Thursday 30 June 2016


Exhausting, says mr bungalow bill, all the Oxbridge rats fighting in their sack the  but what is  more worrying is the dreadful reporting, by senior journalists, of MediaMInster myth as fact.

Firstly, every last bastard one of them says that Boris won the referendum, when, in fact, it was won years ago, had only it been permitted; Boris was nothing to do with it;  the people won the referendum, the idea that towns and cities were standing in line to be persuaded by some shambolic, cock-waving incompetent entitlementista is absurd, a confection baked by MediaMinster to inflate the importance of its members, all of them more gossip columnist than journalist. 

I keep reading in  Private Eye, MediaMinster's in-house agony aunt, that Woe! Woe! and thrice Woe!, such and such a publication is shedding journalists whilst its senior management and proprietors are getting rich. Oh, fuck me, how awful, these worthless pissheads getting a taste of that on which they have shameffully failed to report is happening to everyone else. Good, says I, sack all of them and sack all journalists, let Rupert Filth and the Barclay Twins speak to us directly, no opretense of a middle man. And that odious little pimp, Hislop, from the PBC, he must have made millions from 51 series of that tedious panel show,  that jolly old pals' knockabout, masquerading as satire; Je ne suis pas HIGNYFY, the show for rich prats and arsehole celebrities happy to be humiliated for a thousand pounds.

Secondly, Dancing Queen, Tracey May, 

is not the unruffleable safe pair of hands which they portray, she is actually responsible for the complete failure of our immigration system, our border security and partially for the failures of policing up and down the country.  
She is a remainer and a stauch believer in savage cuts in public services, in the demonising of the sick and the poor and, in massive, undeserved rewards to the already filthy rich;  even as cabinet ministers go, Tracey is close to the top of the good for fuck all board. 
Six years fucking-up the same job is not what I call a safe pair of hands. Add to that the fact that, far moreso than the now despised BoJo, Tracey has odiously hedged her own leadership bets, and is a ghastly hypocrite. A nation which voted to leave will give short shrift to Tracey's promises of voter-representative paradise and the Tories would be mad to vote for her as leader, mr mike. 


Andrea Ledsom, in the absence of Nicky Morgan, is the proper, baggage-free baggage to prosecute Brexit and maybe win them  the elction which should, but may not follow immerdiately upon the Tory conference, an election in which UKIP will make gains and Labour won't, although to lose many of its Blairish MPs is for Labour to win.

Another phantasmagorical claim from MediaMinster is that this grubby, sneery, dowdy  Brownite piece of filth, 


Angie Eagle, is some restorative, unifying statesperson-in-waiting, probably because she's gay and treacherous, yes, and loves the Labour party, has always loved the Labour parrty, it being to her so much more than a political movement, rather a ticket to wealth otherwise unimaginable.  Yet hordes of hacks surround her door, daily, hoping for some  some banal expression of lofty self-, yes and national, importance The press portray all these strata of vermin, as though, without question, they are people of honour and decency, merely because they say they are, even though, as we all know, they are the very opposite.

mr bungalow bill warns that times may grow dark, well, it may be that they grow darker more quickly for Infamy's handmaidens, the likes of Kuensberg - is it Kuensberg, I don't care what she's called - and Evans and Neil and Wark, all of them so busily engaged in the attempt to thwart the majority. All across the telegraph one reads of Tory voters disgusted as much by the treatment of Corbyn as by the worthlessness of Cameron;  the same at the Daily Mail, torrents of contempt for every component of MediaMinster, one can read hundreds of comments in a row, all saying the same thing, even some of those who voted Bremain appear disgusted by this anti-democratic upsurge by our servants, the MPs and by the caterwauling of shrieking e-petitioners.  I am sure that the majority in the country accept the vedict of the vote, but you wouldn't think so from any perusal of the British media.

mr richard mentioned the exaggeration of low-level crime and its presentation as proof  that Leavers are Racists;  this is simply intolerable, as is the coverage of the Somme centenary, all reporters reminding us that the EU has stopped similar slaughter, what a shame we all voted for WW3, such is an impertinence which properly deserves sound chastisement, instead we see hacks congratulating themselves as each day becomes a bigger newsday than its pedecessor. No business like showbusiness.  Everything is trashed, shit-eaters and child molesters spewing over us the ingredients of their lunch.  The whole fucking place, MediaMinster, resembling more and more an ancient  vomitarium, the dogs of the press dashing-in to snuffle, seeking the best bits.

We will consider Mr Michael Spit, to-morrow.

Wednesday 29 June 2016


In September 2014, in Beyond the Political Event Horizon, the Sunday Ishmael discussed the likely emergence  of a cross-party government of national unity.

At that time we felt that the impetus for the merging of Labour, Tory and DogShooters' parties would come  from a  Tribesmen's victory in the Scottish regional  referendum on separation. It has been an article of faith, here, that politicians automatically have more in common with each other than they do with the rest of us,  their shared interests more important to them than ours.

Although it never registered with the mad wee bastard, Gnasher, the tribesmen lost that vote significantly and it has,therefore,  taken until now for the GNU to form - not the three parties against the Tribesmen but all four parties against the majority of the people of the country.

The bizarre spectacle of Labour MPs mutely supporting a Tory prime minister in the castigation of its own massively mandated leader is surely a sight from Beyond Any Conceivable Political Event Horizon.  It is no less than  a declaration of almost unanimous parliamentary contempt for the clearly expressed will of the people of the United Kingdom  That contempt has never been so starkly illustrated.

Loathe him or not we should,  all seventeen million of us, spend three quid  on joining the Blairish party and  voting for Jerry C. While we still can. If we can also join the Tories and spoil our ballot papers, well, so much the better.


 I was perplexed at the time, when Labour MP, Emily Thornface, was attacked for  publishing a photograph of a White Van Man's home, replete with Transit and flag of St George;  she posted it without comment and I felt OK about both her and about her subject. Van drivers are a uniquely vile form of life, for sure, but if a man wants to display a nationalistic flag over his gaff, well, that's his affair - apart from in Scotland, best part of England, where, soon, never mind the flags, every new-born child will have to be tattooed with the Saltire and an image of Ugly Wee Gnasher - all flags are provocative, that's what they're for, they're a touch of martial savagery enshrined in our culture but White Van Man wasn't doing anything illegal, and nor was Ms Thornface in publishing her image of his domicile, give her the benfit, I thought, of the doubt.  That was until I caught sight of her raging and drooling on Andy Neil's Daily Snide show, today.  The seventeen million are wrong, she fumed, and must be corrected.  I was born into the Labour party, I love the Labour party, just hate its voters. What a cunt. If I could've reached into the set and strangled her, I would have. 

