THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL, WITH HUW WELSHMAN.

This is the six o'clock news, from the PBC,  with me,

 

 Huw Welshman, yes, yes, I know, the thinking woman's Richard Burton, but I'm actually a serioues journalist, so  let's forget about my cock and get straight on with tonight's show, and first up, top o' the bill,  is the prime minister, speaking live for us, here, on the PBC, from the steps of Downing Street, lesshearwodesgottasay,  Russia, it is, I believe, or Egypt, or some other bollocky fucking shitcorner  that he hasn't gotta fucking clue about, probly never heard of until five minutes ago, look you, isn't it, fucking moron.  An' now he's posturing, Cameron, all macho, like he was Alexander the fucking Great, although, they used to say, back in the valleys, when I was a lad, like,  that he were a brown-hatter, look you, Alexander the Great........and that Tom Jones fella, isn't it, him, too.

Well, yes, thassright, and lemmebeveryclear, I am just about to chair a meeting of COMA....Wossat?   What's COMA?  Well, COMA is a group of very important people, chaired, as I said, by myself, the most important people, or person, woddever, but I'm the Boss, anyway, and it is quite simply a gathering of the finest minds anywhere in MediaMinster, especially, if I may say so, my own.   Triple First from Oxford College, you know, least that's what pater paid for. Triple? Double, was it? It was, anyway, the best that stolen could buy.

Who are they? What, the people in COMA, you mean?  Well, as I said, they, COMA, are -  or is it it -  the COMA people are, or is, the finest minds, quite simply the finest minds, well, anywhere, really; yes, and, as I said, they meet at times like this, of imaginary crisis, when we really have to make ourselves look important, so's people have confidence in us, yes, important, and capable, yes, like Sir Paddy Ashdown does, exactly that, 

Please do not feed hats to the animals.

wise and far-seeing, resolute, steady, courageous and a fucking idiot.  Yes, I know he's an utter cunt, unfit to lead a troop of boyscouts, a political coward and a wretched gabshite but he has provided great service to his party and his country, well, to himself, anyway, and Cyril Smith, and pleasured the odd seckatry, en route.  Gonna eat his hat he was, wasn't he, if I won the election?  But no matter, like all of us he is a great public servant, a fabulous husband and father and we won't look on his like again, when he eventually does die, the crazy fucking bastard.

But no, COMA are and is a very serious organisation. Names?  You want names?  Well there's Dancing Queen, Tracey May, 

a leading authority on trampy footwear for the older lady;
 there's Micky Fallon.......... 

These are the nuclear launch codes, in this case. 
 I can kill anyone I feel like.

 Fucking insane, isn't it, you couldn't invent a  spluttering, belligerent, stupid,  red-faced Fallon in a satire, yet this crooked, blowhard redneck fuckpig is in charge of our defence.  I am glad that I live a very long way from London and this raving lunatic.

.......who - or is it whom - whom before he was  a minister, mainly sat on the board of one of the CrueltyCare Homes Corporations, while moonlighting as a Tory MP and embroidering his expenses, yes, like most of us,   yes, that's right, it was one of those businesses where old people have to, quite rightly in my opinion, sell their homes and give the money to American companies who then pay minimum-waged, Central European bisexual amazons to torture the same old people to death; yes, quite, globalisation, Micky Fallon's all for that, only not with the niggers and the arabs, who he, quite properly in my view, wants to nuke.   

And there's also Phil Dope,

 

 the foreign seckatry who must have done something other than fuck about looking unpardonably stupid all over the world. Although I can't quite recall what it was.  

Yes, and then there'll be some Ruperts, too. 

Brigadiers General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap.  

