Sunday 31 January 2016



How I never listened to him.  
How I never watched him.  
How I despise all the other cheesy broadcasters basking in his reflected, dubious glory, now that he's croaked.
Dara O Briain tweeted

"Terribly sad news about Terry Wogan dying. Hard to quantify what he achieved, not just in broadcasting but for the Irish in Britain.
"Hard to separate what he achieved & the accent he did it in, from the times in which he did it. And opened to the door to all who followed."
Sure and he means himself, so he does. 

"He had a great sense of perspective, he made sure that his priority was the people he really cared about", she said. 
How I never thoughT he had the smoothest voice on radio.
How I never found him interesting,  funny, witty, ironic or entertaining.  
How I never married anyone who loved Wogan just as much as I did.
How I never thought he was my friend behind the microphone.
How I won't miss his cheery, anodyne banter 
on account of how I never listened to him. 
How I never watched Terry In Need.
Documents released under the Freedom of Information Act disclose that while his co-presenters give their time for free, 68-year-old Sir Terry receives £1,300 an hour to front the charity television extravaganza.
Sir Terry has been paid for his efforts since the appeal - described by the BBC as the most important event on its calendar - began in 1980.
In 2005, the Irishman - who earns £800,000 a year from his Radio 2 show - picked up £9,065 for his seven-hour stint as Children In Need's main presenter.
Yet his co-stars Natasha Kaplinsky, Eamonn Holmes and Fearne Cotton do not receive a penny. All the musical acts that appear also waive appearance fees.
There is no suggestion that Sir Terry, who owns a mansion near Windsor and a house in France, receives any money intended for charity projects, nor that he has ever claimed to be hosting the show for free.
In the past, Sir Terry has made a show of donating personal items, such as his tie, to highest bidders.
How he didn't transform the Eurovision Song Contest.
How I thought Blankety-Blank was shit.
Just because large numbers of people like something doesn't make it bad. 
 Doesn't make it good, either.
National treasure, Wogan?  
God fucking help us.
At least Gracie Fields could sing



 How I don't care about  Andy Murray, his legendarY father-in-law, his legendary pregnant wife or his legendary mutant mummy.


Worthless lying bastards, both of them.
Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

Wogan, though, a fortune of £20 million, Christ, that's worth pretending to be nice to everyone for an hour or two a day.
What irks, though, is the utter banality of his output,  a stage Irishman, running the gamut from self-deprecation to self-deprecation, whist fawning over any number of showbiz filthsters, worse at that than Mike Funerals Parkinson, and that's saying something.

It is part of the national decline,  the prominence of the BBC disc jockey, a man, generally, twittering in-between other people's recordings, about nothing.  There was a case to be made for disc-jockery back when there was a difference between teenagers and their parents, when listening to rock'n'roll or punk was temporary rebellion's  demarcation line,  John Peel and Johnny Walker defining an ethereal barricade.  Now that the land is awash with worthless multi-generational celebrity voted for by  consumerised  families, now that people don't buy singles or LPs, don't listen, together, to the latest thing, now that music is  atomised, ubiquitous and purposeless the role of the deejay seems  as relevant as that of the lamplighter.  A clebrity personality, though, a cynical confection, reflecting yourself back at you, cleverer, wittier and warmer,  that's something else.

I can't remember one such whom I considered worthy, useful, a  voice welcome to the public discourse.  Mark Tulley,  the BBC's sacked India correspondent, used, on Sunday night, to do  a compendium show, his thoughts, some readings  and some bits of music from everywhere, it was a delight.  Alexis Korner, away back, on Radio One, played a blues/roots selection, again, on Sunday night, which made me smile at his almost scholarly enthusiasms -  that was Delbert McLinton, there, Oh, dropkick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of Life.  Unlike so many, Korner was a musician himself, and not a member of the band of gobby nobodies which BBC promoted, and is still promoting. Even in his death, the dreadful old crow, Esther Rantzen, is milking Wogan, like she was masturbating a dead man - he raised millions, hundreds of millions for Children in Need.  And I started ChildLine, even though I had romanced a paedo, myself, and simply adored Jimmy Savile, who also raised tens of millions, hundreds of millions, Oh, thousands of millions, we've all raised thousands of millions, millions of millions, for those less fortunate than myself.