I do not know where this gross impertinence came from, this reversal of roles, where we are expected to as they tell us, the filthy scum but  I suspect it stems from the days of  Ali Campbell 

and his horrifying contempt not only for people's views but for their very lives, the rotten fucking bastard.  If this shit kicks off as it may, Big Al better leave the country, lest he finds himself, to the joy of the sane world,   piano-wired to a lamp post, 

like other war criminals.

I remember saying at the time, back when order-order took off, that if we let them away with Iraq, we would let them away with anything, 
as we now are.

Saturday 25 June 2016


 Well, the voters got it entirely wrong and speaking as a thrice-disgraced minister, amply rewarded with millions of EuroPounds,  I can say with some certainty that what the Labour party must do is sack its leader - Oh, I suppose I might be persuaded to stand, if the package was right - but more importantly it must listen to its traditional supporters and find a completely new way of lying to them. 
No, you can trust me on this, you really can.
Unlike the electorate, whom one simply cannot trust at all.
That'll be two thousand pounds, please.
(Simpering PBC aide presses bundles of our cash on Mandelstein, saying, thank you, your Lordship, thank you so much, thank you, thank you.)

 All I can say, Andrew, is that this is what happens when you allow common, working  people to vote, I mean, they just don't know what's best for them. I  mean, I know that that sounds anti-democratic but I am anti-democratic, course I am. And that's the truth of it.
What?  Fraudulent dossier, blackmail, murder? 
 Dunno what you're talking about, mate.
No wonder I get depressed, is it?
That'll be two thousand pounds, please.
(Simpering PBC aide presses bundles of our cash on Big Al, the infamous, pisshead, bi-curious, porno author, saying, thank you, Sir, thank you so much, thank you, thank you. And please remember me to Mr'n'Mrs Blair)

 I simply say to the peepul ov Brittun that I rather wish I hadn't worked my guts out for them. And that this disobedience simply wouldn't have happened in my day. And if it had we would just have ignored it. 
That'll be twenty thousand pounds, please.

 Well, as the heir to the last Tory prime minister, Mr Blair, all I can say is that maybe I should give Mr Farage a peerage and appoint him to one of our withdrawal committees but I'm jolly well not going to. 
And there probly won't achelly be a withdrawal, anyway.
 And quite proply, too, in my view.
What? Sack the chancellor?  Just because he's a vengeful junkie?
I don't think so.

He was always a weakling, Flashman, right from the time that instead of forming a minority government and then facing another election, he roped himself to the nauseating Clegg and threw-up an earthworks  of  the five-year, fixed-term parliament.  That he slinks away, now, tearful, is entirely appropriate. Cam and Sam, revealed as worthless, blubbering tossers.
He will be remembered for cruel, wheelchair-burning Austerity,  the cunt; for vulgar, tax evading money-grubbing class warfare, for failed warmongering and most of all, 
for this.

A commoner speaks.

Soubry at large.

 Speaking as a minister, a lawyer and a former TeeVee presenter, I think I'll probably go on the piss for a while. 
It's my daughters, y'see, they feel that older voters have stolen their future from them.
And of course they have. And mine, too.And what a loss that will be to the country, forfeiting the services of some snide old buzzard, like me.
I mean, who do these people think they are, disobeying their leaders?  
Yes, I expect Boris'll sack me. So, a very bad day for democracy, all round. 
Yes, large gin, please, and slimline tonic.
Yes, on expenses, of course

And in Scotland, best part of England, the air is thick with infantile grievance.
Humza, the Tribesmen's  Dandy.
He swans around like an old-time Tory pimp, does Humza, over-coiffed, over-groomed, over-dressed.
Who would give houseroom  to some gabshite, moron  blabbermouth like him,  wearing a waistcoat with lapels on it?
What is the lumpen McProletariat thinking about, electing an overdressed Z-lister. They could have the real thing, by voting for Nigel Poundland, in his pimp clothes.

They do seem terribly touchy-feely, 

Gnasher and Humza 

Unlike Gnasher and hubby. 

 One might suspect the worst, 
except that the Tribesmen are a model of probity and morality. 

 The FatMan.
Three salaries, three pensions, three sets of exes and  a 65 grand resettlement grant between his two stints as a Westminster MP.
Why on Earth would any poor Scot vote for this cunt?
And that's not to mention his support for Donald Trump building on a Site of Special Scientific Interest and  ruthlessly bullying Aberdonians getting  in the way of his vulgar golf resort.
He has to be the most crooked politician in the UK, the FatMan, yet he's worshipped for his cheesy soundbites and betting tips.

Expect Gnasher's boy, Gorgeous Humza, anyway, to claim that the last IndyRef proved that Scotland was no longer part of the UK, even though it did the opposite, and that they should call another IndyRef, just to prove the point.
It will never happen of course, for the Tribesmen would lose a second referendum more heavily than they did the first. Last night's result proves that, come a plebiscite, there is no such thing as party loyalty.
And the thing about which Gnasher must be shitting her ugly wee self is the  the almost inevitable contagion - contagion, they call it, as though democracy was a disease  - which will see other countries fleeing the Project and the SNP nevertheless  demanding to join it independently of the UK, just as its falling apart, and that's supposing she could win an IndyRef, which she can't. 

Aye, jes because Portugal and them Netherlands and mebbe Italy's all wantin tae leave, aye, an' the French, too,  disnae mean that the sovereign people a the SNP tribe wouldnae want tae  leave Thatcher's England  an' join a sinkin' ship.  Cos that's whit wur like.
Stupid cunt.

I was struck by the latest in a long procession of treacherous union barons, in this case baroness Francis O'Grady, pretending that such as she actually give a flying fuck about British working people.  She's  a dirge right out of the Jack Dromey  Songbook.

Well, of course, as the leader of the TUC my main concern is the multi-national corporations for whom I work and the European trade union leaders with whom I junket, I mean network, on behalf of all workers everywhere, and not just British ones. I mean, just as Brother Dromey says,  what sort of union leader would I be if I discriminated in favour of British workers|? But look, I mean, we've let the people have a vote and now we all have to quickly get back to normal and ignore it. Y'know, business as usual, six-figure salaries for union leaders and zero hours contracts for ordinary people.
That'll be three thousand Euros, please.

It is astonishing, isn't it, how MediaMinster still claims to be the Keeper of Truth's key.

 Dopey Huw Edwards prattling-on like a school caretaker; that fucking awful dimwit, Kay Bully, Laura Wotsitsberg, even Nick ToeNails has made a comeback, explaining things to us; Murdoch's  boy, young newlywed, Andy Neil;  the money-changers,  the spivs, the multi-nationals, all of whom  completely misread the public mood, all up, nevertheless,  with the lark, ear-bashing us afresh, with the wisdom of the masters, telling us how we got it wrong.

