Good evening, this is Huw Welshman with the Six o'clock Leaning News from the PBC. And the top story, tonight, is that Filth-O-Graph writer,
London Mayor, cycling fornicator and part-time MP, Mr BoJo the Ho-ho, may possibly be leaning over, no, it's not the cocaine, not this time, anyway. ....may be leaning out of the European Union, although he might equally be leaning in. And we have also potentially learned that the Lord Chancellor, Justice Seckatry and peripatetic gabshite, Mr Michael Spit,
is also said, potentially, very potentially, by inside sources, to be probably but not certainly leaning in the same, general in or out direction as the man who may be his next leader, if BoJo does finally decide to lean one way and it turns out to be the right way, although whichever way he leans will be the wrong way for many, in fact, even if he were to stand perfectly upright, as though he was a proper man, instead of a nasty fucking parasite,
whose father is a cunt,
Stanley BoJo........ is dismissive of the idea that
having six children go to Oxbridge is in any way noteworthy. 'It never
struck me that was particularly remarkable,' he says. 'What do you expect if you send your kids to Eton and St Paul's? I assumed that's where they would go.'
You get what you pay for, he said, and Boris had the best that money could buy.
Quite brings out my inner Shirley Williams, does BoJo's father, look you.
whose sister is a braying, horsey Tatler cow,
and whose friends are all cunts and criminals,
TOP DRAWER FILTH.
BoJo and his infamous mate, Darius Guppy, fraudster, con-man, bully and thrasher of the lower orders, an utter cunt, like most Old Etonians and all Bullingdon Boys.
even if he were a decent stand-up bloke and not a piece of babbling, enetitlementista shit and were he to just simply stand upright, well, there wouldn't be much of a story there to tell you, now, would there, look you, as you sit down on the DFS faux leather sofa to eat your tea-time pizza'n'beans, off one of those cushiony trays, on your lap, watching me on an eight-foot telly, dressed in shorts, most likely, isn't it, in the middle of fucking winter, to show everyman and his fucking dog your fucking imbecile tattoos, all up the side of your fat, stupid fucking legs, 'n' I expect you'll be wanting to have them removed in a few years' time, on the NHS, whining that you have self-esteem issues, and every other bastard has to pay for your total body bleach, stupid cunt, and they let you have a vote, too. And no use coming the old paidmetaxes,me soldier with me, matey, if you lived to be a fucking thousand you'd never be a net contributor, just a fucking waste of oxygen's what you are. But enough of that audience participation stuff, 'snot as though I'm Terry fuckling Wogan; still dead is he, I do fucking hope so, couldn't stand him, me.
So we're going over now to our Leaning correspondent, Robert Peston, who has this for us....... Oh, I know he left the PBC cos every spiteful, catty, pisshead news bastard was laughing at his stuttering incompetence, and joined ITN but they don't seem to know what to do with him, either, and so since he's hanging around there, in MediaMinster, like a whore at a hockey match, we thought we'd get his take on matters leaningatorial, for you.
You get what you pay for, he said, and Boris had the best that money could buy.
Quite brings out my inner Shirley Williams, does BoJo's father, look you.
whose sister is a braying, horsey Tatler cow,
and whose friends are all cunts and criminals,
TOP DRAWER FILTH.
even if he were a decent stand-up bloke and not a piece of babbling, enetitlementista shit and were he to just simply stand upright, well, there wouldn't be much of a story there to tell you, now, would there, look you, as you sit down on the DFS faux leather sofa to eat your tea-time pizza'n'beans, off one of those cushiony trays, on your lap, watching me on an eight-foot telly, dressed in shorts, most likely, isn't it, in the middle of fucking winter, to show everyman and his fucking dog your fucking imbecile tattoos, all up the side of your fat, stupid fucking legs, 'n' I expect you'll be wanting to have them removed in a few years' time, on the NHS, whining that you have self-esteem issues, and every other bastard has to pay for your total body bleach, stupid cunt, and they let you have a vote, too. And no use coming the old paidmetaxes,me soldier with me, matey, if you lived to be a fucking thousand you'd never be a net contributor, just a fucking waste of oxygen's what you are. But enough of that audience participation stuff, 'snot as though I'm Terry fuckling Wogan; still dead is he, I do fucking hope so, couldn't stand him, me.
