owned by Sky News and we don't know very much about. But I am joined here in the studio  to discuss this major news story by Rolling Stone, Sir Keith Richard. Sir Keith, what's your take, as a cyclist,  on the great news from France?

Oh, wow, man, like when me an' Ronnie are on stage it's like weaving, man, 

you kno-o-o-ow, weaving the Blues, in and out, like, phew, wow, man,  it's like 

 
knit one, purl one.....
or is that knitting, man......?

That's great, Sir Keith, but what about the cycling news?

Cycling, man? Oh, wow, man, I don't do cycling,

 that was just a photo shoot, there was cats like holding me up, bin airbrushed out. 

No, I get, like,  chauffeured around, y'know, man? 

In a life-support vehicle. With defibulator-shit and adrenaline and oxygen and lawyers,  Oh, man, gotta have lawyers, man, in this life.  There was this cat, man, Warren Zevon, he was a junky, man; like who isn't, yeah?  But he wrote this great song, Send Lawyers, Guns and Money, The Shit Has Fit The Fan, it was called.  Oh yeah, me an' Sir Mick, 

we tried to copy it into somethin' else, man, like we do,  like, that's how it goes, man,  with the blues, rich cats like us rip-off poor cats that ain't lawyered-up but, like,  Zevon was a proper musician.....you kno-o-o-ow.......trained by some classical cat, namea Stravinsky  or something. Oh, wow, man,  like, you know,  some days I can't even remember my own name, how'm I s'posed to know who some cat was who taught some other cat his chops, man ....and it was, like too advanced for us, so we didn't.  If we hadda managed to copy that shit, man, it woulda been Send Lawyers, Guns and Money AND Life Support Equipment. That woulda been cool, you know? That's my trip, copying stuff.  I copied Ry Cooder back in the 'sixties  and I been getting rich off it ever since. But cycling, no,  I don't do cycling, man, that's crazy shit. But I see where you're coming from, babe. It's like the cyclist,  man, doing his thing, he like does the same thing over and over and over again, it's like being in a groove,  that pedalling shit, right?  Too much, man, too fucking much. But that's what we do, in the Rolling Stones, right,  play that stuff just over and over and over and over; Brown Sugar, Hinky Pink Women, Satisfaction, yeah, babe, there's loadsa the fucking things,  an' we been playing them for half a fucking century. Most times, on stage,  I don't even play 'em no more, we have this banda guys, offstage, where you can't see 'em, they do all that shit. It's just not my thing, man, not my gig.  Fuck, man, 
 
you seen the state a my hands. 
That's some heavy shit, man, that old age.
 
No, what I do do is like, I don't do that playin' shit, I  prowl the stage, bending down and then kinda standin' up, with a Telcaster  around my neck, making like gestures with my arm, man, doin' the Old Geezer Blues, but like in a spiritual manner, like all them old blues guys. 
Only they were poor.
And they had the Blues.
   

But what about him doing it twice, this cycling chap?

Doin' it twice?  I already told you, man, we musta done it a million times.......

And what about the allegations that he was on drugs?

Drugs? 

Now you're like talkin' my language. What was it? Smack? Coke? Morphine?  Morphine's really cool shit, man. I hope he was on Sister Morphine.  Oh, man, I love this cycling cat, cycling all around France on Morphine.  It's a wonder, man, he didn't fall asleep, like I've been, for forty years.   

   

Donchoo, step on my blue suede shoes.

Or my lawyers'll come and kill you, man. 

Or my accountants. 
Or my security team.
Or my record company.

Wow, man, that Elvis, you kno-o-o-ow,  he was really, like,  where it was at.

That was Sir Keith Richard, there, talking with Maxine about cycling. Yes, I know, pathetic, the way we chase Sky. 
But at least we're not a public service broadcaster.

Over to the weather now, with Jayne Tits.

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL

 CHILD ABUSE DOWN THE COURTS.

Child of fifteen tried in the Old Bailey and convicted for inciting terror (talking to another child.)

Grown-ups inciting mega-uber-apocalyptical terror  let off Scot-free.

