THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL. ROYAL JELLY; DEATH IN MARYLEBONE; A PARTY OF PRINCIPLE; A CRISIS IN BROADCASTING; THE MINISTRY OF WAR; THE YELLOW FIELD MARSHAL.

WHAT THE 'PAPERS SAY.
SAXE-COBURG-GOTHA NOT REALLY A GERMAN NAME. 


It strikes deep into the heart of every redfaced, blustering, sclerotic, rentagob, hack patriot in Fleet Street, writes Simon Heffer, back ranting4cash in the Filth-O-Graph, that the Daily Rupert accuses our most sovereign and gracious lady monarch, Brunhilde,  of being of Hermannish extraction. Old Edwardian scholar-historians, such as mr ishmael, mr jgm2 and myself, weary ourselves, unrewarded, explaining to our fellows that just because a family of benefits scroungers IS  German, it doesn't logically follow that its members ARE German.


  I do not venture for a moment that if Mr Dusky Patel, from one of the former colonies, changes his name to, for argument's sake, Windsor, he is any the less a nig-nog and he and his family in perpetuity are certainly not entitled to a life of unimaginably luxurious beasting funded by what I understand to be known as the Social. Where we are speaking, however, of Her Serene Highness, Brunhilde - who may yet find it in her royal heart to dub me Sir FatFuck Heffer, of Why-Oh-Why-isms -
it is clear that her especialness entirely absolves her from any charges that her family were Nazi sympathisers.



 Even though they were.



Living in the Metropolis, as one does during the week,  one hears that the magnificence  which is Ruritania uber Alles is saddened by the vile exposure of its treasured family archive to the ridicule and misinterpretation of the uhwashed throng, a collective which should, given Her Majesty's long record of unstinting parasitism, be ashamed of itself. 

  The publication by a newspaper of photographic imagery showing Her Most Royal Serene and Exemplary Benevolence playing at stormtroopers
 

 is an unwarranted and one might aver treasonous intrusion into the childhood of our dutiful and self-sacrificing monarch. One wonders if the editor of the Rupert is aware that Her Majesty was annointed by God, Himself, to rule over us, and if He doesn't give a fuck about her being a Nazi, then how dare the Sun? Who knows where it will all end? Perhaps the Rupert will fabricate pictures of Queen Brunhilde's grandson in Nazi drag 


or even suggest that Her Majesty  was less than kind to the vixen, Diana, who, streetwise and trollopy, lured our future King,  Brian Bonkers, from his rightful and royal place, between the legs of a married army strumpet, our soon-to-be Queen,  FagAsh Lil.



I raise my glass, which, naturally, someone else paid for, to Her Majesty.


A conscientious public servant who is no more German than a Volkswagen Beetle.

None of the above   is to say that I would never write my scholarly commentaries for the Sun. Offered a befitting emolumentary package with customary benefits, I might be persuaded to defend, in its own column,  the Sun's position vis a vis splenetic, unfounded, muck-raking innuendo and hypocrisy; it is, after all,  a field of endeavour in which I can modestly claim some distinction. But let us not forget, gentle reader, that principled self-sacrifice such as mine

 
 
 and Queen Brunhilde's does not come cheap. And that is why my employers, Mr Barclay and Mr Barclay, owners of the august and respected Filth-O-Graph, are so keen to charge you for reading this online, moronic  tripe, even though it is already splattered with revenue-generating advertisements, soft-pornography and rubbish quizes about cars and fuckwit celebrities. 
Were I you, I wouldn't bother.




Next week: 
Why a pathetic, social-climbing,  egalitarian classicist-historian-philosopher such as I prostitutes himself writing this drivel just to pay the school fees of my own brats.

THE STRANGE DIET OF JUNKY GEORGE

I am not alone, here, in espying something rotten and unnatural in Her Majesty's Chancellor of the Exchequer and Second Lord of the Cabinet. 

 
There is something uniquely unsavoury and off-putting about his complexion, his speech and his posture.

 
 Hiss and cackle as he may, pulling figures from thin air and haltingly lying his arse off, he seems to operate from within an aura of industrial-strength Sin.