What?  Battles? 
 Which battles have they fought?
 What? In COMA? Over the table? 
Oh, no, I  seewhatyamean, battles, like in wars, right? 
Well, they haven't won any battles.  That's not what the army is about, not these days, no way. Oh, acourse, squaddies do go and get their limbs blown off for no reason but lessbefair, they do afterwards get to  rub shoulders, if they still have  any shoulders, with Prince Harry Hooligan, 

 

whom, God be praised, hasn't yet been injured, despite his glorious heroism in taking on the Talimen in hand-to-hand combat, as he often does, and that seems to keep them happy, yes, I know, crazy fuckers,  I know what I'd say - What,  swap me arms and legs for a meeting with a drunken arsehole Ruritanian parasite, you must be raving mad.  
Dunno if you've ever noticed but Harry can't keep his legs or his feet still, always jiggling them about, like a spazzo, who, by the way, this govament is determined to help, spazzos and nutters, those people who dribble and wet themselves,  I had one myself, y'know, but he died, and that's why I love the NHS, more importantly, why I can be trusted to sell it off at a very favourable discount to our friends on Wall Street;  maybe it's because he's inbred, Prince Harry,  a bit of a chimp, although some say he's not, actually, far from it, barely related to Queen Brenda at all, in fact, not at all; or maybe it's just that his head's all fucked-up, over the way his father and his granny treated his mother, maybe he's just a fucking psycho;  he is ginger, after all. Didya see him with Obama, with that fucking scruffy beard,  looked like a homeless soldier, which, I suppose, is what he is, crashing in our palaces and wearing our clothes, getting pissed and waving his cock around, shame really, but maybe that's why all the limbless people love him, he's more fucked-up than they are.

Yes, they gotta be mental, themselves, to hang around with this wally. Or working class.  
But no, they might not win any wars, the Ruperts, or fight in any battles but, you know, as William Shakespeare said - they also serve who stand and hand around the biscuits -  and it's nice to have chaps in COMA who are wearing uniform and medals and have sort-of proper jobs.

So that's some of the people on COMA, the finest minds, wrestling with ways to keep us all safer. Yes, by setting us against each other, for instance,  in which the newspapers have played a quite sterling role - is it stirling or sterling, fucked if I know, no, don't bother asking Junky George, 

the chancellor, he hasn't a fucking clue what sterling is or does - in which all my friends in the press have played a blinder, setting healthy people against sick people, northern people against southern people, fat people against thin people, old people against young people, everybody at everybody else's throat and nobody at mine.  By filming our every move and by reading our letters and listening to our conversations.  And most notably by blaming low-paid workers for being low paid workers.  These are the sorts of hugely valuable strategies which emerge from  COMA meetings. Wossat? Sharm al Sheikh?  Never hear of him. 'S'e a terrorist? Mrs May, the obedience seckatry, she'll have the measure of him.  Soon have him deported, back to Wogland, where he can be, quite properly in my view, tortured up his wog arse until he makes-up secrets about whatever it is he hasn't done. Too good for  them, these Sharm el Sheikh chappies, the molten lead enema, far too good for 'em.

I have to dash, anyway, have to meet a gentleman from Egypt, expect he wants to sell Mrs Cameron some cotton sheets for the bed. 

Prime meenister Camaroon, you wan' dirty picture, of my sister? An' her dog?

Poor chap's quite barmy, thinks he's in charge of Egypt, when even I know that that's Mr Obama's job.

Still, he wants to hang nine hundred of his critics, so we really must make him welcome.

Well, viewers, 

there we must interrupt the prime minister's nonsense, like  Watch With Mother, isn't it, pure fucking fairy stories, the man couldn't find the hole in his own arse, never mind find Egypt and bomb it, but we are hearing that former Labour Torture Seckatry, Dave Bananas

 is speaking about the refugee-migrant crisis on Lesbos, never been there, meself, but it's a strange sort of name for a place, isn't it, look you, more carpet-munching than olive squeezing, I shouldn't wonder, from the sound of it.  Maybe that prat, wotsisname, the fish and chip bloke, Rick Stein, that's it, maybe Ricky'll fuck off down there with a film crew, for us.  

Well, blimey, sometimes, y'know, I think I have the best job in the world. Y'know, for me, this is what it's all about. I got all these fish'n'chip shops, I'm on the telly, paid a fortune for  talking absolute bollocks and now the PBC've sent me here to the beautiful island of Lesbos and I'm not kidding you, the waters're just full of refugees, you can literally grab 'em out of the water with your bare hands, dig a pit in the sand and roast 'em quickly  with some local rosemary and garlic, and oh, that Lesbos garlic, for all my gift with words, I simply cannot descriptify it. But no, for me this is what it's all about, roasting  other creatures  alive and eating them with a glass of local vino; it simply doesn't get any better than this.