I simply say, that if you don't believe a wanky  old porno-drunk and psycho bullyboy like my friend, Alastair Dipso, well, history will judge you very harshly.

Hear-hear! hear-hear!
All  those in favour,  say: Kill the Wogs.
The Kill the Wogsers have it;
the Kill the Wogsers have it. 

Toldya, Tony, everybody loves a war.
As long as they're not the ones fighting.

The Crown Prosecution Service, which brought the charges when he was fourteen, said it did not know if the child had been raped by MPs or Peers but it didn't matter, he would still be prosecuted and they wouldn't.

  Noble beast not to be prosecuted.
Oh, alright then,
but just a little bit.

Mr Michael Spit, MP,  

the Obedience Seckatry,

 who is keen, on behalf of the MurdochPornoPress,  to restore hanging, said the boy was lucky to have received a trial at all, Justice is simply far too precious and expensive a commodity to be available to those who cannot afford it,  which is why I am turning the Courts into Free Courts, of course the judges and the police and the prosecutors will still be paid, especially if they are Tory MPs,  moonlighting, it's just that as we, quite propery, in my view, phase-out legal aid, the defence solicitors will be required to work for free; free schools for Toby Young's mutant children, and free courts for poor people to defend themselves. In my judgement  these are  vital reforms and will play very well among the people who are, quite frankly, in my judgement, fed up with paying for unnecessary things like courts.  seems eminently clear to me that if a population is properly obedient to its govament there should be no need for courts

If during the course of the parliament, my good friend, the prime minister, who sacked me but only for election purposes,   requires me to serve as Health Seckatry, I will dedicate myself to creating a Free NHS, one in which staff, apart from higher management, are expected to work more or less for free, or certainly pay-rise free and I say this as a punctilious grammarian, who should know that  the proper, adverbial coinage is freely, not for free, but doesn't. 

Ten per cent pay rise for myself? Oh, I think you'll find that is very quickly eaten-up in daily costs. No, I don't pay for food or housing or transport or energy or correspondence or clothing but a hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year is, for someone of my stature, more of a beggars' pittance than an appropriate emolument. Sometimes, you know,  I feel as though  I am working for free. 
If my wife, Sarah Scumsucker, 

 

wasn't working so hard for the Daily Redneck, licking shit from Lord Rothermere's noble anus, I don't quite know how we'd manage. But, no, this child, just because he's underage doesn't mean we should treat him like a child, does it?

 I mean, all are equal before the law, aren't they? Apart from those grown rich of course, on someone else's labour, whom it is my sacred  duty to protect.

Obama's elderly houseboy, 

Dr Bob Zimmerman,
 once reflected in an extended, demotic satire that: 
 if my thought dreams could be seen,
 they'd prob'ly put my head in ay guillotine .....

You and me, both, Bob, and all of us: who among us has not fantasised Wickedness, Mayhem and Murder; life, like M. Guaguin said, being what it is, one dreams of Vengeance and  to use the eavesdropped fantasies of a fourteen-year old to put him up at the Old Bailey, and probably in prison, seems to me the mark of a paranoid and  punitve society. It seems to me, further, that the more unwholesome  our elites, the more we become the thing we hate, Bob Dylan, for instance, is now become Satan's Jokerman and in our case,  we flee from human rights and the presumption of Gentleness nto the harsh arms of Sharia law.

But there is more to this black farce than meets the eye, for only since Whisky Maggie's time have politicians become  such  unanimous, unquestioning supporters of child cruelty,
in the Treasury, 

The bukkake chancellor's Big Box Of Child Poverty


at Chequers,

Two Yorkshire jokers.

  in Dolphin Square,



 in the Welsh Office or in the Old Bailey.

This kid, last week, he  needed a good talking-to and the setting of a good example; to put him in the dock,  is Satan's work. 
But then, that IS  what they do.

If the kid is jailed, Sarah Gove will screech for her readers that it is not for long enough and  FatboyPaul Staines will want him hanged. The news caravan will shit and move on, while another child rots in our jails. 