I read stories, in the nineteen-eighties, about Mark Almond of Soft Cell,

 one of those gay, guitarless ensembles which then  littered the pop landscape, screechy little voices and nasty synthesiser

 noises, producing songs of falsetto grievance and nightclub betrayal. 
There were coachloads of such monsters, back then, Boy George, Adam Ant, Gary Newman and that horrid, pretentious  duo, the Pet Shop Boys; wasn't their sexual practices I objected to, just the dire soullessness of their product. 

One of the stories, anyway, related to Almond making a legitimate lifestyle choice and going on a cocksucking binge only having to have his stomach pumped, not for barbiturates, like a proper entertainer, but for sperm.

It is a mark of my sheltered existence that, happily, I don't know if there is a point at which ingested random ejaculates become indigestible and toxic - mr verge, our literature transgresif scholar,  might know, young men feasting on sperm sounds Burroughsian to me;  a sperm vomitariun probably being an absolute necessity, darling, for the discerning pervert seeking a move up the property ladder  -  but, like Osborne,   he was always a sickly-looking little bastard, Almond and the story might be true. Doesn't matter, it may be what we call an urban myth but it is impervious to mind bleach and so  it remains  true in my own damaged mind;  thirty  years on it still makes my gorge rise and my imagination falter and implode, disgusting little  monster.

Almond, himself, in this fable of degenerate, toilet cubicle gourmandising, has been  replaced, in my imagination, substituted by Junky George Osborne, 

 

who often appears to me to have sperm running through his veins, applied to his face and hands and - such is his tight-lipped disdain - threatening to dribble from his mouth. In the recent budget speech, his voice continually cracked and creaked and seemed to spontaneously rise an octave, as though he had been deepthroating the brigade of Guards to the point of tonsilectomy.

I don't know, there is just something so deeply unwholesome about Gideon Osborne. And in the Bully Boys 'photos he pouts and poses,  so louche and decadent.

lll

 

 BoJo and HamFace just look like what they are, rich but not-very-bright prats, the sons of rich prats; George, though, looks like he's in a whole different kind of secret society.

It's not just me,  who finds something odd about this squeaky, innumerate weirdo, but I don't think his abuse substance of choice is booze. 

Like young parent, Gordon Snot,

 clunking-down his nail-shredded Claw of Doom, 

 
 metronoming his lunacy, 
his sol-you-shuns, his crazed Right Things For The Country, 
Osborne has a manic darkness to him, so pronounced that it is almost irrelevant that he, like Snotty, stands at the Despatch Box gibbering fantasy figures, his debt pay-down  as fanciful and entirely meaningless as were Snotty's tractor production statistics.
  

Well, just because I have borrowed more money - squeak - and printed more money than anyone in history  -squeak and cough - and either pissed it up the wall or given it to criminals with whom I was at school - squeak -  it doesn't mean that I haven't brought the debt down. 
Even though I haven't.

I think that people like these have an office, somewhere, locked, wherein they indulge in whatever is their vice,  Brown's, I am sure, was furious masturbation, so extreme and habitualised that it  developed in him that strange, dry-wank jaw drop, 


here

 
and here

which so characterised his proclamations of  moral compassery, the mad bastard. I almost felt for him, when he felt compelled to marry Sarah Gob and breed with her, instead of sitting in his private place, judderingly wanking himself nearly to death.

mr tdg used to say that Brown could not be both patient and agent, needed treatment and I surmise that he would say the same about Gideon-George.  
But then, round where mr tdg lives, 

Death by railings in Marylebone.

people hurl themselves from windows onto spiked railings, so maybe his views on therapy differ from mine. They would, wouldn't they, if, looking out, over breakfast you regularly  saw somebody impaled on your neighbours' railings.

I have stopped, anyway, watching Osborne; the vision of the Chancellor of the Exchequer cooking the national books from inside a Spunk Apocalypse is too  much, even for me.
Perhaps, with his predecessor, Snotty, he could enter a symbiotic relationship, as it sayeth in the Book of Sons of the Manse: Lo, and Chancellor shall squirt spunk onto Chancellor.
 Maybe Osborne,  hello-sailoring, whoosabigboying in the spunk palaces of MediaMinster, maybe he'll drown, his lungs heaving and gasping, flooded with the seminal fluid of strangers.


LABOUR NEWS.

