Wednesday 30 November 2016


 I'll fuckin' hang the bastards.
The state 'avin the power to kill its citizens, 
it's like the 'allmark of democracy.
Stranglin' people at eight o'clock in the mornin'.
 It's what sets us apart from the animals. 
And other foreigners. 

And so Mr Paul Scouse-Nutter set out his plan for government. Capital punishment for tabloid-driven  popular causes.
And the smack of firm leadership.

An' any fuckin' bastard what disagrees with me, like, well they can sling their fuckin' hook, big time.
 'Sno room in my UKIP for any fuckin' scally what doesn't do worrIsay. 

 Nor what Nigel says, cos, lessfaceit, at the end of the day, without Nigel, I wooden even be the great statesman worrIam today.
An' just to prove, like, that I'm not a bleedin' no-mark on the make, ridin' a wave of discontent,  'ere's me,' 'oldin a buke, a real bleedin' buke, like, 
what statesmen and them 'uns read.

Gosh, what a disappointment. 
 Four million people voted Poundland and yet only thirty thousand are party members, and of them only half could be arsed to vote in the leadership election,
 The hard man, Nuttall, then, was elected with less than ten thousand votes. More than Mrs Askey reeived in the great prime ministerial Remainers' stitch-up but not signifying the herald horns of a New Populist Dawn.

They all do it, exaggerate their own importance, the inconsequential Susan Farron, 
 leader of seven discredited  Liberal Child Molesters, 
 believes himself leader of the official opposition;  
fifty-odd hate-filled Jock shoplifters, drunks and degenerates 

believe themselves to be the official opposition and the official opposition itself

 hates its democratically elected leadership, longs to join the Tory Govament of National Remaining Unity 

and despises both its own membership as well as half of the UK and US populations.

Mr Nuttal, therefore, shooting his neanderthal mouth off, is an unsurprising consequence of MediaMinster's consistently contemptuous, corrupt and wholly anti-democratic conduct, 

Nuttall,  a stuttering, thinly mandated vox-pop,
 is their own creation. 

No, no, listen, because this is very important, no, no, let me finish, because I am speaking for decent people everywhere when I say that Brexit reveals the nation to be no more than bigots and racists and  transphobic xenophobes, especially those former Labour voters who voted for fascism. 
And that is why we must have massive immigration, in order that we swiftly replace worthless so-called Labour Britons with grateful foreigners who will vote as they are told, by their betters.  Yes, if you will, by people like me.

Abbott or Nuttall,
two cheeks of Ambition's scabby arse.

My own belief is that UKIP - and unltimately the nation - would have been better served by either of the other two leadership candidates, both of whom would have  greatly broadened its appeal  and more adroitly surfed the global wave of  resentment; as it is Dog will still have his day, some Labour seats will fall to the Poundlanders but then given the state of things they would fall to my dog, Harris,  were he to stand.
Any meaningful UKIP presence in Parliament will depend on how much of an act of Brexit betrayal Mrs Askey feels able to commit.   Thus far Tracey looks neither well nor capable;  too skinny, too uncertaim for the high-heeled tightrope walk she has chosen.

The only certainty is uncertaintly; globalisation has taken on a whole new meaning, the futures of many so-called democracies now linked more tightly to the actions of formerly risible politicians like le Pen, Trump and Farage than ever they were to  mere sticky-fingered Commerce.

Saturday 26 November 2016


My fellow motherfuckers.
Today is a great day. 

 Today is the day when American values 
reassert themselves in our hemisphere.  

 As we speak.  
Great American criminal enterprises. 
Money laundering. 

And child prostitution.
 These great Italian-American traditions.  
Driven out of Cuba by revolutionary forces
Can now. 
Take root again. 
In our time.

 Fidel Castro. 

The man who single-handedly 
destroyed American criminal enterprise.  

Forcing decentAmerican pimps. 

And murderers. 
And Extortionists. 
Off his island.  
And into our banks.
Is dead. 

And now. the Caribbean. 

Can take it's unlawful place. 
At the heart of Organised Crime.

God bless President Hillary Trousers! 
Death to  communist restrictions on criminality!
God bless Organised Crime!  
God bless America!

Friday 25 November 2016



The streets of cyberspace are awash with anti-Hillary stuff; some of it is questionable but much of it isn't. This is an official enquiry, as it happened. There is much, much more of it, if anyone cares to look. 