So we're going over now to our Leaning correspondent, Robert Peston, who has this for us....... Oh, I know he left the PBC cos every spiteful, catty, pisshead news bastard was laughing at his stuttering incompetence, and joined ITN but they don't seem to know what to do with him, either, and so since he's hanging around there, in MediaMinster, like a whore at a hockey match, we thought we'd get his take on matters leaningatorial, for you.
Bob, lovely to see you again, how's it going over there, in Coronation Street, ITN showing you the respect you deserve, are they?
Huw, ye-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ssss, a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a--a-a-nd that's u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u--u-u-hhhh, right, a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-hhhhh, Huw......
But before we get into into leaning proper, so to speak, could I ask you if you only got such a prestigious job at the PBC because your Dad was a Labour peer?
Peston senior, in the house of thieves.
And Labour and the PBC, it's just a two-way street of mutual self-interest, isn't it, just look at that cunt, Purnell, headhunted, for fucks sake, headhunted from Labour, at a quarter million a year, plus all the usuals.
In 2003 Purnell was found with child abuse images on his computer, In 2009 he was found to have defrauded the Tax Payer. In 2013 he is rewarded for his criminal activities by being made head of strategy at the state owned BBC. Or maybe the appointment is the price of his silence?
(From blog: Justice Denied.)
I mean, Bob, it's not as though you know anything about anything, or that, even if you did, you could communicate it to others, is it, look you? I mean the BAFTAs or whoever it is, they should invent a currrent affairs chocolate kettle award, just for you, shouldn't they?
Huw, e-e-e-eh-a-a-a-a-a-a-gh-e-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-........
Come on, man, spit it out, you're sounding like the bastard son of that fucking royal, George something, was it, the one who couldn't tell you what fucking day it was, without a voice coach helping him, inbred and out again, he was, Brenda's dad was it, George Six or was it his brother, Dave, the weird one, Hitler's mate,
the one shagging the American junkie dominatrix,
Mrs Wotsaname, fucked if I know, more like she was shagging him, if you ask me. Gibbering fucking Germans, what are they like, as much use as a bag of rubber nails.
Yes, you can just fuck the army wives, they're gagging to do it with a prince. And their husbands, jolly decent about it, they are. Ask your stepmother's ex.
And as the PBC has reported,
Prince Gormless is at it now,
not bad enough with his hooligan brother encouraging Tommy to hop, skip and jump down the fucking Mall on his stumps, climb the Matterhorn with prosthetic arms and tongue-swim across the Channel cos he's got no fucking limbs left at all; not bad enough that his lazy, good for fuck all father,
Brian FuckUrWife, is champing at the bit, desperate to do some meddling before he is called to God's heavenly shaggerama, now Gormless, himself, is issuing proclamations on behalf of the prime minister, the cheeky fucking idle bastard,
I am above politics.
That's why you should vote as I tell you.
he'll be wanting his mate and intellectual equal,
Dave Thick, in the house of fucking lords, next,
will HRH Gormless.
So wotsit gonna be, Bob, who's leaning in, who's leaning out, who's standing up straight, who's down on their knees, who's got his cock in a pig's gob, can you tell us?
(cut to dishevelled, hairy, bespectacled man, choking on his own tongue)
U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u--u-u-u-gh, Uh--u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-rgh. A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-rgh. E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ck. M-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-a-a-a-a-rgh-doo-de-doo-de-doo-de-doody-dooh.