Across the board, many adults are Woganised, infantilised, unable to bear their own silences, unable to entertain, comfort, amuse or stimulate  themselves, millions addicted to the children's programme, Dr Who,  pretending to watch it because it is  challenging, philosophical, science fictional, tackling difficult issues, when all they are doing is lusting after whichever character 

 is the current Dr's current jailbait cyber-minx,
 IS he gonna fuck her?  

Harry Potter, tens of millions of middle-aged people, desperate for the next instalment of a children's book/film franchise, because it is encouraging boys to read books again,  yeah, old boys, and old girls, who ought to know better. Kleptocrats robbing and raping us, angry millions on the move in our direction, ice-caps melting and we lose ourselves in spells and wands and wizards;  in Time lords and Daleks; in retreaded galactic wars of empire;  and we sit at home, doddery, frightened, listening to a highly-paid, low-brow entertainer, chuntering away, like he gives a fuck.

Tuesday 26 January 2016


Peepul ov Brittun, And indeed.  Peepul ov the world. For I think I am. Now. A citizen of the world. I simply say.  That when I left, I said I would always be with you. And I am.  Me'n'Imelda. 'N the kids.  Yeah.  The drunk boy, Yeah. And the suicidal girl.  Wendy Deng Murdoch? No. Never heard of her. 

But what I wanted to say. Is extend my sympathies. To the family of Brigadier "Snowy" Golightly Jockstrap. The chap who died.  Yes, ski-ing across the Antarctic. For the wounded soldiers. And just to tell you. 

That I asked one of my staff to pop a fiver into the kitty for him.  And that, as a matter of fact, will actually be a tenner.  When the govament tops it up.  No, it's the least I can do.  Don't mention it.

But actually, y'know, it is a bit rich.  Asking busy, hard-working families, like mine.  To support soldiers when they come back from wars.  Shouldn't the govament support the wounded soldiers?  I mean, it's the govament who send them there.  And let's face it.  Wot, with war being what it is, people are gonna lose bits, legs and arms and eyes.  It's a bit rich, as I said, to expect ordinary people like me to  cough-up for glass eyes and tin legs and things.

No, 'sno use that ishmael bloke looking for a picture of me with a wounded soldier. Alastair Campbell'd never have allowed it. Cheering, healthy, gung-ho fuckwits, all nicely arranged, me in the centre, them like, well, like soldiers in a row, plenty of those pictures, 

 but you wooden catch me near a wounded fucking soldier. Much less a dead bastard.  That's what Wootton Basset's for.

Mind you, I blame the soldiers. I mean, they should've sorted better terms and conditions for themselves.  I mean, look at myself'n'Imelda. 

We have rich friends, round the clock armed servants, drivers, aircraft, which the grateful taxpayer provides and  I have a fabulous pension and a job in retirement that allows me to travel the world, causing wars and taking bribes from  torturing despots.  And Imelda gets to defend them, at a grand an hour, 

from any questions about the way they treat their citizens.  She'll probly get to be a judge in the Hague War Crimes Court. So I'll have nothing to worry about. If I fetch-up there. Not that I will.  Get an earldom, I should think, after Chilcott. It's not bad, is it? Imelda'll be delighted. Always wanted to be an aristocrat. It's her socialist background, you know, great believer in equality, Imelda.

No, I get a bit impatient with the wounded squaddies, to be frank with you.  I mean, nobody forced them to join-up, did they?  It's not as though it's my fault they got their balls shot off, in a pointless and illegal war, is it ?  And actually, it wasn't pointless for the people I work for.  

The British prime minister with his employer, Mr Cheney of GlobaDeath.

Just for the tens of millions of ordinary people. And let's face it. Nobody comes into politics to give a fuck about them.

So there, fuck off, 
And that'll be forty thousand pounds.

This guy, Henry Worsley, the ex-SAS officer, one of Andy McNab's True Grit characters,  he could have had himself hoisted out of that shithole at any time, his training, he must have known he was ill, fucked. And yet he left it until, well, he left it too late, for himself, his wife, his family and friends - one of whom mouthed that At least the mission was not a total failure.  I don't know how much more of a failure it could have been, its sole member having died before completing it,  that seems like failure to me. But I don't speak SAS.  Or Ruritanian. The Princes Gormless and Hooligan love all this stuff.  As long as it's not them, losing limbs or freezing to death.  And all for nothing.  Seems that before he died he'd raised just a hundred grand;  make more sense to sign-over his army pension, bound to be worth more than that. And he'd still be alive.