Thursday 24 November 2016



Under the deluge of shock-horror-recrimination-hysteria surrounding the Terrible Trumping of Tragic Hillary the  plight of one young Briton is in danger of being overlooked.

Dave Bananas speaks exclusively to the New York Ishmael  about his distress.  
We started by asking him  about his close friendship with former President Trousers.

Well, it all started when I was Gordon Snot's foreign seckaterry and President Trousers asked me tell lies to the British courts about our colleagues in the CIA torturing and murdering innocent people.  Well, I say innocent, although most of them were Muslims, so odds are that they were guilty of something. 

And that's why the CIA and the MI5 tortured them, even though they didn't, wouldn't, couldn't possibly have. As I told the courts, on behalf of Seckaterry President Trousers, as she then was.


And then, when I was robbed of the Labour leadership, by a person whom I don't mention, 

Brothers? Fuck 'em.

President Trousers offered me the job as Head of Thunderbirds.  


Yes, it was all very equal opportunities, nobody else but me was offered the job and you can't get fairer than that, can you, unlike in Labour party leadership elections, which are ruined by there being more than one candidate. As I found to my cost.........


And as President Trousers just recently found out, too, didn't she?

Yes, thassright, and to be fair to her, I would just like to point-out that this is emerging as one of the biggest isssues of our time, people not voting as they are told to, by people like myself and not my brother.

Did you have any experience in International Rescue?

No, none at all,  but that wasn't the main concern.

What was?

Well, there were  two, actually. 
The first was that the salary is £400,000 which is considerably more that I was getting as a football club director and part-time MP.

Did you have any experience in football?

No, none at all,  but that wasn't the main concern.
What was, then?

Well, it was the money; 
 fifty grand  a week, for not doing anything.
I mean what do I know about fucking football?

And as for heading-up Thunderbirds,  

well, in addition to putting very large sums of money in my pocket, it meant that I could be very close to President Trousers, in case she needed me to do something. Oh, I dunno, make her a cup of tea, something like that. 

You wanna fuck that mad ole bitch, why y'all just be my guest.
Tell her the only president there's ever gonna be  in this family sent y'all.
Fill yer boots, Davyboy.

She has no Administration now, though, does she,  so are you still on her payroll?

No, but there's aways the Clinton Slush Foundation.

Would she or Spunky Bill give you a job,  then?

Oh, no, shouldn't think so. 
But they might give me some money.

You also, considering you're such a great statesman,  spectacularly misjudged the UK's EU Referendum, didn't you?
Well, my considered position, which President Trousers instructed me upon, was mature and pragmatic;  it was just that the people voted the wrong way. Frankly, I don't know how long we can continue to let them fuck things up like this.

But you and she were totally wrong.
 Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together.

Yes but in politics that isn't the point. Getting elected, that's the point. And coming from the right family. Like hers and mine. Only not my brother. Whom I don't even have one of. 

And what now for David Bananas. You are a shoddy arsewipe of a statesman; you are a man who believes in torturing his fellow man; a man who dismally failed to win his party's leadership; you are a slut, a stooge and a leech; you are the ridiculous notional head of a Mickey Mouse charity and you are the enthusiastic, paid  praise-singer to a corrupt, derided and discredited,  criminal politician, finally rejcted humiliatingly by her own electorate. Dave Bananas, how much more of a failure can you yet become?

Well, I would've thought that was obvious.

What, a quick retirement and a dignified silence, thereafter?

No, no, I would expect that with my proven track record, my rescue skills and my curriculum wotsaname, and with my distinguished political family background I should within a few months be leader of the Labour party, the vast majority of whose MPs are even bigger cunts than me. I mean, have you seen Liz Kendall?

But as a Labour MP you betrayed your constituents, the moment President Trousers whistled for you to come, you went. 
People who campaigned for you, voted for you, trusted you, you just ran away from them and whored yourself in the US. 
Just like she was the hag and you were the fag, fag-hagging.

You just ditched your voters.
Like Kinnock did in Europe.
Like Farage is doing, now, in America.

Dave Bananas, you're just a cunt, aren't you?

Well, these people you say I betrayed, they're just voters, aren't they, who gives a fuck about them?