The simply refuse to understand that this result was a foregone conclusion, that most people had made-up their minds years and years ago about Europe, few were actually obediently telling slag journalists that they needed more facts;  our masters and betters didn't understand that the sham of what they called a Debate was utterly irrelevant. On the face of it, the idea that anyone in their right mind would be persuaded of anything by Boris Johnson is laughable, as is the proposition that Jerry Corbyn's lack of enthusiasm for this shitty charade had any effect.
People, enough people, are simply and quite rightly, sick to death of MediaMinster and all its participants, people are no longer prepared to be shat upon from the Great Latrine of State.

However much it is undermined by sewer vermin, by idiot NewPeople, bleating on cue; by stockmarket spivs and career filth like Hague and Fallon, this result is tremendous and Britain will have, for the first time recently, encouraged the world. Just see the scowling, frightened Bruxelloise, 

their poxy arses swiftly planted on the  Freedom's lid, 
lest it come off. 

A lifetime, a lifetime, mind, look you, devoted, totally and utterly and completely, absolutely devoted and committed  to the interests of working people. 

NewLabour, thank God,  is finally dead, the Tories will fracture as the idea of another Bullingdon Boy in Downing Street sinks in;  Scotland must sober-up  or sink, impoverished,  behind barbed wire borders, lesser than Greece, its leaders pissing in the wind.

As we were saying just a few days ago, vis a vis Brexit and Trump, this apparent - yet misnamed - move to the Right is actually an older  rallying cry, stolen and silenced by Kinnock, Blair, Brown, Mandelstein, Prescott and Campbell.  What so-called rightists are saying, all across the Western world is actually, Fuck GlobaCorp, Fuck MediaMinster, Fuck Washington,
Workers of the World, unite.

Now, where's that champagne,
I'll drink to that.

Tuesday 21 June 2016


I went to see the doctor. 
Hmmm, she greeted me, heart, neck, you bin in the wars. 
Got me thinking.

 My Mum used to say it, soothingly, sympatico, coddling an infant graze or a bruise, wee ishmael's been in the wars. The wars, not the war. 

Must be a saying, I thought, brought-forward  from the Sharpe Wars,  the Peninsular Wars, the Raj wars, the Hornblower wars -  events which  were maybe folkloric reality to her parents.

After finishing with the 'doc - replenishing a stock of GlobaPharm  opiate prescriptions I'll never fill  - I was puzzled enough to googleseek  and it turns out that he's been in the wars dates from the fourteenth century, hacking and chopping Crusader Wars, a time pre-Poppy, pre-Help4Heroes, pre-military pensions, from a time before PrinceHarry'sLeglessFinest  dragging themselves to icy celebrity at the North Pole; he's been in the wars dates from a time far worse than that of the Haig PoppyMakers being set to fund their own artificial limbs and white sticks and be jolly well grateful.

Oh, he's been in the wars originated  when limbless ex-servicemen, home from the Holy Wasted Land, were abandoned by monarch, lord and prelate to begging through the cesspit streets and brutish lanes, their existence explained to the curious by that phrase, Oh, he's been in the wars.
I guess that, one way and another, generally at the will of some vicious, inbred pope or prince, the wars have always been a frightful backdrop, as regular as the seasons.
What's been niggling me about those vermin, the ones extolling Bremain - funny, that, how those preferring democracy, of sorts, are christened with a baby-name, a made-up,  nursery word, Brexiteers, faintly ridiculous, while no such linguistic mockery is applied to GlobaCrime's servants, nobody calls them Bremainers, nobody but me - is their insistence that we owe recent, relative peace in Europe to the likes of Fatty Soames, Chris Patten,  Leon Brittan, Roy Jenkins, Pete Mandelstein and Mr'n'Mrs Kinnock,  our own EuroSluts, stuffing their faces,  lining their grubby pockets and greasing their poxy rectums with stolen money, aggrandising themselves with commissions and secretariats, their scabby heads going like fiddlers' elbows, furiously blow-jobbing organised crime.  This obnoxious shower of filth, singly or collectively, are the very, very worst of a very bad lot, not only unspeakably corrupt but breathtakingly incompetent, good, as the poet, stasnislav,  has it, for fuck all; greedy, idle, impudent, shameless, brazenly insolent, fraudulent, treacherous, unctuous, thieving fucking bastards, child molesters, pimps, drunks, blackmailers, extortionists and degenerates of every stripe. These people would eat bucketsful of lepershit if there was a pension at the end of it, a bauble, a sinecure. Any bastard come around here telling me that this gang have made the world a safer place, well, he better have a good dental surgeon on stand-by.

Anyone still remember Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, 

or Des The Cunt  Browne 

or Geoff The Cunt  Hoon, 

crooks, slags, pimps; war criminals, squaddy-killers, child incinerators  and war ministers to Tony Blair, Gordon Snot and the CIA?  Or Mad John Reid,  the pisshead Jock dwarf bullyboy,  who masterminded the Afghanistan fuck-up, the one which would see no dead Tommies, unless you count the five hundred dead, the useless, drunken, cock-waving Glaswegian fuckpig?  

There won't even be a shot fired, opined Wee John McClausewitz, self-styled BigMan of Labour, as he rolled-up his shirt sleeves to destroy one ministry after another, sending Tommy off to 21st century irregular warfare, in plywood-clad WW2 LandRovers, with battlefield radios that would only receive Radio 2. Fuck me, he must be the patron saint of Wootton Fucking Bassett, that drunken, murdering git, Reid.  The NewLabour front bench was spectacularly corrupt and inept and grew moreso under Snotty's insecure, raging and drooling,  psychotic imperium, worthless twins and brothers and married couples appointed to high office, the more likely to form a mutually protective bodyguard around  the mad, snot-eating lunatic. These worthless crazies, they   would've declared war on anyone they were told to, still would, given half a chance and a few quid.

There has been no need, however, of  a war in Europe, although there's been the odd flare-up, Srebrenica comes to mind, in which our indispensible European allies, the Dutch, so distinguished themselves, by running like fuck from the massacre of 7,000, back, no doubt, to their cheese and pornography.  There has been no need  for war in Europe because fortunes have been made,  weapons fired and re-purchased, new weapons trialled, troops trained - but mainly fortunes made - since WW2 in Indo-China, Iraq, Afghanistan and with any luck, soon, in Syria.   Those pesky ISILites, eh, if not for them Winston Cameron could even now,  be seen worshipped  by grateful Syrians.