I'm with Tony Blair, above, that such charities as these existing is a national scandal;  if we can't afford to care for the soldiers, we can't afford to send them, no ifs, no buts, no charity show-offs.   

I don't know how we cope with it all. First David Bowie, then Alan Rickman, then Dirty Cecil Parkinson and now this chap.  Sometimes it gets so hard, to care.

Monday 25 January 2016



Sara Keays

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Sara Keays (pron. "Keys", born 1 June 1947) was the personal secretary of British Conservative politician Cecil Parkinson. The two became lovers, and Keays' public revelation of her pregnancy and of their twelve-year-long affair led to his resignation as Secretary of State for Trade and Industry in the government of Margaret Thatcher.[1]


Parkinson's resignation

Parkinson was forced to resign on 14 October 1983 after it was revealed that Sara was bearing his child, Flora Keays. Subsequently, as a result of a dispute over child maintenance payments, Parkinson (with Keays' initial consent) was able to gain an injunction in 1993, forbidding the British media from making any reference to their daughter.
At the time of the revelation of Parkinson's relationship with Sara Keays in 1983, Parkinson made much of what he described as the volume of supportive letters which he had received. Keays was attacked by many in the Tory party, such as Edwina Currie, who branded Keays "a cow" for destroying Parkinson's ministerial career.[2] By 2001, however, the media focused more upon Flora and her difficulties than in protecting Parkinson's reputation, so more voices were raised in criticism of Parkinson.[3]
Keays published her own book about the controversy A Question of Judgement in 1985.


Flora Keays (born 3 January 1984 in Merton, Greater London) has learning disabilities and Asperger syndrome, and had an operation to remove a brain tumour when she was four.
The court order was the subject of some controversy until its expiry when Flora Keays turned 18 at the end of 2001. It was noted in the press that Parkinson had never met her and presumably had no intention of doing so. While he had financially assisted with Flora's education and upkeep, it was publicly pointed out that he had never sent her a birthday card and that her mother assumed that Flora could never expect to receive one.[4]
In January 2002, Channel 4 broadcast a documentary film on Sara and Flora Keays.[5] In it Flora said: “I would like to see him. If he loved me, he would want to see me and be in my everyday life... I think my father has behaved very badly towards me. I feel jealous that my mother has known him but I haven’t, and jealous of other people who go on holiday with their fathers, when I don’t.” Sara Keays is shown telling her daughter that her father has never seen her because "he didn't want anything to do with us."
Sara Keays, who was forced to educate her daughter at home, and encouraged her in ballet, gymnastics, horse riding and trampolining, said Lord Parkinson's reappointment by William Hague as Tory party chairman caused the youngster problems when she finally secured a place at a secondary school: "It was torture for her. She was bullied, just because somebody thought it was necessary for him to have his job back, basically", she said.[6]
Speaking ahead of the film, Sara Keays angrily denied that she fell pregnant to trap her lover and attacked Downing Street and Conservative Central Office for conducting a "very powerful and all pervasive disinformation campaign" to discredit her at the time.[6]

From the Filth-O-Graph.

The only promise Cecil Parkinson ever kept - never to see his daughter

Flora Keays, whose illegitimate birth forced her father to resign as Trade Secretary, has grown up in a secret world as a result of the court order that he obtained. But all that changed shen she became 18 on New Year's Eve