That was our leaning editor, the amazing Robert Peston, there, for us. And for ITN, of course, with the shock news that something may happen, in due course, probably, although nothing is definite. Some filthster may lean one way but its not certain, only probable, and probably not even probable, another filthster might lean another way but that's not certain, either, although given his background, it is probably probable, although it all depends. They call this quality reporting. And you wonder why I look catatonic most of the fucking time.
There'll be more leaning news and comment over on Newsnight, with that ferrety little rentboy, Evan Wotsit.
There'll be more leaning news and comment over on Newsnight, with that ferrety little rentboy, Evan Wotsit.
15 comments:
Nice pic of the Lord of the Isles, it makes one proud. If it didn't cost a hundred and something pounds I would cancel my British citizenship and get an Irish one except there is no Ireland, she's a EU satrapy, but I don't care. Everything that can be organised or regulated is infested with psychopaths. Avoid, stay away, beware.
It's funny, however, how Hitler seems more statured than the King. We know he was a buffoon though, thanks to what we've been taught, and if the good guys hadn't won WW2 we'd be in a huge German superstate under constant surveillance.
-richard
Ouch! Too near the knuckle, that, superstate surveillance.
Like me, you are automatically an Irish citizen, mr richard, as far I know. I travel on an Irish passport for no other reason than the conduct of the Nazi bastards at Peterborough passport office was so bad, back when Jack Straw was UnterFuhrer. I was fucking outraged at my treatment and so 'phoned the Irish Embassy in London, Aye,sure, they said, fax us your birth certificate and it'll be ready this afternoon. I've had one ever since, although, as you say, it is in the form of a red EU document.
Yes Mr I - there's a fucking whole lot of leaning news going on! I suspect my feelings about the Tory Party mirror your views of the Labour Party (fuck knows when any labouring last went on in the 'Labour' Party - or any 'conserving' in the Conservative Party). A right fine place we're in... That said, I rather enjoyed Churchill's Grandson, Lord Mr Soames, telling Peston (if the latter were an Icelandic Citizen he'd be in jail for complicity in precipitating the collapse of the banking system...) to smarten himself up and get a haircuit (I seem to recall an establishment in, was it, Aberdeen - no Inverness maybe... Mr I - the place where they take a blow torch to the ears - perhaps more usefully deployed against the mouth in this instance?).
It was the A Class Turkish Barbers in Dundee, mr sg, truly a place of wonder. But not as wondrous as the fact that people still listen to Peston and so many others of his trade. His leaning commentary was much as I reported it, although on ITN - banality and barrel scrapings hedged about with ludicrous qualification, amendment and ambiguity, it really was pitiful to see a grown man so demean his trade, betray his duty to inform, worse, even, than young bridegroom, Andy Neil, worse than Kelvin McFilth. I didn't see Fatty Soames on Peston but I will look out for it. I know that the rolling news phenomenon makes industry workers clutch at straws but if there's nothing to say they shoukd say nothing. As mrs woar was saying, this morning, this matter should not be trivialised by the gobby, the inept, the maladroit.
Dundee - of course - connected to Lord Mr Fatty Soames via his grandfather's predilicition for the cake and a Barber for Mr Peston too - what's not to like? However, perhaps one located in Fleet Street would be more convenient all things considered and, moreover, resulting in a much more satisfactory outcome for Mr Peston. With apologies - I've been rediscovering the works of Mr Van (or was it 'Glen') Vliet - must have put the 'zap' on my head or something...
I'm smiling now, thank you.
The way the QT panel looked was as deer, sniffing the wind and trying to decide whether it was time to dash one way or amother. They put their heads down and carried on munching for the moment.
Actually Mr Richard. The Germans don’t have surveillance cameras on every street like we do. They don’t allow scrutiny of their citizens. It’s quite refreshing really.