Dave Bananas, Chief Thunderbirder, 
thank you very much.

No, no, thank you.
 And that'll be thirty-five thousand pounds, please. 

See, every redneck cloud has a silver lining. 
Can you imagine it, that cunt Miliband, working for the Spunky Ones, in the White House?
 And she'd probably've put Tony'n'Imelda on the payroll, too. 
Give 'em all US (White) Citizenship. 
Almost makes Trump's Farage Initiative look palatable.

Whenever the political stew appears entirely inedible I console myself with the thought that  I no longer have to see Straight Simon Hughes; the LibDems' queer Queerbasher and  never have to see Wee Dougie Alexander, one of the freak, Snotty's, mutant proteges. I console myself with the knowledge that NewLabour is on borrowed time, never to regroup, that the Tories are utterly clueless; that Gnasher is increasingly desperately irrelevant, given the international bum's rush by all whose eyes alight on her angry wee face and grating wee voice, dressed-up like she'd borrowed big sister, Maggie Thatcher's,  clothes and high heels, increasingly she comes to resemble the Crankie woman with whom she has always been compared.
That the irritant, Miliband minor, now pipsqueaks from the backbenches, remembered mainly for his self-carved ungrammatical headstone and that Milband major loiters aimlessly in Humiliation's ranks adds just a little picquancy to our otherwise miserable gruel.

Those simmering in Corruption's cauldron continue as though their doings were unchangeable, ordained by God. 
Chancellor Pip wipes Bukkake Boy's phantasmagorical, spermy equations from the blackboard and says firmly, Now, children, x equals this and y equals that and I smugly commend myself to the House.  
Once more for luck, the whole wretched MediaMinster prefecture sets dutifully to explaining to We, the Innumerate People, what all this clever stuff means to Us, to Our petrol tanks, Our shopping trolleys, Our credit cards and  Our mortgages.  So clever are they, the money correspondents, the financial editors,  that with their heads up their arses, not one of them predicted the Great Tits-Up, the one which a blind man, or a  young Polish plumber,  could see coming ten thousand fucking miles away.

We must, therefore, take it where we find it, comfort. 
 Miliband Bros, Rescuers & Stonemasons; the Browns of Auschwitz; the Obamas of Gauntanamo Bay and Drone Murder Pioneers; 
Dave'n'Sam of Chipping Sodom and their driver, Clarkson;  
Junky George, looking as though awakened from a deep trtance, scratching his arse on the back benches, must surely seek his reward from Vodaphone or any of the other branches of Organised Crime whose coffers he has swelled; 
the Clintons of Wall Street and Saudi Arabia will hurtle into recrimination and dissolution;  
Frankie Hollande, of Vichy France, is Melba toast; 
their legacies, all, are puke and shit, toxic and embarrassing, 
best buried; 
all of the fallen mighty must  be hoping for a distracting war or the death of Good Queen Brenda;
 run for months, that will, sweeping all mortal sin from  the front pages; 
the Commonwealth will crumble, the EU will collapse, 
apres Madam le Pen, le deluge.

Y'see?  It's not all bad news.
 And although the New Order which emerges may be worse than this one the choice between infinite, Ruinous economic Growth and sustainable restraint may at last  become clear.  The Meek may yet inherit theEarth, snatch it back in the nick of time, from the Greedy, and their Godlessheathenbastard servants in global MediaMinster.
Be glad, for - as yet -  the song has no ending.

Wednesday 23 November 2016


Leadenly wise-cracking his way through PBC coverage of Pip Hammond's baptismal statement, young bridegroom,  
Andy Neil, who, as he constantly reminds us,  went to grammar school and university before enabling Mr Murdoch's lifetime of corruption, 
child-sexualisation, 'phone tapping, tax evasion,  

and corrosion of the national discourse, seemed, this morning,  to have an infection in his throat.

Old playboys should wrap-up warm.

Anyone who had seen Andy's  coverage - he would call it - of  political matters, any of them,  could not fail to conclude that we pay him a huge amount of public money for talking out of his  arse;  why is his throat sore?


Were this wretched, repugnant old bore the Invigilator he claims to be then obviously the vermin of MediaMinster would not be queueing-up to appear on one of his many shows; he's like the supposed satirist, Tory FatBoy Hislop - also making a fortune from the PBC -  in being just another of Ruin's Licensed Fools.  If Neil was even remotely capable then we wouldn't all be choking on the taste of legislators' shit, would we?