Fortunes have similarly been made in the supply and maintainance of what we call NATO, a huge force, controlled by Uncle Sam, the operational boundaries and territorial ambitions of which are infinitely elastic.  Should, of course, Mr Putin and his crazed oligarchy rock the Ukraine boat too much, then war will once again flare in Europe, even though the Ukraine, as far as I know, is not traditionally part of Europe, no moreso than is Turkey but hey, what do I know, now that my betters tell me that gender is not specific but a spectrum, a continuum, and that any person is whatever gender it feels like being, may soon even marry its dog, and take it into whichever toilet it feels to be in accordance with its gender d'jour, heedless of outdated, oppressive and unjust concepts of  fixed genderalityism.  Yeah, you bitches in here, all prissy because you claim you was born women and you got more right to piss in here, well, lemme tell you, I chose to be a woman, so legally,  I got more rights in here than you do. AND you gotta swear on a stack of Bibles or any other book of faith, such as this week's LGBT Times,  that I actually, am more woman than you lot, else you are dissin' the whole concept of human rights. Or more man, actually if I was a woman, standing in the khazi next door but thinking I was a man, I'd be more man than the men.  'slike that Hamlet said, one of my great heroines, for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Forgive me, I know I've mentioned this before but the more I think about it the crazier it seems, although perfectly emblematic of the times. It's like there's a parallel universe of complete Absurdity, flowing into ours, from some ruinously diseased  black arsehole.
I thought I'd better make-up a word for it - polyfecalmorphy - everything turning into shit.

I had a drug vision, a few years back. 
I was briefly on OxyCodon, and like some damn fool with an over-developed hospitality gland I was at the dinner table with a trio of guests; they came up here for a free holiday most years because I kinda liked him, his folks were Windrush Jamaicans although Peter had become very white and civilised.  They were two nitwit, pushy parents with their ghastly brat of, I dunno, six, seven.  
Mum, I've mentioned previously, she was the HR graduate who thought that coal was made in a TESCO factory, Oh, in West Bromwich, somewhere like that, isn't that where the Black Country is, with all the factories that make coal? 
When I told her what coal was, where and when it came from - stored-up sunshine - she looked at me as though I was stark-raving mad, a lunatic, unhinged.  What?  They invented coal, hundreds of millions of years ago?

Anyway, at every dinner, the brat had to be the centre of attention. No question of her having her tea at five or six o'clock and going to bed, no, she had to join us and dominate the entire evening from eight o'clock onwards, beaming at her own every witticism, applauded, literally applauded by Mum and Dad.

On this occasion I had just recently had surgery and was - unusually - doped-up to my eyeballs and I only had to squint to see this trio as sitting inside a cocoon of shiny, self-generated spit, they were all speaking insect language to each other, inside the cocoon, hands waving like mandibles, 

in time to high-pitched squeaks, the child being the group leader, everything flashed-by-eye to her, for her approval, Mummybug and Daddybug, vying for her attention. It was all revolting.

I took mrs ishmael into the kitchen,  Can you see the spit, where'd all that fucking spit come from, it's like a candy floss machine, only it's spit, 'slike  a fountain of fucking spit, and they're all inside it, squeaking and wet, it's kinda green, the spit, and it's like a force field.  I think she put me to bed.  The spit-shield was real, though, I know it was, it was just the HillBilly Heroin making it visible.

I had been at the new Birmingham Science Museum  with these people just a few months previously and Peter had dragged me into the corner of a display and spent forty minutes explaining to me how his wife was insane.  And now, here he was, encased in spit with her. All greenish. Like transluscent snot. And squeaking.

I have never seen them since, anyway, Peter,  his mad Mrs and his evil QueenBee brat, nor  ever want to, the image of the child-dominated spit bubble is always lurking there, just  behind my eyes, just  when I start thinking I have acquired an understanding of my fellows. And so it is with the Bremainers and their talk of peace, they are just waving their mandibles at us, all moistly together,  clicking and squeaking, inside  their spit palace, fooling us, in a manner  that results in us not quite being able to see what's going on. Or thinking we're mad and not them

All of these bastards start a war at the drop of a hat. How can anyone look at Mad Micky Fallon and not smell Carnage, the man's a fucking monster, an uneducated, ill-tempered, larcenous red-faced, braying Tory bully, an utter fuckpig. Sticky-Fingers Malcolm Shouty and the vile  Jack Torture, they are filth, they are seen to be, known to be, proven to be  filth.And yet they lecture us about Peace and Virtue,  they have had no need to dip their snouts in European blood for they have drenched the streets of Arabia in it, of North Africa, of South East Asia and of Northern Ireland.

I dunno upon whom Donald Trump has rained fire and shrapnel and other than being a spiv, a ponce  and a vengeful, Tory hypocrite I can find no fault in Nigel Poundland, either, yet I am told to see both as horsemen of the Apocalypse, when, in fact, Death's monsters are already stabled, fed  and exercised in Brussels and Washington and in MediaMinster.

Since the meeting with my doctor and the thought of the wars, the role of the recruiting sergeant has been buzzing around my mind, whether it be the ghastly Beatification of Saint Jo or the stridency of the Bremainers'  taunts, we are urged by liars and crooks to do the right thing for our country, when what we are driven to do is of benefit only to our masters; the same dogs which snapped at townsful of young men, the more eagerly to make them enlist for Flanders massacre, now roam the streets again, snarling;  the same  wistful lady arseholes send white feathers to those who object. The SpivLords of New Cotswoldia hector us as though they were Lord Kitchener, himself, whilst delivering us up to a junta of greed and corruption, to an unelected oligarchy of consumerisme totalitairienne nouvelle; to limitless immigration and to the iniquitouis European Arrest Warrant.

 The British folk song, once, like the pamphleteers,  a voice of resistance and satire,  has long been usurped by showbiz reptiles like Sir Billy Bragg, in his career, as a folk singer  and Filth-O-Graph  columnist. 
Rich Americans, like the sensitive diva, Ms Joan Baez and the incomparable artiste, Mr Bob Dylan, have grown hugely rich on the Childe ballads of  Scotland and Northern England and countless British musicians have corporatised the treasure house that is the Copper Family Songbook, the banks of the sweet primroses;  the sweet morning in  May; the hard times of old England.
The songs, however, own themselves and exist, still, to be applied as they were intended to be, as an antidote to MediaMinster, then and now.

This one, here, is an historic Anglo-Irish counterblast to the taking of the King's or Queen's poxy, one-shilling inducement.  The recorded song dates from the late 'seventies,  the joyful visualisation is much more recent but if you squint you can see that,  Redcoat or David Beckham, the recruiting sergeant would always see us march to a ruinous drumbeat,  whilst they march to none.
 Maestro Paul Brady is old, now, sourly marinaded in  vinegary showbusiness;  the song, however, a caustic and lyrical refutation of  vicious, mendacious  state charlatanry,
remains the same.
A song, now, for Europe.

Sunday 19 June 2016


.......Thirdly, I am right wing, have many books about WW2 including ones about the 3rd Reich and Hitler, and I have a gun. All legal and harmless but for how long?
People are acting, and it is acting, as if Santa Claus had been shot by the BNP.
This is shit what they're doing with that poor girl's corpse.