The news caravan does move on, that's why News is called News, tomorrow or the day after, however much News it was, it no longer matters. Thus, if anyone might reasonably suggest that since Billy Bum, here, is out of office, isn't it time to move on, I would reply, Yep, that's what they rely on, the News becomes old and forgotten. But it shouldn't, rather, we shouldn't let it. If we remembered Margarte Thatcher's crimes, and Tony Blair's, even a fraction as much as we remember Belsen, how much better the world would be..

MR TINY SPEAKER IN THE SHIT, AGAIN.

Having fought off a  typ[ically cowardly, underhanded  pre-election coup attempt by Lord William PrettyBoys  Miscarriages


Aye, thumbs up, 'e bangs like a shithouse door in a gale, does young Chris;  although we only share a bed t'save money, like. Give a right good after dinner speech I do, round Chris's ringpiece; nowt s'queer as folk, 'appen yer right, 'appen yer right, lad.

and Michael Spit, 

failed grammarian and now Obedience Seckatry

Mr Tiny Speaker is now under attack by some gang of impudent, redneck, Fawkesians. 

Fans of Paul Drunken Fatso Staines,
 of the Daily Rupert, 


Get my daughters' tits our for Page Three? 
Phwoar, that's proper news. 
A libertarian and his facial hair. 
Bless.

a bunch of pushy totties and snorting spivs  claims to represent all of us.
 

It is all an obscene waste of taxpayers' money, 
whatever it is.

Somebody from Trade Descriptions  should smack this cunt in the gob, repeatedly, whilst advising him: 
You. 
Smack. 
Do.
 Smack. 
Not. 
Smack. 
Represent. 
Smack.
Taxpayers. 
Smack. 
You. 
Smack. 
Cheeky. 
Smack.
Fucking. 
Smack.
Bastard. 
And. 
Nor.
Smack.
 Does.
 Smack.
 This. 
Smack.
 Stupid.
Smack.
Fucking.
Smack
Bitch.

In order to "give taxpayers more of a voice in the corridors of power,"
what they need is more of me on the telly, annoying people, with my stuttering, airhead stupidity.

The TPA actually speaks for a whole forty thousand or so people out of a taxpayer base of, well, every grown-up in the land and lots of them abroad, say forty million, conservatively;  that is a vanishingly small fraction of one per cent of taxpayers, some alliance, eh?  One could even say that it doesn't speak for anyone, save JCB Plant Manufacturers, some shadowy tax dodgers and an elderly, dwindling  cohort of angry, red-faced,  right-wing, Nazi  masturbators from order-order and the Filth-O-Graph,  the sort of people that even Poundland would eject from its rallies.  Nevertheless, one of these cunts starts babbling and MediaMinster is there like a whipped dog.

Andy Mutant of the TPA in one of those nice Farage PimpCoats, being all serious, the prat.
 Taxes? No, course there shouldn't be any.  Just a rip-off, that's all they are. And I speak for a tiny, tiny handful of people who dohwannapayany.

The latest cri de couer patriotique from NaziLand is that Mr Tiny Speaker is taking us all for a ride.


Well, it's all very well, even a shade picquant - is picquant a word, Andrew? - having sex with a dwarf on an orange box but it palls after a while, having to lift him up and down all the time. His cousin's only a foot shorter than me, so he manages by sort of hopping-up on one leg.
Knee-trembler anyone?  
Applicants must be six foot six.

 
The Speaker's Lecture:

Tits'n'Ass in British political history.

It seems that the depths of extravagance are now plumbed by Mr Tiny Speaker going places by car.  In his role as the Speaker of the United Kingdom's House of fucking Commons,  Mr Gob from the so-called TPA insists that John Bercow, MP,  should travel by mini-cab, driven,  probably, by an angry UKIPPER or a non-English-speaking Pakistani, like they have in Redditch, where, if you get in the cab while the driver is praying, as he does all the time he's parked-up, you can be in BigShit.