See what I mean, viewers, that prat's a fucking superstar, picks a handful of weeds, shoves 'em up a lobster's arse, roasts the poor thing alive, gets pissed, talks fucking nonsense and you pay him a fortune.  Public schoolboy, Stein the Fish, the fucking bastards're everywhere, that ugly, double-barrleled hairy git, Saviour of the Fish, Hugh something, he's one, too 

But BananaMan, you remember him , he 's the brother of that other knobhead, Ed Banana, 

The Cain and Abel of Snotty's Labour party

Am I my brother's banana?

who wanted to be prime minister but drove people away from Labour in fucking trainloads.  Just to hear his fucked-up voice, that mr ishmael said, condescending to Ordinary People, was enough to make a decent, socialist-leaning comrade join fucking UKIP and wear Poundland trousers.  A right fucking pair of nincompoops, look you, but that David was the worst by a long way, isn't it. As Gordon Snot's foreigh seckatry, he tried to squash the British courts, tried to stop them looking at information which his proper boss, President Hillary Trousers,  wanted kept secret.  Just the usual stuff - gay, MI5 headbangers joining-in with Uncle Sam's psychobastards in torturing the arse off of  anybody they felt like.  The courts, however, told the pig where to put his banana and the case lumbers on, I do believe.  Anyway, when his kid brother beat him for the leadership of Labour, Dave fucked-off to some lavishly-paid sinecure in America, some CIA-run phoney rescue agency, into which he will have been eased by Mrs Trousers or her official husband, Spunky Bill, there to do their bidding.  And now, as the refugee crisis intensifies, BananaMan has come out with all guns firing against Europe and Britain, his homeland, blaming the crisis, not on Uncle Sam and Secretary of State Trouserses activities but on the EU, the cheeky fucking bastard.  Quite why we allow the prick on the BBC I'm fucked if I know, he's a fucking traitor, isn't he, who gives a fuck what he says?

This was the Guardian, a while ago.

Hillary Clinton has taken the special relationship to a new level with a gushing appraisal of David Miliband, who the US secretary of state described as "vibrant, vital, attractive and smart".

The extravagant compliments were delivered in an interview with Vogue magazine, which put journalistic objectivity to one side to describe Britain's foreign secretary as "tall and dashing". The interviewer added for good measure: "I got a crush over the phone in about five seconds partly because of his accent."

But he was outdone by Clinton, who responded: "Well, if you saw him it would be a big crush. I mean, he is so vibrant, vital, attractive, smart. He's really a good guy. And he's so young!"

Vogue describes Miliband as smitten too, but in a more buttoned-up way: "She applies intellect but also psychology to the dossiers that she's studying," he said of Clinton. "She's delightful to deal with one on one. She's someone who laughs and can tease, and she's got perspective as well."

"....can laugh and tease,"

right, Dave; 

she's a fucking bug-eyed  monster, mate, 

mad as a fucking hatter;

a threat to world safety.

Just fucking look at her.  

"vibrant, vital, attractive and smart"

somebody needs to coin a term for this perversion, mr verge; it's fag haggery in reverse. Hills the Grumpy Embittered Dyke as Cilla Black, Miliband as Paul O'Grady.  Make a decent man puke, whatever you call it.

Anyway, as head of the CIA's International Rescue, Dave Bananas has been to Lesbos to have his picture taken.

This is all the fault of a very bad man, called Gordon Snot, and his very bad political party, called the Labour party, of which I am not and never have been a member.  Much less leader.