This was mr richard, last night, on the continuing story of Saint Jo, and he fashions, for me, anyway, a terminological conundrum.
That a nation so absorbedly  death cultist leaps hungrily on this  latest, manufactured morbidity is unsurprising, Death is the new football;  some worthless, junkie film star, some stupid wastrel celebrity brat or  a preening, overblown pop-music narcissist, their deaths are portrayed  as stations of a showbiz cross. each worthy of grateful  contemplation,  each inviting global emotional offertory, the witholding of which is ferociously damned as Blasphemy. 

Well, pack me off to the Inquisition if you like but  I don't give a flying fuck about Philip Seymour Hoffman, Peaches Geldof or  David Bowie and I certainly don't give a flying fuck about Jo Wotsername, other than as previously expressed;  her husband is feasting on celebrity in a way that would shame even  Major Tim Gabshite - whose life must now be anti-climactic all the way to the grave. 
 I am a motherless child, myself, and it is a hard road when Mother is gone but these two will be better positioned to manage than was I or countless others, unhosannahed; countless others  not only orphaned but maimed and burnt  by LabourParty fragmentation bombs.  I certainly do not relish Saint Jo's death but I am wholly indifferent to it, shit happens.

That was not the conundrum, though. This corner of Cyber Street  is peopled by Marxists and Marx-haters, by Tories, active and passive, by statists and non-statists, by liberals and reactionaries;  hedging my denominational  bets, I have  for a long time, described myself as a Zen-Presbyterian-Marxist - shit happens; take what you have and give to the poor and workers of the world unite, they all seem to coalesce quite nicely for me.  When I occupied a space at Colonel von Fawkes's Pizza House of Blood, the multitudinious audience of my friend, stanislav, a young Polish plumber, despite his clear, Leftish leanings,  was largely what would then have been called right-wingers.  I have never stopped puzzling about this curious, contradictory attraction, maybe mr dick the prick, or mr old rightie or mr right-wing git, if they find an idle moment, might speculate about why an old Lefty, such as young stanislav, resonated so clearly amongs so many old Righties;  that's the conundrum which I found myself articulating the other night, to mrs ishmael, on the subject of Candidate Trump; sometimes, I said, it seems the only way you can get to the left is by turning to the right.
I see a Trump victory and a Brexit victory as being moves to positions which classically speaking are, have been  or can be interpreted as being on the political right.  The problem, conundrumistically speaking,  is that I see both moves as containing the germ of revolutionary socialism nouvelle, inasmuch as they both eschew unbridled, global  robber capitalism and both will involve the dismantiling and the dispossessing of a corrupt, supra-national, criminal hegemony, far worse than any monarchy in history, including our own, as well as the smashing of the corrupt printing presses of skymadeupnewsandfilth, the end of squalid, pornographic McKenzieism; the sacking of hereditary national broadcasters pursuivant, the Dimbleby gang and the banishing of those currently running the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation, every last bastard of which conflates his or her own in-Europe wellbeing with the national wellbeing.

If, as is feared, the Eurendum is won by the Yellow Press - all of it - then people will glance towards Scotland, the best part of England, where the recent referendum, although resoundingly lost, was challenged within moments, where its loss by one side  has prompted a campaign for its re-running, democrarcy being less important than the desired result. Very European.

mr richard, therefore, as do many of us, still, describes himself in terms of archaic political esoterica;  there are currently no right and left, not in the traditional use of the terms. And even if there were, it wouldn't matter for this is a referendum on a principle, not an election for one or another programme of government.

The dragging of a still-warm body to the Hustings of Entitlement is something mediaeval; shall we yet see, Saint Jo reliquaries, containing bits of hair, fingerneails, pay slips, essays and  job applications, in the presence of which, after voting the right way, we might  blessed be? 
 In that fiendish sanctifying of a slain career politician  -
This is shit, what they're doing with that poor girl's corpse. - 
what we see in this reluctantly granted and demonically rigged plebiscite  is the conflict  not between right and left
 but between right and wrong.

Friday 17 June 2016


I don't now how many British people die violently  but I bet it's a lot. I'll have a look. There were 537 murders in the UK in 2014. The occupation of Afghanistan killed over 500 British service personnel. In Ulster, 3,600 people died in the Adams-McGuinness-blair Terror4Peace Atrocity. Police service deaths in mainland Britain average less than one per year since 1945, while an average of thirty people die per year  in police custody or during contact with the police. People die violently every day, at the hands of others; I have never heard this called an attack on democracy, MedieMinster, of course, sees itself as democracy, when it is in fact a filthy sewer, seeting  with monstrous vermin. 

Thus far, one member of parliament has died at the hands of an individual said to have mental health problems - probably exacerbated by some bent, useless  cunt of a  health secretary like Bubbles Burnham or  Jeremy Hunt - and whilst this is regrettable and tragic for her family the MediaMinster response has been utterly revolting, obnoxious, unbelievable, the stuff of banana republicanism.

The late Ms Cox was an Oxbridge aid worker/activist-turned politician, there is a pestilence of such on all sides - not that there are any longer any sides - a plague of researchers or activists turned aide, turned bag carrier, parachuted into some Northern,  rotten safe seat, some hotbed of institutionalised noncing, bribery and vote-rigging, the fiefdoms of cuntscum like Jack Torture and Crooked Dennis McShane, where the locals would vote for any old slag, pimp, blackmailer or nonce,  wotsisname, Steve, Damczuk, is it, and his succession of young tarts; Mandelstein, Kinnock junior in Wales, Mr Harriet Harman in Erdington - I flung a book, yesterday,  at the TeeVee in the kitchen. It was Jack Dromey-Harman, prematurely, then, flashmourning Saint Jo. Remember Jack?  Married to Harriet Soursister, he was one of NewLabour's treacherous union barons who contorted  the labour movement  so's Tony Blair could push a broken bottle up its arse. He was the Labour party treasurer who knew fuck all about Mr David Abrahams' huge, illegal donation to Snotty's slush fund; best of all, Dromey, spouse of the instigator of women-only short-lists, was permitted to side-step this restriction because, well, because his Mrs was the deputy leader and he needed to be alongside her, on the gravytrain, and in govament, and  both he and she were beneficiaries of Snotty's wholly corrupt, family-friendly nepotism - the Alexanders, Wendy FishFace and Wee Dougie; the Ballses, Ed and FrostyPants; the gay Eagle Sisters; the ghastly Milibands and the Harman-Dromeys, Jesus, he was a piece of work, was Snotty, lovely to see him marching about, Bremaining, drugged-up, ,demagoguing his jowly head off, the young parent, waving his moral compass in furiously nail-bitten hands as though he wasn't as bent as a dog's hind leg, rotten all the way through,  and mad as a fucking hatter. 