Former Conservative party chairman Cecil Parkinson, now retired, and his wife Ann arrive at the Conservative Team 1000 Ball in London, which is being held to help raise money for marginal Tory seats.
Former Tory party chairman Cecil Parkinson and his wife Ann arrive at a Conservative Ball in London in 2000 Photo: PA
She was, until six days ago, the young woman who did not exist. Excised from school photographs, barred from class theatrical productions and left off the list of scholastic achievements displayed on her college noticeboard, Flora Keays has been forced, by law, to remain invisible. Until now, writes Olga Craig.
On New Year's Eve, Flora turned 18 and was, for the first time in her life, given a voice. Her first public words have made poignant reading.
Of Cecil Parkinson, the father she has never met, she said sadly: "I would like to see him. If he loved me, he would want to see me and be in my everyday life." Of her hopes for a relationship with him, her requests have been modest: "I would like to go to the cinema with him and have some fun."
Miss Sara Keays, former secretary and mistress of Mr Cecil Parkinson, leaving St Teresa's Hospital, Wimbledon, with her daughter, Flora Elizabeth, for the family home in Marksbury, near Bath. "motherhood is wonderfull," said Miss Keays, 36, whose affair with former Trade and Industry Secretary forced his resignation. She gave birth tom their 8ib 3oz baby by Casarian section on New Year's Eve. 
Miss Sara Keays, former secretary and mistress of Mr Cecil Parkinson, leaving St Teresa's Hospital, Wimbledon, with her daughter, Flora Elizabeth
Yet it is only now that Flora, who was left with severe disabilities after an operation to remove a brain tumour 14 years ago and also has Asperger's syndrome - a form of autism - has been able to express her wishes.
The illegitimate daughter of Lord Parkinson, the former Tory party chairman once feted as a future Prime Minister and forced to resign as Trade Secretary when Sara Keays, his secretary and mistress, announced her pregnancy, Flora has been the subject of a court order which has silenced her.
But now, with its expiry, she is free to talk of her life. So, too, is her mother.
Sara Keays's story - her clandestine, 12-year-affair with a government minister; her refusal to fade into the background after making her pregnancy public; her struggle to support her disabled daughter and her dogged battle to win financial support from her former lover - has been the subject of speculation and intrigue for the past 18 years.
The court orders have meant that little has been known of the mother and daughter, save that Flora's birth was one of the biggest Westminster scandals of its generation - throwing the married father of three into disgrace and threatening to bring down Thatcher's government.
But as Sara contemplates yet another court battle with Parkinson to help pay for the care Flora still needs, she has allowed the world to glimpse what has, until now, been their very private world.
When Flora celebrated her coming of age, she did so with just a trace of hope. As she opened her birthday cards, she knew that there was little chance that, this year, for the first time, her father would acknowledge her birthday.
Even so, she hoped. There was no card and no present.
Parkinson with his wife and children during his election campaign in Enfield, 1970Parkinson with his wife and children during his election campaign in Enfield, 1970  Photo: GETTY
She said in an interview with the Daily Mail: "Mummy told me not to expect a card but I do feel a bit sad about it. I would like to see him and talk to him." 

— David Cameron (@David_Cameron) January 25, 2016
1/3 I am deeply saddened to learn of the death of Cecil Parkinson. He was one of the towering Conservative figures in the 1980s.
George Osborne also worked with him when he was party chairman in 1997 and praised him for being “there in our hour of greatest need”. 
Only not his daughter's, why would he be?
We cannot know  the hearts of others, maybe Parkinsion valued his first family over his second and made a difficult decision . We know, however, that he had proposed to Sara Keays and that after a twelve-year relationship it would be reasonable for her to believe him;  we know also that he and his Tory child molesting mates tried any number of dirty tricks to  slander the poor women and frighten her to death and we know, most damning of all, that the horrible fucking bastard was able to buy an injunction against his child's existence,  Cameron and Osborne's comments - and Hague's behaviour - are another watery shit in Decency's face.


I like children as much as the next man, which is to say not very much.  I used to like them, when I was younger, now they irritate me, either attention deficient sugar monsters or ghastly, hot-housed four-year olds whining about their future careers, aping the parents who narcissistically robbed their kids of another, different personality, just to hear their own considered, balanced  and informed voices wittering back at them, waving away, LuvUlots, LuvUmore,  from Incest's dark carousel. LuvEm2BitsMe, my kids, DoEnnyfin4Em.

Doesn't matter, I would still run into a burning building or forfeit a seat in the lifeboat because that's the way of it, women and children first,  that must be the way of it, Nature's plan for herself making  self-sacrificing moralists of us. Well, I would do those things although I don't suppose the Queen would, or the prime minister or the generals or the prelates or the financiers, all of whom are worth more to us than any mumber of citizen-suspects of whatever age.