Well, said a grim-faced  Andy Bubbles of North Staffs and NHS Privatisations, it's all very well, letting people vote for a leader but not if they vote for Jeremy Corbyn, that's taking democracy to absurd lengths, people voting for who they want. I mean,  look, let's get real for a minute here,  we're  both Oxford men


 anmd with him, David, with Jeremy, we might even win the election.  With a Labour man in charge. And that would just so undermine all the hard work done by people like m'self and Tony Blair and Lord Peter Mandelson - Pete, I call him, 'cos I'm from the North -  to make Labour truly a party of the rich scroungers, rather than the poor ones.

 I would even go so far as to say he's actually 

a Labour politician;  imagine one a them, David, leading the Labour party, even being prime minister, like that Gnasher woman is, in Scotland. He hasn't even got a proper top hat, Jeremy,  how would he address a member of the royal family, without a proper top hat? 
And quite frankly, as I'm sure the Ice-Pixie 


See me and my husband, Ed the PianoMan, the tax payers paid for both of our fairy dells, and when we swapped them around they paid for them again, that's why I understand ordinary human people so well and why I should be leader and tell them what's best for them.

and the barren slapper in the  bright lipstick 

 
Labour's Liz.

will agree.  I mean, do you now what,  David, she may not have any kids or anything, nothing going for her apart from  her big gob but she's better than Jeremy Corbyn, he's the very last sort of person we want in charge; we are, after all,  Tories, aren't we, like yourself, David ? And jolly good ones, too, better than that impostor, Cameron.  I mean, David, let me just remind you and the viewers, he hasn't even tried to bring in ID cards and ninety days' detention and the shooting of strikers and prisoners. Like we did. And a fifty-pee rise in the old age wotsaname.

All in it together,
like ferrets in a sack.

OTHER LABOUR NEWS
JACK TORTURE ON THE PERILS OF FREEDOM.

Thief, torturer, warmonger and traitor, Jack Torture, despite, or maybe because of his recent disgraceful behaviour, is chairing the full and far-reaching dismantling of the Freedom of Information Act.


 The man who lied his poxy arse off to the UN hissed that he was minded to say that he had been mistaken in allowing the citizen even limited access to state papers. 

 
 I am minded to say, as a lawyer and a former home seckatry, torture seckatry, war seckatry, leader of the house and keeper of the paperclips, as well as being a distinguished Labour Northern MP for organised racist child sexual abuse and vote-rigging that had I been minded to be more judicious in my framing of the FOI Act, there wouldn't have been one and obviously it would have been a criminal offence for anyone to reveal my interview, in my parliamentary office, by Channel Four, for a position as a corporate whore misusing my former position and contacts to commit crimes against people and nations, bringing parliament into even greater contempt than that in which it is already held, if that is possible.  As it is,  my elevation to having business premises in the House of Lords, there to entertain any filth who can afford me, to free meals and drinks paid for by the taxpayer is likely to be a little delayed, possibly for a year ior two, at great inconvenience to myself and my clients. 


I charge something like five thousand pounds a day.
The case for Upagainstthewallmotherfuckerism is, in Straw, made inarguably.

I am minded to say that having only been paid a six-figure sum for thirty years, plus every conceivable expense, plus food, clothing, travel to work, servants, vehicles and properties, as well as  a superior pension and employment opportunities for my family, that I now need proper money and it is, therefore,  a singularly disappointing outcome that people have learned of my outrageous criminal dishonesty, not to mention the war crimes and the torture, the lying, the bragging, the sexual hounding of a young Labour MP and any other minor errors which a busy public servant such as myself inevitably makes in the diligent exercise of his criminalities, I mean public duties. No, if it wasn't for this absurd notion that citizens had rights to information I would be earning my due reward, standing outside,  under parliament's red light, with my trousers down.


Ruritanian Labour. 
What a cunt that Straw is.

 

My son, Will, the drug dealer?
Well, I am minded to say that the voters got it wrong.
We'll just have to find him a safe seat, one in which the voters do as they're told. It is, I must say, unthinkable that the son of a distinguished crime family like mine should not be prominent in the legislature.
That'll be five thousand pounds, please. 


POUNDLAND TO RUN BBC.