Anyway, despite talking out of his arse, the old boy has a croaky throat this morning. We must wish him  a lengthy  and preferably permanent convalescence on his French estates with his young bride and his NewsCorp shares.

Nightey-night, don't let the anal-laryngitis bugs bite.

Bienvenu au Chateau Vulgaire.
Regardez, moi avec mon booze
Ici les pauvres ils ne sont permittez pas,
parce-que Je les deteste. 

Sunday 20 November 2016




Good evening, this is Channel Four News, with me, Jon Sox, well, not so much news as a nightly digest of our prejudices and resentments, dressed-up as news, here in LuvvieLand. 
And tonight, how you can help overturn the result of the US election, 
Kylie CrowFace'll be reporting for us from Washington, 


a town still reeling from the truly disgusting and actually unspeakable outcome of the election. 

will be in  Germany for you, 
lending your  support  and good wishes to Chancellor Merkel, our last surviving liberal, as the world lurches towards a right-wing apocalypse, and as she says farewell to America's greatest-ever  President, wotsisname, the black guy, and I'll be questioning the arch-Brexiteer, traitor,  liar, untrustworthy backstabber and generally deplorable Michael Spit 


C'mon, admit it, Mr Spit, 

you lied and lied and lied, didn't you? 
Where IS that £350,000,000 per day which you promised sick and dying people?  
I mean, we've now left Europe, so tell our viewers, where IS that money?

Well actually Jon, is it OK if I call you Jon?  We are all in showbusiness together, aren't we, after all?  Actually, Jon, if you don't mind me saying so, we haven't actually left Europe yet, if you don't mind my saying so. And thanks so very much for having me on the programme, by the way; it really is most gracious of you, if you don't mind me saying so. Which I am sure you don't, although you are of course at liberty to do so, should you choose so to do, thank you very much.

I'll be asking the fascistic Spit about whether he will be putting his hand in his own pocket to pay the three hundred and fifty million pounds a day which he and his fellow plotters promised the NHS, the very minute that  enough bigots and racists and stupid, hate-filled people had voted for the end of Civilisation itself - which is what Brexit really is - and if not, then why not? And Cathy will be explaining why people clinging quite cruelly and  unreasonably to notions of fixed gender are now - quite rightly in my judgement, I mean, lessfaceit, if you disagree with me, you simply must be a fascist, a person of hate - being revealed as the ghastly bigots which they really are.

 As Rabbie Burns, the great Welsh poet once said, a man's a man for a' that, but he's also a woman, if he feels like it, and aren't we all, deep down?  

Cathy talk to parents who support their children's sexual identity experimentation, and explains why they need more taxpayers' money in order to fully express themselves, as members of the opposite sex to what they actually are, and why supporting them is frankly crucial to the nation's whatchamacallit. Here, we offer them our best wishes,  Channel Four News, the Voice of Minority Rights, whatever the minority, however stupid, selfish and unreasonable, here, at C4N, we're for it. 

Inky people, for instance. 
 Should the Inkies have to pay, themselves, out of their own pockets to have their tattoos removed or altered to reflect their move along the Sexual Identity Spectrum. Or shouldn't we all put our hands in our pockets to support the right of people to have themselves scribbled upon by

 illiterate, gabshite, back-street, tattoo'n'piercing artists?  

The Liberal Democrat conference,  below, 

will be urging the protection of Inky Rights.

Their  leader, Susan Farron, says that after overturning the democratically-arrived-at decision to leave the EU, his party's first priority will be the establishment of an Inky Rights Commission.
Sulky Sue.

The British people would expect no less of me, as leader of the Liberal Democrats, than for me to support every known form of depravity and  perversion.

I am reaching-out to the Inky People, they are a vast constituency, crying-out for the sort of political leadership which only I can give them.

We'll be taking an in-depth look at the overwhelming case for Inky Rights. 
But now, from America,  Here's Kylie.

Thanks, Jon, and the news from here is that in the only parts of the country which matter vast numbers of, indeed, nearly all  Americans have taken to the street in the struggle to remove the  unelected dictator, Trump, after his disgusting and dishonourable campaign to rob Hillary of her rightful place in Corruption, I mean History, as the first woman president. I mean, lessbefair, Jon, Hillary and the arabs bought and paid for that presidency fair'n'square and  it is rightfully hers and it is clearly a scar on democracy that the people voted for a Nazi, instead.