These three thousand parentless, refugee children, what are we to make of their plight?  We must assume that they are being fed, clothed, warmed and doctored wherever they are now as well as they might be in the UK, we must also asume that they are not in a war zone;  what is the need, therefore, for their resettlement here? Is it the case that such children must be shared-out, equally, between member states of the EU, in order to underscore the fraternity of the Project,  and if so, why, considering that another journey, into another country and another language and another school and another set of make-believe parents can only unsettle and damage them further?

 I am mystified as to how so many have arrived unaccompanied, have all the parents been drowned in the Med or killed by Basher Assad?  Are they three thousand individual kids or parentless families.? If they are single children, temporarily separated from their parents, then better to leave them where they are, where they might the quicker become reunited.  Bringing them here will  make that harder and cause distress.  Furthermore, if they are to be resettled here in temporary sanctuaries, what will happen if parents reappear with siblings and extended, multi-generational families and in-laws, which could number in total tens of thousands?

Junky George Osborne's national family credit card is already over-extended,  he says, closing the libraries of the poor and burning the wheelchairs of the crippled; social services are unable to provide care for vulnerable people already here. This isn't quite wartime, as it was when the KinderTransports arrived, the nation's properties already requisitioned and the people  properly attuned to shortage and sacrifice in order that Frau Merkel's ancestors be defeated and cast into Hell.  Not that they were, mind.  If our heartstrings ensnare thousands of children and potentially subsequent tens of thousands of mums'n'dads'n'aunts'n'uncles'n'grannies'n'grandads all demanding residence under EU law then we need to know in advance that any government so reacting will provide the necessary new  resources to accommodate and integrate such numbers, and not merely pass the burden on to useless, corrupt and  cowardly local politicians, spouting Tough Times, Tough Choices horseshit, turning me into my own binman, social worker and firefighter.

The NSPCC and Barnardos, they're good for fuck all, maybe we could requisition their resources, pack 'em full of foreign Children in Need.  See how charitable they really are.

Friday 22 January 2016



 I find that if I have a blocked nose,

 a sore throat

 if the wretched servants had got me the wrong sort of coke or weed
 if I'm feeling a bit low,

or just a bit pissed, 

 well, then , viewers, what I find, in my rich, hectic, sexy and successful life is that there's nothing compares to a nice sweet, muddy cup of Ty-Phoo's HorsePiss Strength  Tea.
Delicious with milk, cream, lemon, sugar, honey or cocaine.

Nothing like a warm brown stream of liquid between one's tits, eh viewers?  
 I do it twelve times a day, you know.
As I always say, money is a metaphor for life, I mean pissing, no, I mean cooking, course I do.
That'll be one million pounds, please.

Wednesday 20 January 2016


Oh, happy day, Sarah Palin is back. 

 I remember lolling out-loud, month after month, at Obama, Codger McCain and  the Alaskan SoccerMum 

 Shit, boy, I can see his ass from my back porch, 'cross them straits, what they called, agin, StraitsaDover, is it? 

whose son  is called Track

 -  the other one's called Trig 


- and who, after being attacked by animal rights activists over this family pet  photo,

uttered the funniest thing I ever heard from a politican, 

 "If any vegans came over for dinner, I could whip them up a salad, then explain my philosophy on being a carnivore: 
 If God haddena wanted us to eat animals he woodena made them outa  meat "

Please, God, if it's not Bernie Sanders,  let these two be President 

and Veep

And let Eskimo Nell come to Scotland, best part of England,  at her boss's  behest, hunting our own po-faced midget horror, Gnasher.

 Scotland's first fetish minister, Naughty Miss Gnasher, models her husband's favourite night attire.

What?  Alec Salmond cosying-up tae yon Donald Trunp?
Never, that's just pure Project Fear, that is, naysayin' from yon Tory scoundrels. 
 Anybody who disnae vote SNP is a Tory Scoundrel.

The former first minister never had nothing tae do wi'  the racist, Donald Trump,  

much less allow him tae bulldoze a world heritage site and bully, abuse and evict decent people who'd been livin' there fer ages; 
 nae,  that was yon Tories, 

This from Alex Massie in the Spectator, recently:

The tick-tock went like this:

Thursday 29th November 2007, Aberdeenshire council’s infrastructure committee dismissed Trump’s application.

Monday 3rd December, the Trump organisation decides not to appeal the decision.