Mr Sid Poundland, leader of the Monster Raving Loony Party Nouvelle,  today joined the debate on the future  of institutionalised paedophilia in the UK. Talking to Andy Jock Neil, Sid expounded on the problems facing the BBC.

To be quite frank with you, Andrew, it's simply not good enough, nig-nogs and gippoes, coming over here, listening to the Archers and watching EastEnders, without ever having bought a TeeVee license. I mean, it may be vile, hysterical anti-social rubbish, the Archers and EastEnders, cultural pap, churned-out by our family-hating  friends in the Jewish-homosexualist community,  of whom, Andrew, I might say, there are many in my party and I have nothing against them as long as they vote for me. 

 I mean, I'm a red-blooded Englishman and I travel the country, rather like yourself, Andrew - although you're not quite English,  are you - feeling the arses of younger women


an elderly journalist relaxing 

and they tell me that  if you had forty or fifty Rumanians, squatting outside your apartment in Mayfair, drinking cider and masturbating while watching Strictly Come dancing on stolen iPads and cheering their bearded, scruffy heads off in a foreign language, I put it to you, Andrew, that you wouldn't be best pleased, I know I wouldn't.

 And I could've made a good deal more money had I stayed in the City, instead of dedicating my life to being an arsehole, Andrew, like you, a media slut.

Well, you say that. But our figures show that wherever there are forty or fifty Rumanians living in a small house next door to you, they tend to watch SkySports, 

in which,  viewers will know, I have millions of pounds worth of shares, in exchange for which  I was destroying trade unionism and helping Mr Murdoch sexually commodify the teenagers of Britain. Oh, yes, nighty-night teenage Page Three girls  of Britain and don't let Kelvin McKenzie bite your nipples off.

I mean, I, Andrew Neil,  am the inventor of modern British journalism.
 Paved the way for people like Kelvin, I did.

And for teenage tits at breakfast and the objectification of schoolgirls.

And for human shit like this.

Who would have thought it, and me just a grammarschool boy who went to Glasgow University,
The Godfather of Filth.
Amazing when you think of it, without me there might have been no Millie Dowler.  Before me, sex with schoolgirls was, at best, a bit naff. Kelvin and the Sun changed all that.

But you haven't answered my question: I put it to you, Sid Farage, why shouldn't a seasoned journalist, who went to Glasgow University, by the way, and helped pollute the entire British newspaper industry and who is a disgusting old playboy, 

why shouldn't he be Director General of the BBC?  I mean, he likes 'em young, young, but legal. And there's a very big difference.

Well Andrew, lessbeclearaboutthis, as we said in our manifesto, written by that woman, who wants my job, 

 
(both sing) If UKIP Suzy, like I Kip Suzy...


what we want to do is put the British back in British and unfortunately what is happening in your own homeland means that very soon you may no longer be British yourself and under a UKIP govament, led by me, ineligible to serve in the British Broadcasting Corporation.



But I am the BBC's Mr Politics, me and Mick Portillo and that old bin, JoCo, how dare you say I am unfit?

 
Well, Andrew, 
to be quite frank, Jimmy Savile was the BBC's Mr Fix-It, and Mr Gary Glitter was the BBC's Children's Entertainer; Mr Rolf Harris was the BBC's Lovable Mr Aussie and Mr Stuart Hall was the BBC's Mr Compere; 
being the BBC's Mr Anything is not exactly a guarantee of personal probity, now, is it? And let's face it, you are a vile old bully, a tart, a greedy bastard, a preposterous, wig-wearing narcissist,  a repulsive egotist and your personal life is a bit unwholesome, 



rather like politics itself, in fact, so I can see where you're coming from with the Mr Politics thing  but  quite frankly, given the above, given your age, your close association with Thatcher and Murdoch, it might be in your own best interests to step-down, before people start asking questions about you.

SWAMPY AIRBORNE

That Serena Williams, stabbed her sister in the back, she did, simply can't be trusted.   Like I said about Ed Miliband.

Nothing against black lesbians, me, wouldn't mind watching them in a catfight - don't misunderstand me, I am a devout electoral Christian - but I wouldn't expect my men to serve under them. Under them in the military sense, the etiquette of which, as with most things,  I am an expert in..... or on, is it in or on, being an expert. If they wanted to serve under them in a shall we say, SubDom BDSM fashion well, that's fine, as long as they are off- duty. We are a broad church in the Tory party. Whip and let whip, that's our motto, in the child molestation suites of Westminster.