But they didn't, did they, Kylie, Hillary won the largest number of votes and so shouldn't she be president, shouldn't she and her husband, the great, liberal reformer, Spunky Bill, be back in the White House?

Yes, thanks, Jon, and that's right, the whole Clinton family, Hills'n'Bill'n'Chels.... Chels? Yes it's short for Chelsea Morning, an old Bob Dylan song, 
Kylie sings:  
Woke-up, it was a Chelsea Morning and de-doo-doo, doo-doo-dooooh,
 and Bob, as we know, has just won the Peace Prize, y'know for causing peace, so just how cool, how prescient were Hills'nBills to call their child after a great, anthemic protest song by Bob.......

 Joni Mitchell, Kylie, it was Joni Mitchell....


It was a  Joni Mitchell song, Kylie,  Chelsea Morning, not a Bob Dylan song. 
We old stoners know all about Bob Mitchell.
No, I don't mean Bob Mitchell.
Hang on, I'll just inhale some memory linctus. 

 Yep, Joby Mitchum, that's the girl.

Yep, Jobi Mitchum, an iconic, an inspirational artist, from the 'sixties, a singer-songwriter, and let's face it, where would we be, without singer-songwriters, writing songs and then singing them to us, and in rhyme, too, words that rhyme, so much easier to remember than just ordinary, stupid words, that don't rhyme; singer-songwriters, I mean, it's not as though we could ever actually, y'know, just have quite enough songs, more than enough songs to be going on with, like, between us, and on the youtube, and in our record collections.
In fact, Kylie, to paraphrase the great statesman and egalitarian, Baron Kinnock of Graft and Filth;
 Never, never, not ever, and wholly and totally, and competely and inarguably and unprecedentedly  in the field of light entertainment have so many fuckwits been sung-to by so many other fuckwits.

The Ballad of Glenys'n'Me Getting Rich.
 (comp. Neil Kinnock, aka The People's Baron.)
We're Aaaaa-right, 
We're Aaaaa-right
 We're Aaaaa-right
(continues, ad nauseum, through crooked Europe,
crooked directorships, crooked sinecures and the crooked House of Crooked Lords.)
 Those Kinnock filthsters, they are Aaaaa-right.
What a shame, that they can't take their stolen Euro money with them, Down Below.

In fact, some people, the stupid rightwingers, maybe, who voted for Brexit, some of them might argue that there are already more'n enough songs. Who needs any more fucking songs?

 But not me. 
No. I believe it's vital to our national, spiritual wellbeing that we have a self-renewing crop of singer-songwriters, singing to us. About what they think.   About things. And stuff, stuff like feelings. I'd go so far as to say that for most decent people, if they didn't have singer-songwriters, writing songs and singing them, then they wouldn't know what they felt,  about things. And stuff. And issues. 

I mean, I don't know how they managed, in the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, without people like James Taylor and Jackson Browne, singer-songwriting for them.  I mean, it's one thing, working class people, without a liberal bone in their bodies, singing Knees-Up Muvver Brahn, Knees-Up Muvver Brahn, under the table you must go, ee-aye, ee-aye, addie-oh, that's one thing, and people who sing songs like that, well, they're the sort of bigots who voted for Brexit, but artists like Adele, singing about her fat, stupid, fucked-up life. Or Amy Wino, and her Dad, singing about drunkenness and drug addiction; that's, well, that's like a sort of a fanfare for the not common man, like me, who wouldn't dream of voting for Brexit.

But Jobi Mitchum, she was truly iconic. 
Yes and influential and I think you'll find that that  mr mongoose, he was a fan, although now he thinks she has gone insane.  

Ice-cream castles in the air, I tell you,
ice-cream castles in the air.
Joni Mitchell, now. 
A veritable portrait of the artist as a mad old lady.
Woke up, it was a crazy-old-person morning. 

Well, that's his right, this mr mongose, whoever he is. That's his right, for now. But just for now. 
But I happen to think that she was iconic, Jobi Wotsername. Rather like myself.

What's iconic mean, Jon? 