They do have the passport control geezers who fix you with a stare…Passport pleaze…then hand it back without even looking at you..cheeky bugger…who won the…aw never mind…
Who was that gold-painted woman, and to whom does she broadcast. I am convinced he's a ladyman, hoping to sway the trans community Europewards. I watched twenty minutes of it, mrs woar, and felt my duty done. And the audience was as unattractive as the panel; that supply teacher, I know supply teaching can be arduous, often filling-in for teachers off on extended loony leave, having been driven insane by a shower of little luvved2bits bastards, but even so, his rant was typically pointless, special pleading for one trade over another, stupid fucking bastard, everyone is entitled to considered and respectful treatment, not just junior doctors or teachers, everybody.
At least last night we were spared Angry Rudd and Brummy Jess Tits, interesting how the panel selectors - or the parties, themselves - are putting-up so many junior women for these shows, interesting, too, that they are every bit as disappointing as the men.
Still, the time of clandestine leaning stumbles to an end and the Great Charade will commence, as our masters at home and abroad argue that what is good for them must be good for us.
I think mr ruchard's cknflation is fair enough, mr doug, it may be that the Hermanns are less scrutinised, but then most countries have less snooping than do we, but they and their troughers are the most verminous, politically and commercially, wasn't it they who summonsed the migrant tsunami of guilt, and now turn on Greece, demanding she stem it, and wasn't there something, about a huge environmental scam, perpetrated by a Hermannish motor manufacturer, its poor author being driven from office, compensated for his EarthCrime by only a few hundred million Euros? Did I imagine all that?
The idea of a superstate - which must, unavoidably, snoop itself into tyranny - is Franco-German in origin and while the frogs have been busy, overeating and gangbanging each other's wives and nieces and daughters a la Frankie, bribing and extorting, a la Chrissie la Vache et le dwarf Sarkozy, the lardy hausfrau and her shiny, hissing businessmen have laid all the tables for a sauerkraut supper.
Maestro Cooder, who, as a kid, helped shape and drill the first Magic Band, has interesting things to say, mr sg, about his relationship with the Captain. And there was a documentary about his final years on this planet, living in the Mojave Desert, painting. Although I could discern the jnvention in the music of Frank Zappa, Beefheart's colleague and sometime mentor, I never had the energy to explore his work. I remember a hugely talented musician, Clive Layton, playing for me, Weasels Ripped My Flesh, and my realising that I just wasn't artistically or culturally strong enough to enter the world of Frank's Mothers of Invention, Blood On The Tracks was then my thing, and the Incredible String Band. Too late, now, to save a drowning witch.
Just an observation Mr Ish. The thing puzzled me more than anything else.
It’s difficult to judge who would come in 1st, 2nd and 3rd in a fucked state podium race.
I’d wager Germany at least being on the podium.
Fucked state olympics I meant. Annual event in Europe
Mine, too, just an observation, thought out loud.
Yesterday's QT was a record 20 seconds for me. The first poor bastard asked his question and the Dimblebore decided that that wasn't the question he wanted asked today and so edited it before any other bugger got to speak. Dimbleby Service Broadcasting. The sixteen-year-old here did not believe her ears that one family has been raking in the public coin since WWII. It is surely time to burn it all down.
I have no idea about June Sarpong, which is probably a failing in me. For all I know she might be a promising investigative reporter obliged to do dressing up in order to be taken seriously. Probably it is nunfair of me to be negative about a young woman trying to make a living in a land where she is up against the entrenched privilege of Peston. He even gets an easier ride than he ought because his wife died. What is a girl to do to keep up - marry a chap she picked up in a hospice and make a feature of it?
The teacher chap clearly lost it, but then teaching is a horrible profession which is why I don't do it. I have watched too many of them crumble; the wise ones get early retirement if they can. Also some sympathy for his point which was not relevant in that context, but he is right - a lot of what is delivered is not education. Unfortunately, he did not seem to be able to understand that parents want sustifcates for little Frogmella. There has to be some objective measure of whether his job has made a hap'orth of difference to the child's life, or if he has just charged double for what the parents provided in the first place.
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