 No, I'm alright, took m'pills well in advance.

 I  cannot readily recall a decent defence secretary, decent at his job or even  just decent and Swampy fails to meet either criteria. Not much competition, I know; all the way back to Mike Biscuits they have been stupid, incompetent and boorish, mad keen to get other people killed.

Here's some of them.

Bob Ainsworth

Des Browne

Big John Reid

Geoff Hoon, QC and thief.

Lord Robertson of Dunblane

Phil Hammond

Malcolm Shouty 

 John Flounce 

Mick Portillo

And Lord Mike Biscuits,

mad as a fucking hatter.

What a fucking shower.

Greece, it's right here. 

We attack at dawn. 

Whaddayamean, we got no planes?

Why has no-one brought this to my attention?

He loves it, being Defence seckatry.

 But they better not let him in the regimental mess.

Here'swhat the Tory-supporting Filth-O|-Graph had to say about his expenses 

By Jon Swaine

10:00AM BST 21 May 2009

Mr Fallon, the deputy chairman of the Treasury select committee, claimed for the mortgage repayments on his Westminster flat in their entirety. MPs are only allowed to claim for interest charges.

Between 2002 and 2004, Mr Fallon regularly claimed £1,255 per month in capital repayments and interest, rather than the £700-£800 for the interest component alone. After his error was noticed by staff in the Commons fees office in September 2004, he said: 


“Why has no one brought this to my attention before?” 
Someone else's fault, eh, Mick?

Mr Fallon, the MP for Sevenoaks, who fiercely criticised the excesses of bankers earlier this year, repaid £2,200 of the over-claim. However, he was allowed to offset the remaining £6,100 against his allowance.

After realising they had failed to notice the excessive claims, Commons staff suggested that Mr Fallon submit fresh claims which would “reassign” the surplus payments to other costs he had legitimately incurred.

One official said Mr Fallon should claim for fees he paid when he bought the flat, in south-west London, months earlier.

In an email, the official wrote: “There was also no claim by Mr Fallon for his purchase costs i.e. stamp duty, solicitors fees, land search etc. This may be something to bear in mind”.
The MP retrospectively claimed £3,521 for legal fees and hundreds more for mortgage interest charges and utility bills — all personally authorised by the head of the fees office. Mr Fallon had previously claimed £1,000 a month in second home expenses to rent a property in Pimlico, south west London.

Mr Fallon said: “This was an inadvertent mistake for which I accept responsibility. The fees office proposed that the overpayment should be offset by other claims.” 
So that's alright then.

The MP said that all his other claims “were routine costs properly authorised and allowable at the time”. 

He began making the excessive claims after buying the Westminster flat for £243,000 in June 2002 and designating it as his second home.
Various other household expenses he claimed for after September 2004 included a £250 per month cleaning bill, which Mr Fallon reduced from £300 after being asked for a receipt.
At the time, MPs did not need to provide receipts for claims up to £250. In a letter to the fees office in March 2005, he said: “My cleaner has never provided receipts”. 

Why is it that we pay someone - if they actually existed - to clean-up after this bumptious arsehole? Is he disabled, incapable of duting and hoovering, or is he just a cheeky cunt?

In May 2005, he claimed £499 for a television, £69.50 for a digital box and £35 for a radio. Mr Fallon sold the flat in December 2006 for £295,000, making a profit of £52,000. He claimed £1,774.50 in legal fees relating to the sale. In the two months before the sale, he claimed £126 for boiler repairs, £170 for repairs to bathroom tiles, £282 for electrical repairs and £225 for carpet cleaning.
He then bought another flat in Westminster for £728,000. Soon after moving in, he claimed £1,795 for a bed, - two grand for a fucking bed - £1,500 for curtains and almost £1,000 for a freezer, washer-dryer and deep cleaner. The claim for the bed was reduced to £1,000. 