Mr Tiny Speaker is probably the only MP whose time is filled with official business engagements, representing the parliament at a host of functions and - maybe for egotistical reasons -  the Miniature One has vastly expanded the workload of his office with speaking engagements and lectures, 

 

Open all hours. 

some of which are studies in UpMyArseism, featuring the likes of the vile  Nonce Protector General Lord David Steel of Cyril Smithland, praise-singing himself,  some of which may have firmer purpose among younger students of these things;  however bumptious he may seem, the Wee Man  at least takes his role far more seriously and works much harder than did his predecessors, luminaries such as Thieving Gorbals Mick, 

Betty Dancing Girl Boothroyd


 and Viscount TonyNonce. 
  
suspected of,  in proper parliamentary fashion,  
raping a nine-year old. Nine year old boy, of course, nothing perverted, like raping a nine-year old girl.

Among this crew, Mr Tiny Speaker is a model of propriety, industry and balance and at least,  unlike Prince Andy, the Bastard's Bastard, Mr Tiny Speaker doesn't fly to golf matches in my helicopters.

ye

Look lively, there, got a teenager to grope.
 Yes, keep the engine running.

 It  seems entirely right to me that Bercow travels in relative comfort and security, mindful of other demands on his time and in the scheme of things these sums are trifling. I do not know how the TPA clowns  think the Speaker should travel, maybe he should thumb a lift, when he's representing the United Kingdom parliament; it might be fiitting, considering the state of penury to which the Bukkake Chancellor has brought us.

 Of course it is all made-up nonsense, nothing to see here, pomp and ceremony and the doings of the legislature have their costs. And if it is the entitlementistas who irk Andy Silvester and Ms Chakratotty they may want to re-focus, if they  want to pronounce on an obscene waste of money, maybe thet could start where the rest of us proper taxpayers  start.

STREETS OF LONDON.

The Filth-O-Graph, no longer having any writers, these days runs lots of pictures of cars and there is a feature, today, showing all manner  of vulgar, expensive vehicles,

 

 parked all over Knightsbridge and Kensington with parking tickets on them; 

the owners are mainly Saudi filth,

 summer holidaying in London, 

home of child vice and money laundering. 

 

Sheikh bin LadyFlogger, it seems, and his stone-age manners, is annoying those few remaining Brits who live in the area, the ones who recently voted Albino.

Vote for me,

and I'll give you a good seeing-to.

Boris, of course, is their part-time mayor, part-time MP and full-time Filth-O-Graph columnist and cannot be expected to concern himself with the Metropolis being overrun by Arab criminals driving shockingly gaudy Rolls Royces. 

These parking tickets, however, are in the amount of a hundred and thirty pounds  - a  sum which, to the funders of 9/11, of the Bush family, of al Quaida, of  the Jonathan  Aitken Spanking Company, of British Aerospace, of Queen  Brenda's Nags and now of the ISIL HeadChopping Brigade, is utterly meaningless.

Boris should approach  these ghastly raghead louts and say, 

Now, look here,  Prince bin BumFuck, and you other chaps, this is a rum do, this  jolly old parking caper, what? Not really playing the White Man, is it, old bean? How would it be if we raised the parking ticket price, just for Saudi  Royalty, like yourselves, to ten million pounds? Do you think that would make you lot act like civilised chappies? And failure to pay, on the proverbial spot, as it were, in readies,  would mean a thousand lashes, on St Stephen's Green, broadcast live, on good old Telegraph subscription TeeVee. 

It's what you do at home, to bloggers and such like, you filthy fucking  barbarians.

 

A Saudi blogger-flogging.

 You could always, of course, stay in your own sandy shithole  kingdom, buggering each others nephews and watching Top  Gear, with old Clarkson and his creepy bumboys, or flying-in Ronnie O'Sullivan and some snooker scruffs to play exhibition matches for you. And that would be the best place for you, racing your pink Ferraris round a heap of camel dung, like the wealthy savages you are.

 Oh and while you're at it, old chap, be a good fellow and  take some of those Russian gangster chaps with you. London for the, er... umm...Londonish, that's my new motto, for when I'm prime minister.