 

Britain really should be ashamed of itself. I am so glad I am an American. And very close to the woman who will soon be President of the United States. And who will probably give me an important job in her administration.  Not that I don't have an important role, in International Rescue. What does International Rescue do? Well, I would have thought that was obvious. It rescues people internationally. No, not in this case, because these people are only in the shit because of European adventurism in the Middle East. Nothing to do with the CIA, I mean, who could blame the United States  for any of this chaos; it is all down to the European Union. And especially Britain.  Especially my former brother. What?  UK Foreign Seckatry in Charge of Torture Arrangements? Me? I think you must be confusing me with my former brother, he did all those things.  And if you persist with these claims about me being a British traitor, doing America's dirty work, then and now, you might find yourself in a jet aircraft,  in some discomfort, as legalised by former President George Dubya Chimp, whose own father is now calling him a worthless cunt.

  

Bush 41, as he is known for his place as the 41st US president, is now 91 years old and has few kind words for the top figures in his son's presidential administration

'The reaction (to September 11), what to do about the Middle East. Just iron-ass. His seeming knuckling under to the real hard-charging guys who want to fight about everything, use force to get our way in the Middle East.'

The elder Bush went further, saying that Cheney carved out 'his own empire' in the White House, filling it with his own trusted advisers and setting a go-it-alone mentality that the elder Bush said damaged the public perception of his son's presidency.

No, what you need to report on your bulletin, Huw,  is that a very wise and neutral observer, myself, working for the Clinton Dynasty Corporation of America ,  has proved beyond any doubt that none of this shit is America's fault. 

 Otherwise she might lose the election.  

Is that clear?

As CEO of International Rescue, 

I can still have you tortured, you know.

That was Clinton spokesman, Dave Bananas the First, there, for us, and we are happy to put the record straight.  All these refugee migrant terrorists are nothing to do with Uncle Sam, especially so in the case of Spunky Bill and Hillary Trousers. They are all the fault of the British Labour Party, only not Tony Blair, just the other ones.

You know, sometimes viewers, I could just go back to being Court Reporter for the Merthyr Tydfil Express, look you, it's just that there's no fucking money in it, see, fuck all, pennies, really.  But that did just happen, here on the PBC, we reported word-for-word, the traitorspeak of that repulsive torturing wanker, Miliband, as though it was gospel truth, like they teach in Chapel.  That bloke, Ishmael, he's right, you know, it is now the PBC mission statement: 

And Nation Shall Speak Shite Unto Nation.

Former, discredited foreign seckatry slanders own country on behalf of his new paymasters and we feed it to the viewers as news.

Oh, and I am hearing in my earpiece that we inadvertently showed a picture of Milband's fellow multiple murderer, Ian Huntley, instead of Bananaman, himself.  Easy mistake to make. 

Here's the real Hillary's BoyArselicker,  telling us all what to think, cheeky cunt.

But it's back now to the prime minister, who is making a statement on the matter of the downed Russian airliner, or bombed, depending on which cheap, hustling arsehole you believe.

Well, quite frankly, all I have to say to Mr Putin, is that as a student of history I know that we beat Russia in 1917 and again in 1944, in short, we beat them in two world wars and we can beat them again.  England is a small country, 

Prime minister, with the English Jack.

that is true, and we'll be even smaller by the time of the next election but though we are a small country we will continue to box above my mouth.  One thing we English cannot stand is a man who makes war on his own people - Mr Ian Duncan Smith excepted, of course, and Mrs May and Mr Gove and Mr Osborne - and we find his shooting down of his own aircraft completely unacceptable.  What, how do I know he planted the bomb?  

Well, I don't actually know, not in the sense of facts or evidence but it is a fairly safe bet.  I mean, a man who will murder someone on the streets of London is not to be trusted, unless, of course he is a member of the Metropolitan Police, in which case he or she is to be promoted. 

 But no, I've been in this job  for a while, now, and you get a nose for these things and my money is on the KGB planting the bomb on the Russian 'plane,

 if there was a bomb, which there must have been because planes just don't fall out of the sky unless there's a bomb....What, the British planes, falling out of the sky recently, at two British air shows? Those planes? Well, that's exactly what I mean, I should think that the enquiries, if they ever report, will report that the KGB could have planted bombs on these tragic old banger planes,  could have drugged their loony pilots  and that in these days of global terrorism

could have, mark my words,  means certainly did.   