Also on Monday 3rd December, Alex Salmond meets Trump’s representatives in Aberdeen. Salmond, the local MSP, also calls the Scottish government’s chief planning officer.

Tuesday 4th December, Scottish government calls in the application, citing “issues of importance that require consideration at a national level”. The precise nature of these issues is never made clear. Nor is it ever made clear why a still-live planning application needed to be decided by central government before local government had even finished with it.

To no-one’s surprise, however, the Scottish government gives the plans two big thumbs-up. Trump will build two golf courses, a couple of dozen ‘executive villas’ and 950 holiday homes. As Salmond says: “I mean, 6,000 jobs across Scotland, 1,400 local and permanent jobs here in the north-east of Scotland – that’s a very powerful argument which outweighs the environmental concerns.” 

[Actual number of homes built, as of 2015: zero. Number of jobs created: fewer than 200. Hmmm.]

Still, back then Trump had the measure of Alex Salmond: He’s an amazing man. […] I know for a fact that he – and anyone else who’s representing Scotland, unless they’re the enemy – wants billions of pounds to come into Aberdeenshire and Scotland.”

an' as fer yon oil business, 

he very firmly predicted that the price would fall by seventy five per cent 

but that it wouldnae matter because an independent Scotland  could support itself on, well, widdever he said it could, aye, up in the sky, 

aye, wi' the fairies. 
All lies, this talka an oil price crisis.

SNP referendum oil figures '13 times higher than reality'

New figures published by the Office for Budget Responsibility show the North Sea is only expected to generate £600 million next year, compared to the SNP's prediction of £7.9 billion.






The SNP's White Paper on independence predicted oil revenues of up to £7.9 billion next year
The SNP's White Paper on independence predicted oil revenues of up to £7.9 billion next year Photo: Getty Images
The extraordinary extent to which the SNP inflated North Sea oil revenues during the independence referendum has been disclosed by official figures predicting they will be more than 90 per cent lower than the Nationalists claimed.
The impartial Office for Budget Responsibility (OBR) dramatically revised down its predictions for how much oil and gas will generate for the rest of the decade, projecting the sector will only generate £600 million in 2016/17.
But the Scottish Government’s White Paper on independence predicted that between £6.8 billion and £7.9 billion would flow into the public purse in that year, when the SNP said Scotland would become independent, up to 13 times more.
Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon also promised referendum voters that another “oil boom” was on the horizon, but the OBR said revenues are set to fall to 0.05 per cent of national wealth in 2015/16, the lowest figure in 40 years.
Although the sharp drop is partly thanks to the collapse in the oil price, which happened after the referendum, the OBR also pointed to high operating and investment costs and declining production.
The Unionist parties said the projections badly damaged the Scottish Government’s economic credibility and they demonstrated that a Yes vote last September would have meant billions of pounds of public spending cuts.
Annual North Sea revenues are not expected to increase above £800 million for the rest of the decade but oil would need to generate around £8 billion per year – ten times as much – to maintain currently spending levels in a separate Scotland.

But what is important tae Scotland is not the Aberdeen people sufferin' a Clearance,  like the last, but this time at the handsa their ain first minister, an' it's nae the lossa  thousands  a jobs. Whit's pure important is that lotsa my voters're mooslims, and Mr Trump has said harsh things aboot them, aye an' some a my MPs'er Muslims, too, an this is their chance tae talk shite, doon there, in MediaMinster, jus' like they give a fuck. 

But whit aboot if he did become first minister of America? Whit aboot if he poot a cripplin' an' prohibitive tax on Scotch whisky, an' Harris Tweed jackets an' smoked salmon? Well, first of all there's no way he would be elected, aye, like there was no way the oil price could ever possibly fall, and second, if he is elected and does all them things, well, that'll be, like everthin' , the faulta them Tory parties and they'll have tae pay us more money, in Scotland.  Aye, it's either that or the fairies.

Mr and Mrs WellyFetish, £250k a year, plus exes, pensions, cars travel homes and food.

Disnae matter tae me and Mr Gnasher, we're minted, so we are, pure minted.

Oil revenues ninety per cent lower than they insisted they would be and what we get is wellies and radio shows.
Trump, racist;  and how would we describe the Tribesmen, festering in hatred of fifty-five million of their next-door neighbours?
Crooks, liars, bullies and fools and they have the gall to lampoon Trump.