He then began claiming the interest on the mortgage for his new flat, which came to about £2,100 per month — almost three times as much as at his previous property. Mr Fallon also shares a large house in his Kent constituency with his wife, Wendy. The house, which the couple bought in 1997, is about 28 miles away from Westminster. It is not mortgaged.
Mr Fallon is also paid as a director of three companies. His salary from one, a money broker, is reportedly £45,000. He also pays his wife from his taxpayer-funded office expenses to work as his secretary.
He is expected to become chairman of the Treasury committee when its present chairman, John McFall, steps down at the general election. 
Course he is, just what you need scrutinising the Treasury, some bloated, blustering sticky-fingers, like Fallon

 Mick Fallon made fifty-two-grand profit on a flat which we bought him as part of his job and despite us paying for his hoovering we paid him three hundred quid a month for a notional cleaner;  he's a lazy fucking bastard or a crook and probably both, he was bunging his Mrs and moonlighting;  that must be what right honourable means.

Michael Fallon
Job: backbench Conservative MP
Salary: £64,766
Total second home claims
2004-05: £16,825
2005-06: £16,882
2006-07: £22,110 
2007-08: £22,853

Mick, anyway, wants us to bomb somewhere,;judging by his record, somebody'll be paying him  for this big want.  Mick's judgement will be foisted on us  as being in the national interest but it won't be,  he has no record whatsoever of acting in the national interest and he ain't gonna start now. If he gets his way, lots of innocent people will be killed and to no purpose, any strategic situation into which Mick Fallon enters will deteriorate, he is a greedy, lazy, braying, thieving  Tory fuckpig of the worst kind.

 He lived within travelling distance of London, a journey which millions make daily and yet, declining to travel with his fellows, too important,  he managed to fiddle  from us a property portfolio, whilst at the same time, working for another employer.

Mick Fallon followed the usual route to the Commons, worked as a parliamentary researcher until he'd sucked  enough shit from enough arses   to earn a safe seat and he now lectures us as though we were backward, slackers, in need of his no-nonsense, thieving, lying, cheating approach to life.

If I was in the forces and they put this piece of shit in charge of me I would mutiny.  Servicefolk will die because this arsehole wants to throw his weight around, to bully, to lecture, to cynically misrepresent, as he did with Miliband. I hope someone has the dirt on him, the real dirt; somebody like Swampy,  there's bound to be something worse than expenses, my money would be on a dose of the Liam Fox Pox, you know, the more macho the Tory, the more pretty the boyfriend-on-expenses, William Hague-style.

There's no traction in the current fuss about a handful of RAF pilots bombing Syria but give him enough time and Swampy's vile bombast and stupidity will see him back on the backbenches, fiddling his exes, like he does.

 

Greedy Bastard calling Base, Geedy Batard calling Base. 
Are your receiving ? Over.

ROGUE FIELD MARSHAL REFUSES TO STEP DOWN.

This is Huw Welshman, here, with the Six o'clock news, from the PBC where our top story is that, following-on from the death of  former party leader, Sir Charles Dipso, the humiliation of Mr Clegg and the rout of almost the entire party, a new leader has been selected, Tim somebody 

A leader from BarrelScrapingsRUs 

but the LibDems' arch strategist, Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown, is clinging like a fucking limpet, look you, to his delusion of national, indeed, international  power and influence and has denied that he is planning to step down as de facto leader of the ShitEaters  and commit suicide, as anyone else would, if they had any decency, which he doesn't. 


Field Marshal still in charge.

Critics - ie everybody in the country - have said that his part in the coalition, his showboating and particularly, look you, isn't it, his leadership of the election campaign 

 
Go back to your constituencies and prepare to eat your hats.
And die of alcohol-induced  brain haemorrhages

were all an unmitigated disaster,  a monumental, shit-brained catastrophe, which saw the party wiped-out, it's senior cadre,  people like Straight Simon Hughes, 

It was me or the homos

and the homos have spoken.

out on his sexually ecumenical arse; 

 Danny FatBoy Alexander, 

 

Chief Seckatry to the mens locker room.

now rumoured to be seeking a return  to his old job, as snowshoes monitor in the Cairngorms National Park, which is about all he was ever fit for; 

 

Dr Vince Cable, also known, unaffectionately, as the Fox-trotting Nitwit, 

Vote for me, dearie, there's a good old girl,
one-two-three, one-two-three

sent packing  and now this, former leader, Sir Charles Dipso, has lost not only his seat but the will to fucking live. What, remaining Liberals are asking, 

is this prat, Ashdown, good for?  
We can eat shit, 

piss on each other, 


go to jail for perjury, 


molest children 
and shoot dogs without his help.