And it is the same with  any braying, red-faced, spanking-mad  Tory gabshite, some descendant of  pure filth -  Francis Maude, Jake Rees-Mogg, Bernie Jenkins, even John Selwyn Beefburger has a son in there, doeesn't he?  Christ, they go on about the House of Lords being a shithole hereditary anomaly whilst the Commons turns into something worse. I only ever caught a glimpse of Ms Cox and thought, Oh, fuck, here we go again another elfin, ice maiden careerist entitlementista, another Yvette Cooper, another wannabe millionaire house-flipper, how long before her spouse is on the payroll, too, like Caroline Flint's or Ian Duncan-Shit's or Jacqui Schmidt's porno-hubby, wanking himself silly in Redditch, at our expense.  I thought to myself, at first sight of Saint Jo, how many more of these fuckers are there, simpering about how much they care, about poor people, for a hundred grand a year and a king's pension and hubby on the payroll, and in due course, the brats, too.

Now that she's dead we are set about with Hypocrisy's cynical cudgels, this is the worst thing ever, no, really, nothing as bad as this has ever happened;  the nation is in danger.  Hitler? No, nothing like such a threat to parliamentary democracy. A young mother slain, a valiant servant of the people, a lie dedicated to the service of others, I mean a life, course I do; the house  united in milking this depressing event for all it's worth. Corbyn the Ineffective mourning the death of a potential  high-flier, the PigFucker doubtless hinting that unless we do as we're told everybody will be shot dead on the street by nutters.

Her husband, is it Brendan, is as tasteless as the NewPeople can be, estranged from Decency's simple No Comment, he's face-thinging and whatever else they do, these i-zombies,  flash-mourning, bearing their plastic souls to each other. 'Swot she woulda wanted.

Anyone being shot to death wounds us all, but only very slightly and Saint Jo's death is remarkable only in the disgraceful use to which it is being so cynically put. 
mrs woman on a raft reminded us recently of another death in Florida, of a singer, suggesting that compared to the unseemly and fraudulent hysteria surrounding the gay-on-gay slaughter in Pulse the indifference to her death must mean it was less permanent, somehow less fatal.

And so it is with Saint Jo.  
That she as an MP is irrelevant, she was shot dead in an act of mayhem, not revolution. It is for her nearest and dearest to mourn and lament, the rest is an impertinence.  That her death is hijacked for motley political ends shows only how utterly depraved and venal is the trade she was so desperate to ply.

Thursday 16 June 2016


It may simply be urban mythology noire but it is said that the late Walt Disney, bringer of joy and confusion to so many children, had his corpse frozen, anticipatimg a world in which he might be resurrected, and in which, preferably, there were no Jews.  Nothing would suprise me.  
If, however, the Great Anthropomorphiser does lie frozen in some jewelled vault, may I suggest that he be be defrosted and fed to the fucking alligators?

I guess the child's father will never be able to close his eyes again, without seeing  that ugly bastard munching on his heart's delight;  that should be punishment enough; it needs to be said, however, that relying on GlobaCorp not to be criminally negligent is negligent in itself.  In any event, letting your kid paddle anywhere in the alligator capital of America  seems dreadfully foolhardy, these creatures are predators, they do what predators do; Clement
Freud or some ugly old 'gator, that's what they do, lie in wait for some weakling and pounce on them. 
There is an infinity of paranoid possibilities,  being eaten by an alligator in Florida is one of the more readliy imaginable. Me, if I heard there were alligators  in Somerset, a country's length from me, I'd move to Ireland; as for paying good money to go and holiday with them? Well, it takes all sorts.

A spokesperson for Alton Towers issued the following communique: 

Our fawts'n'prayers at this dreadful time  are with the shareholders of DisneyWorld, the major ones, anyway; we can imagine what they are going through  in these difficult days. We are confident, however, that a junior employee will be found to take full responsibility for what is just, actually, a minor oversight and that a new foolproof system will be introduced in which a senior manager will have to sign any hungry crocodiles in or out of the facility.

The parents? Well, they'll be give them as little money as possible, they will be the subject of a TeeVee news report or two and then they'll sink back into obscurity, yes, like the crocodile did. 

Speaking on skymadeupnewsandfilth, the current prime minister of the UK. Mr Dave PigFucker, said, 

I'm warning you, if you vote to leave Europe, alligators will eat all your children. So there. 
Don't say I didn't warn you, when your precious grandchild is last seen sticking out of some alligators' ugly mush.
They can be released, y'know, into the waterways, where they'll breed like Muslims in Bradford. I'm not saying we, in the Bremain camp will release alligators into the Stratfiord-on-Avon canal. But you never know, if we leave Europe, anything might happen.

Monday 13 June 2016


Of course, when the Obamadrama team scripts a drone massacre of wogs, or when they permit Dave HamFace and Mick Fallon to murder some British wog citizens abroad then these are wise, considered and entirely justfied actions performed by the leaders of the FreeWorld, the better to protect we, their subjects.

When we torture without end some hapless ragheads, bartered to the CIA on the streets of Karachi in exchange for guns, drugs, warlordships  or even presidencies, this barbarism is portrayed as Freedom's Last Great Hope, manifest.

When Squadron Leader Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap napalms a playground or ten, strafes a wedding party or a funeral, in the furtherance of the Haliburton-GlobaDeath-JPMorgan-Tony'n'ImeldaBlairplc International Organised Crime Bonanza he is acting in the spirit of the Few, those heroes who, commanded by Uncle Sam, (David Cameron, c2010) won the Battle of Britain.

Goodness, though, comes at a high price, the evildoers simply won't be corrected and lo, now we witness the Martyrdom of the Holy Gender Contiuum, it's victims, may their invented names live forevermore, already scourged and whipped by society's refusal to applaud their  elastic sexuality, its failure to endorse their impertinent stupidity, now lie dead in Celebrity's mortuary, flashmourned the world over;  their lives almiosr infinitely more valuable than those of hundreds of thousands of Iraqis, whose murders were never even counted, save by lonesome, derided medics, journalists and activists. 
 The Lancet study's figure of 654,965 excess deaths through the end of June 2006 is based on household survey data. The estimate is for all excess violent and nonviolent deaths. That also includes those due to increased lawlessness, degraded infrastructure, poorer healthcare, etc. 601,027 deaths (range of 426,369 to 793,663 using a 95% confidence interval) were estimated to be due to violence. 31% of those were attributed to the Coalition, 24% to others, 46% unknown. The causes of violent deaths were gunshot (56%), car bomb (13%), other explosion/ordnance (14%), airstrike (13%), accident (2%), unknown (2%). A copy of a death certificate was available for a high proportion of the reported deaths (92% of those households asked to produce one).[33][34][35]

 As to the fatalities suffered by the Blair-Bush Colaition of Greed, hostile-fire deaths accounted for 3,777 of the 4,799 total coalition military deaths, the other thousand or so being the result of friendly-fire fuck ups.

I think that's about half a per cent  of all the deaths  in the Iraq Invasion were among Coaltion troops. And it is these fatalities which arouse such feeble condemnation as there still is.