Well, you may mock but it worked for Ali Dipso Campbell and Tony the Whore Blair. Saddam Hussein could have had Weapons of Mass wotsaname, so, clearly, he certainly did.  See? It is beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr Putin bombed his own plane and is not to be trusted in Syria which we must immediately bomb the arse out of. QED, which, if I remember correctly, translates as Thus Spake Zarathustra. Or in this case,Thus Spake Dave, has lots of meanings, does latin, which only fine minds such as my own can disown, is it disown? Dispute?  Disrupt?  Only fine minds such as my own can disrupt? What? Discern? You sure it's discern?  What the Sweet Fucking Jesus does discern mean? Not a word much used in my circle. Never hear Becky Brooks or Jerry Clarkson talking about discernishment, over cocktails in the Chipping Sodom Arms.  What, buy a fucking stick, to watch Jerry and his cringing oppos on Amulet TeeVee,  is it Amulet?  The ones who don't pay any tax, anyway.  Well, OK, none of them pay any tax.  But what would you prefer, closing-down the health service and the police and the parks and libraries and public toilets, or making very successful companies  pay any tax whatsoever on their earnings? But Jerry, anyway, doing that same dreadful old pantomime,  smashing things up and looning about, like Grandad at a disco,  over and over and over again, like the fucking Crazy Gang?  I shouldn't think too many people'd do that. 'Sone thing watching it on the PBC and the Dave Channel - hope that's nothing to do with me, by the way - quite another to actually make a conscious decision to  spend your own money, just to watch those pathetic old dames fucking about for an hour, brown-nosing fuckwit celebrities, stuttering through some poorly scripted supposedly impromptu conversation in some fucking pretend jungle somewhere. Christ,  you can watch I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out From Here Fucking Sharpish for free, if that's what you want, although I'm fucked if I know why anyone would willingly watch Clarkson or Dant and fucking Eck. And doesn't he look, advertising himself, like a pathetic old whore, walking the streets for customers, offering discounts and freebies.

No, you can do me without a johnny, 

if it'll help.

 Just as long as you do me

But no, what we want is for Mr Putin to stop playing the sympathy card,  admit that he killed his own people, take his military aircraft out of  wherever it is, Syria, isn't it,  and kindly permit me to have my war, all my predecessors have had one. 

 

And now I want one.  Christ, Tony'n'Imelda made a fucking fortune out of their time in Downing Street. Time I had some.

Well, that was the prime minister there, revealing how the Russian premier had ordered the bombing of his own aircraft, killing everyone aboard and stranding many idiotBrits in the desert. Some of whom,  as well as being separated in the womb  from their minds now can't get hold of their fucking   luggage, which is probably just a load of old rubbish anyway, stuff from, where is it, Primart? And cheap sunlotion from the UKIP Shop, Poundland.  Fuck me, get a load of this loony, she's so shitmad crazy she can't even string three words together.  If I was in the Foreign Office I wouldn't let her back in, look you, isn't it.

Yeah? An' my duaghta, she go' her GC-ESSEES nex week. Int no way that's gonnerappen now, is it?  I mean, I dun mind or nuffin like that. Only nobody is like communica'in' wiv us, like. Abaht our luggage. Worris that David Camaroon doin' abaht it all?

And finally, love her or hate her,  Doctor Professor Lady Sir Germaine Greer, porn model, feminist and academic finds herself, not for the first time, in a cauldron of boiling shit. A celebrity young parent, fresh from not speaking to Vladimir Putin, though he had been tricked into thinking he was, how's that for celbrity vanity, the horrid tubby little prick, attacked Professor's right to express her opinion, the repulsive little worm.

“She is living in another century, she is an attention seeker,”  said attention-seeker and baby farmer Lady Sir Elton John and his husband Lord David Parasite, an independent film-maker, who makes independent films about his sugardaddy/mummy, Lady Sir Elton.