 
Earlier I put that question to Field Marshal Ashdown, as he was taking a break from flogging his batman.

Now look, Huw, he said, gazing, steely-eyed, with his thousand-yards stare, 
 
 into distant threats which mere voters  cannot see, now look,  I simpy cannot  understand people expecting me to kill myself.  My performance as general election  CO was truly extraordinary, from having over fifty seats in parliament, we now have eight, well, eight at the moment, second lieutenant Clegg might yet do the decent thing, and my esteemed Caledonian colleague, private Big Al Carmichael, may also find himself court martialled,  making six.  But six is still a very good base from which to march purposefully, watchful and disciplined, mind, into Oblivion, our - might I say - natural territory, on which we perform best.

No, let me finish, because this is very important, and also because I'm a shocking bully. As an international statesman, warrior, philosopher, political scientist, humanitarian, theologian, economist and TeeVee personality I am uniquely qualified to lead the party I helped found back into it's rightful place. Into  the Wilderness of Toilets.

Quite simply, put so that the ordinary viewers at home, in their ordinary houses, leading their ordinary lives will understand, Huw, the party needs me now more than ever, as does the country, ordinary people really need chaps like m'self, to look up to;  y'know, heroes ......

 But some might say, isn't it, look you, your lordship, begging the Field Marshal's pardon, that you have done quite enough for the party and the country, what with the coalition and everything;  hard, in fact, to see quite what the fuck else you might do to what's left of it, a handful of disgruntled misfits. And that a military leader who has failed as badly as you have, look you, traditionally falls on his sword, isn't it. 

Well, quite frankly, as you know, Huw, that's absolute poppycock,


yes, and balderdash, and stuff and nonsense.  I am not being immodest when I say that I am the greatest election strategist in history and it is crucial that I remain at the helm, reminding people of my uniquely distinguished record of public service to my party and my country, to, may I say, the entire world

This Fallon chappie, is it Fallon, 

 
Farrow, somesuch? 

He's a sound fellow but only basically an adjutant. Oh, I will allow him the illusion of Leadership, after all, as an international statesman I have little need of titles per se, that's latin, by the way, Huw, we military men can be cultured,  too. What, what does it mean? What, per se? Haven't a fucking clue, how should I know? Ask the Education Officer, you'll find him on rthe other side of the parade ground  Never mind a poxy  Field Marshal's baton, I should be Commander-in-Chief of the world. Shirley Williams? Never heard of her.  So shut up and fuck off or it'll be the firing squad for you, my lad. By the centre-left, Quick March. 

You'd think that anyone who had fucked-up as badly, so conceitedly, so arrogantly  as Ashdown would just slink away and spend his last days  dropping  his pants  with any passing secretary, bound to be some old bags'd give him one, if he can manage it. But no, shameless to the end, he blusters away, I Know Besting. 

If Tim Somebdoy has anything about him he'll send Ashdown to join the Chelsea Pensioners, in quiet retirement; mind you, if he had anything about him, he wouldn't be in the ShitEaters, would he?


Elsewhere, in the Gardening Section, 

Mad Monty Don tells us how we can grow our own ethics but warns that they won'e be as earnest or sincere as his


Are you the Queen? If you are I am delighted, in an ethical sort of way, to meet you.

  and National Treasure, and regular ishmaelite,  Alan Titmarsh tells us how he went from being a gardener to being a friend of the royals,

I say, who IS this appalling, 
grovelling little prole?
Is he off the television?

 writing books, hosting afternnon chat shows  for barmy old women and presenting  the BBC Proms. Once.

In the Cookery Section,
How TeeVee cooks can damage your health.
Heston Wotsisname,
that mad bastard
 
 shows how to build a simple nuclear reactor
 in order to produce the perfect brandy snap
for your kid's birthday party

Ring a ring o' neutrons,
A pocket full of positrons
A-fission, A-Fission,
We all fall down.