In a recent  trying and difficult Jimmy McGovern TeeVee play, Reg, Tim Roth played Reg Keys, the father of one of the six Military Police abandoned  by the Army to a savage death in Afghanistan. Enraged by Blair's gross pantomiming for the US Senate, Reg decided to fight him at the next Sedgefield  election.  I remember the events, I remember the shocking Redcap deaths and I remember being irritated by Reg,  by Rose Gently, in Scotland, in fact by all the parents bleating that their sons shouldn't have been sent to war by Vice and Greed, as though the Army really was just a well-paid opportunity ot learn a trade and then retire to Civvy Street.
Moving though Reg Keys' determination  was and clever as was the splicing of Roth into this footage of a shifty-looking Blair being harangued by Reg at the election count  

I found the most telling dramatic moment to be, counter-intuitively,  when a man he was canvassing roundly rebuked Reg on the doorstep:
 Th'was reet, mon, t'kill your lad, he was  invadin' their fucking country, they wasn't a fuckin' insurgency, bonny lad, they was the fuckin' resistance. 
Another said, Och, away man, there were allus two things I tolt my lads, nae fuckin motorbikes and dinnae join the fucking army. What did ya think would 'appen?
Both of Mr Keys' interlocutors, back then, were presaging, in their way, the inevitable flowering of Iraq's poisonous seed - the HeadChoppers' Revolt and its satellites, in Paris, Belgium and now Florida.
Tim Roth, who played Reg Keys, is forceful in his insistence that Blair belongs in handcuffs, behind bars.
If only the mourning Floridians were so clear-sighted.

Mr Keys went on to win 4000 votes, although the stupid fuckers of Sedgefield voted Blair comfortably back into Number Ten. I expect many of them are now voting UKIP.  Reg is a bold attempt to  blow oxygen on the embers of Blair's criminality, although the hedging which will surround the report by the useless bastard, Chilcott, will inevitably extinguish them completely, and Tony and his doxy will grin at us until Satan calls them home. It's on the i-thing, if you have the stomach.

But Uncle Sam and his  sense of proportion.
Estimates of deaths caused by the American War in Vietnam range from 1,500,000 to 3,500,000 of which 52,800 were US servicepersons;  far and away the most important 52,800, the other coupla million were just gooks. We have been enculturated by Hollywood and the rest of the Empire Propaganda Initiative to mourn and worship the tiny handful of US servicepersons named on the Vietnam Memorial and to obliterate from our minds the millions of wogs and slopes whose deaths are utterly meaningless.
And so it will be with Florida.

There is such feasting to be had over this grim event that skymadeupnewsandfilth and the PBC probably don't know from which corpse to  take their first mouthful. And there's the rub, not bad enough that a roomful of revellers are shot to death, their families given  a taste  of life in Baghdad or Kabul or Gaza but the whole thing will become an extravaganza  of degenerate, neo-liberal elitism.  The bald fact that vile US overseas behaviour has prompted  a reaction-in-kind will be coddled in some bogus, buttery bullshit about minority rights.  They are dead or wounded, that's bad enough, how they fucked one another is irrelevant, although that, errant and butchered genitalia,  will become the cause celebre
And people call me cynical 

I would and have gone to the wall that John might love George but I'm fucked if I'll raise a finger to help John pretend to be Susan; just you watch, though, gay vicars up and down the land, 'busloads of Sandi Toskvigs and Steven Frys, Graham Nortons and Julian Clearys, heterosexualists of every persuasion   will seize on this  event to damn the curse of straitism. Sir Elton, where are you, when your people need your  trashy minstrelsy? 

Gay global hysteria should on this occasion  be neither here nor there, we are well accustomed to it,we are obliged now to view everything through a hissy, mutant prism, hectored into seeing the norm as abhorrent; this is primarily a mass homicide, no greater or lesser for being perpetrated against a sub-grouping which the killer considered blasphemous.
What we are witnessing is another perversion of reality, this is an act of war - as Mr Key's tormentors said, what the fuck do we expect to happen when we run riot over other cultures and religions and races and call it Freedom? 

That will all be sideswiped, though,  as  we swallow the line that the Massacre of the Blessed GBLTers is the worst such act, the worst shooting  in US history.  
The fact that the United States, itself,  is the modern home of slavery, racism, ethnic cleansing  and global state terrorism is usefully ignored by those commentating shrilly on this relatively minor skirmish, for in massacre after massacre Uncle Sam's heroic military forces first practised their warfare of liberation on the native American.

The Massacre at Wounded Knee is probably the best-known episode of Uncle Sam's ethnic cleansings, although there are scores of others, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries alone.

As to seldom learned US history, consider the massacre of Wounded Knee.

December 29, 1890
Briefly, depending on who does the counting (and numbers are hotly contested between “official“ sources and the Lakota people), between around 350 to over 500 people were shot down in a mass slaughter on that date. Most of the people were sick, starved, and exhausted from being pursued by the US cavalry. They were attacked at dawn. A great number of those slain that day were elderly, very sick, or infants. Nursing mothers were shot in the back, babies were tossed into the air as targets. Corpses lay frozen in the snow for days afterwards. 
A mass slaughter by gunfire.

In 1923, in Rosewood, Florida,  in a bout of Jim Crow penis envy, scores of negroes were lynched, castrated abd burnt-out of their homes and churches, with the connivance of lawnforcement and state government
Somehow, though, this lone, Afghani-US citizen, yesterday, in Florida,  with his fifty or so victims, has eclipsed the horrors perpetrated by the  KKK, by the  Sixth, Seventh,and Tenth Cavalries; by pissed-up militia gang-rapists, by KuKluxKlanners  and by the entire filthy, corrupt railroad and cattle baron establishment, by America's nobility, as squalid as any other.
Native Americans, though, like slopes and gooks overseas, and like niggers at home, well, they don't really, what's the word, count, that's it, they just don't count. 

Unless we start valuing the lives of others as much as we do our own is seems only fair to me that we anticipate a shooting party like yesterday's coming, very soon,  to a nightclub near us.

Friday 10 June 2016


No, I got no free pens on me. Honest, no, they're not mine, anyway. They're just to hoodwink the old folks. Into thinking they're getting something free.

In my long career of selling dodgy funeral insurance

 and licking showbiz arse 
I've interviewed lots of interesting people. 
Some truly remarkable people. 

 It's what we call in the arse-licking trade
  a symbiotic  relationship, 
they even give you baubles for doing it.
Truly remarkable. 
the further up I can force my tongue the more tasty tidbits of showbiz life the star in question will reveal to the audience, yes, the morons, sitting at home, enthralled by some drug-addicted, slatternly, maladjusted egomaniac.  