Look, mate, yer music as you call it, is shite, and so's yer thinking, you pathetic little faggot. Just because a geezer has his meat an' potatoes hollowed-out and has a make-believe vagina constructed  out of the poor mangled, butchered flesh;  just because he gets himself some plastic titties and wears dresses, staggers about in fuck-me heels  and makes up like some old slapper;  just because he finds some batshit crazy screwball to fuck him in his phoney fanny,  or up his GaryGlitter, more like, doesn't mean he's a proper woman, does it?  I mean, how can it?  He's a geezer, right, who's had himself all fucked about with just because he thought he'd been deliberately given the wrong chromosomes; trust me, y'little fat freak, he was born a geezer and he'll fuckin' well die a geezer.  I mean, stone me, you can't have people just deciding thay can be whatever gender they wanna fucking be, can you?  It's like all those second marriages, where the poor little kiddies're told to call any old bastard their  Daddy or Granddaddy or Nana, when the fact is those fuckers're simply not related to the kids at all, thay just have step-relationships.  Same with blubbering old transwomen, they're not women, they'll never be women, they should just call themselves step-women. 'Strewth,   I couldn't give a rat's ass about who fucks whom or how or in what orifice , and Sheila, formerly Gordon, he or she can bang like a shithouse door in a gale, but it don't make him a woman.  Fuck me Jesus, wanting something doesn't make it so. 'Slike that West Country broad, lilith, says, all these fuckwits wanna do is whine about shit being fair, how it ain't fair that they were born with a cock and not a cunt and that the fucking health service, groaning at the seams, has gotta spend thousands on some sixty year old tranny lunatic so's he and his wife of forty years can now live as two women. Even though they can't, the mad bastards. What was it that Polish bloke stainislav used to say, up against the wall motherfuckers?

Nah, fuck 'em all, the lezzies and the faggots and the madbastard genderbenders.

 

Phew, bugger me, it's hard work beuing a feminist icon. Somebody fethc us me fags. And a six-pack of Carlsberg Special. Or two.

 

That was Germaine Greer there for us, talking the only sense I've heard on the entire show, I mean bulletin, isn't it.

That's it from us but don't forget that on KiddyNewsnight on PBC2,  later, you can watch RentBoy Evan in an excruciatingly humiliating interview in which the Chink Ambassador rips him a new one.

Famous for his grovelleing, is Evan, that's how he got the job. That and the leather trousers.  Lead presenter, they call him, of KiddyNews.  Fuck me, Jesus, up and down a  wet slag heap, lead presenter, that prat.

 Davies the Slave, we call him, in the valleys.

Mr Chink Ambassador,  what would you say to British viewers about your country's record on human rights?

Now, jus you rissen to me, PBC rentboy intaviewah.
Demockrasee in China iss real demockracee. 


Noh, sharrap an lissen to yo mastah.
If Chinee goh-vament shoot dog dissident iss because dog dissident iss enemy of Chinee  gohvament an deserve to  die. No? Unnerstan?


Well, your Excellency...


An if Chinee goh-vament sell livah an kidney off dead dissident to fah ugly Merican iss good bissness, Yes? Iss good bissness, Is rin-rin sichuashun. Dead dissident is dead an fah ugly American has new organs an Chinee goh-vament has welcome dollahs. Is rin-rin. Only problem iss Chinee goh-vament need dollah off relatives of dead dissident, in ordah that bullet get paid for, Yes? Is only fair.
 

Should not expeck  Chinee goh-vament to pay for execution bullet off dissident dog, eh? An so Chinee goh-vament muss claim dollah off relative. An if relative no haff dollah mus be shot an kidney an livah sold off to nex fah ugly American.  Iss true demockracee an suggest iss better than British demockracee, Yes?  You hagree, Hevan? You hagree?  You sure you  hagree? Because soon Chinee gohvament own PBC, an own your pretty ass, no?  An maybe if you no hagree with Chinee goh-vament your husbah or partnah get visit from Chinee security, looking for dollah for your bullet. Unnerstan now, who is boss off demockracee?  Chinee goh-vament own your chancellor, own your country, own you, Hevan, own your ass.  
 
Now, you haff any more question on so-call humah right? 


Thank you very much your Excellency, for clearing that up, and thank you for your time. And your wisdom. And I look forward to being of service to you in the future