All I ever had to do was say, 

Sir  David Niven,
Tell us that one about the empty horses...
What, again?

  you are a hugely talented, hugely successful Hollywood actor, millions, no, tens of millions of  people love you deeply and now you have written a fascinating memoir of your life  in Tinsel Town which has stormed to the top of the best seller lists all over the world and it turns out that you are also not only a magnificiently gifted actor but a brilliant writer, too;  
how do you do it?

do you think you could share with us just a few of the other ways in which you are wonderful, pretty please? 

That's my career in a nutshell.
Michael BrownNose,
that's me.
Truly remarkable.

But Mohamed Ali, what can I say?
Here we are, two of the Greatest,
pretending to punch each other,
doesn't get much cheaper than that, does it?

 One of the greatest stars in showbusiness has departed.  Down but not out. Well, out, strictly speaking, can't get more out than he is, now.

 But, as a close personal friend of the great man, what I can tell you is that one of the very last things he did  before leaving the ring and slipping away to the great training camp in the sky, was to 'phone me, claim his free pen - yes, y'get a biro, completely free, just for 'phoning -  and arrange his funeral insurance with SunLife.  Pay out?  What, now that he's dead? Well, unfortunately not. He didn't live long enough, y'see. 

I mean, fair's fair, you can't expect the insurance companies to pay money out without you having given it to them in the first place, can you,  that's not how it works, is it? 

But hold on, I believe we have another of the great ones, here, to pay his tribute to the man I was proud to call the Greatest, well, one of the Greatest. 
In my remarkable career I met so many great ones, truly remarkable, quite extraordinary, some of them. Here he comes, anyway,  Arkansas' greatest son, President Spunky Bill Clinton. 
Spunky Bill, just share with viewers of Parkinson some of the very many reasons why you are so truly, truly remarkable and wonderful and how they should all want to be you, if only they could.....

Why, shucks, Mike, hearing you plumb takes me back to them good ole days when me and President Hillary Trousers was head of the Arkansas Crime Family and we was roasting niggers like Cassius Clay regular, hang them boys up from trees and cut their balls off most Sat'day nights, we did, great times thay was, Mike, great times; why, when I became President the first thing I done was fly down to my home state and supervise the killin' a some negro boy claimed he was backwards, only had the mental age of a nine year old; we done killed that nigger anyway. Way I see it Mike, is if they old enough to shove them big, shiny, black peckers in some white pussy they old enough to hang, get gassed, roasted, castrated, whatever.  Three strikes and you's out, nigger boy.

You boys got a vote?
 Well mek sure you use it fer me or fer Mrs President, here. 
Cos we done give it ya, in the first place.
an' the mark of a man is that he knows his place.
Like you do, by comin' here'.
To be pawed by filth like me.
Yo Mastah and President.
Don't worry, Amerka, y'all safe, this nigger's daysa rapin' white wimmen's all over,
thass my job.

Naw, honey, cain't be rape, not if the President's doin' it.

And lemme tell ya, Mike, ain't nuthin' like the smell a roasted nigger to make yo woman wanna moisten y'cigar fer ya. Hear what I'm sayin'? 
An' anyway, the President gotta set a good example, like me. 

And you, Sir, certainly have.

Yeah 'sright, Mike, be back in the White House come January. Nosirree Bob, as President, just like before. Shit, man, donchoo worry about Hills, she'll do what she's told,  ain't she done proved that, already?

That was the Once and Future President, Spunky Bill, with his observations on the tragic death of Mohamed Ali, 

remarkable, a truly remarkable man, Spunky Bill. 
And a great, personal honour for me to have him on my show and be touched, in a very real sense, by his greatness. 

A smug old git reflects.
Actually,  though, as a Barnsley lad,
working in show business and insurance,
I'm pretty great, meself, anyroadup.

Meanwhile, The world of protest singing, too has been paying its tribute to Mohaned Ali.

Well, he took so many bl-o-o-o-ows
He was acting like a turkey
He was runnin' round in circles
Somewhere down in Albaquerque
Oh, yeah,

Speaking from his Never-Ending Alzheimers Tour, 
Ali's fellow clapped-out 'sixties celebrity, Bob Dylan, Face-Thinged that, uh, y'know, what was that line, he not busy bein' born is busy making money fer old rope, doodly-doodly-doodly-doo, ba-bomp-bom. (for twenty soul-abrading minutes Bob continues  extended guitar doodling in G, while his band, playing in A, wearily swtruggle to keep up.)

I can never form a fixed view about boxing. Of course it should be banned, beating as entertainment should be something done, if at all,  in private, yet boxing, world heavyweight championship boxing, anyway, can be a thing of beauty, transcending the blood and snot and spit, rising even above the the filthy parasite promoters, the ringside gangsters and the verminous sports writers, pundits and reflected celebrities, people like Parkinson, the cunt.

The world winces when Roger Rolex 
twists his ankle at Wimbledon,

 empathises when mutant momma'sboy, Murray, 

has a hissy fit at himself; 
the real thing, though, the real, bloody, sub-gladiatorial contest, the real artistry and nobility sometimes seen in a boxing match, some furious, light-speed flurry of  combined punches to head and torso, 
some sixteen-stone Nijinksy, weaving and ducking, yes, like a butterfly,  is classed as vulgar when, in fact, it is anything but. 

Not for me, then, to shudder snootily at the pugilist, nor for anyone else, either. Every year, people die horribly at the Isle of Man TT races, nobody says Boo! People fling themselves to Bungee death or perish overboard in some mad boating escapade; some trek across the North Pole and freeze, some hike up Everest and fall, some, careless do-gooders, mainly, get their heads chopped-off by Ahmed and his mates. 
 Here, we simply say, fuck 'em, all of 'em.
 And, charming as he could be, as brilliantly as he could occasionally fight, I long ago said the same thing about Mohamed Ali; people very close to him, friends by any calculation, not hangers-on,  urged him to stop fighting but he even went into the ring clearly showing the symptoms of what had already befallen him; like a fool, he mixed it and it strangled up his mind.
And we were supposed to love his half-framed dribblings, admire his shitbrain stupidity and call them both noble.
I am leaving, I am leaving
But the fighter still remains.

A sick, old man, knocked to the floor, Bravo.

his was a protracted, self-sought martyrdom. 
Fuck him.
Fuck Parkinson, especially, and fuck show business.
Being publicly beaten into a stumbling half-life, that ain't entertainment, that ain't sport, that ain't beauty,  that's Cruelty TeeVee.

As for him having raised the status of the black American, yeah, right.  
More US blacks in cruel mediaeval imprisonment than ever, more US blacks on Death Row than ever, more US blacks gunned-down on the streets by lawnforcement than ever; and way  more blacks killed, tortured, maimed, burnt and raped overseas and down in Cuba than ever before, and all on the watch of a black president.

Yeah, Elijah Mohamed and Black Islam;
and fighting when you couldn't,
way to go, Cassius.