Jon Sox, 
with his icon award, awarded by other icons, 
on a Buggin's Turn basis, 
all shall have prizes.

Well, as I said, Kylie, it means  a bit like myself,  famous, well-paid, obviously, with lots of socks, yes, and ties, and respected by their peers as well as their fans, 
the people watching the show.

Right, and Mr Mongoose, who's he?

Lower case, Kylie, mr mongoose.

Lower case?  Why's that?


It's just that that mr ishmael puts them all in lower case, the names of his contributors, Kylie, because they're not proper names; well they are proper names  but only in the sense of them being  noms des plumes, noms des plumes propre, to be precise. It's more that they're not real names. And so he puts them in lower case, just an affectation of his, really, there's no reason that a nom de plume shouldn't be capitalised....

 Nomsday Ploom?  
What's a Nomsday Ploom?  
And who's mr ishmael?  Is he the editor? Is he a muslim, sounds like a muslim, not that there's anything wrong with muslims, unlike what the Great Tyrant, Trump says. And he says that they should all be deported  to Mexico.

 Well, Kylie, in a sense I suppose he is the editor, mr ishmael.......

 Well, woddever, Jon, 
fuck him, whoever he is. 
He's not standing in front of the White House, I am.
 And Hills'n'Bill'n'Chels are effectively and to all intents and purposes and quintessentially American royalty, which is what everyone here believes in, clearly; 
neo-liberal royalty, talking, nobly, as does all royalty, about the poor, even though, obviously, they don't give a flying fuck about anyone but themselves.  Royalty, isn't that what defines America? Isn't that what the Revolution was  all about, about the slave-owning, ethnic cleansing, European, criminal  migrant riff-raff having their own branch of royalty? 
Well,  Kylie, I know just what you mean about a shared royalty. Most of us, most decent people in the UK, are still mourning the death of the late Senator Edward Kennedy, a truly great liberal, a man who would stop at nothing to give young women, the younger the better,  a leg-over, I mean a leg-up, even drowning them in his automobile and running away.  I mean, you don't get much more royal that that, do you?

But you were saying Kylie, about America's Desolation, post-Trump?

Thanks,  Jon, and thassright but here's something I've learned since being C4's US correspondent, and talking to the lower orders. 
Did you know Jon, that it was Scotchmen, invented the Ku Klux Klan?  No, really, it was.  
After the First Civil War a bunch of disgruntled  Aberdonian-immigrant slave owners set up the KKK, in order to frustrate reform and terrorise nigger trash,  deprive them of the vote, yes, just like now, only they initially called it the KKC, KuKlux being a greek phrase meaning circle  and the C standing for the Scottish clan - a circle of family, geddit? - and the fiery cross which they used to intimidate negroes originated in the Scottish  cran tarra, a burning cross signifying a declaration of war, back in the Old Country.  
No, no, Jon, I wouldn't mention it to First Minister Gnasher, next time she's on the show;  mad enough, isn't she;  I know she's a woman, Jon, and therefore automatically suited for, well, whatever she wants to do, really, but there's just no sense in fuelling her illness by calling her

the Imperial Grand Wizardess of the Scoattish people.
Is there, Jon? That would just be pure nutterophobia, wouldn't it

The SNK.
Klansmen de nos jours.
Well, what else would you call them?
Zombie flag-waving white supremacist  mongreltrash.
Well, Kylie, as everyone knows I've actually won many prizes for being phobia-phobic, 

so you'll get no argument from me but don't you worry your pretty little head,  only her own klansmen take Gnasher seriously, don't they, so we don't concern ourselves about her rantings and ravings, she's certainly not Hillary, is she? 
Especially not, going forward,  after the Great European Rejection Tour.

La porte, Madame Gnasher, pour returnez-vous a l'Ecosse avec les mains empty, c'est ici. 
Au revoir, ma petit chien fou,
et ne hastez-vous pas back.

But setting the Klan aside, Kylie, 
what's your take on Hillary's role in American life, as we go forward. 

Thassright, Jon, thass just so right. 
Going forward, Hillary has, in fact, just made a poweful speech to a handful  of mad old lesbians who love her. And do you know what, Jon, even speaking humbly and as a woman. down but by no means out, Hillary, ever professional,  hugely insincere, bullshit oozing from every pore, even  after having been robbed of her birthright, Hillary lied  honestly and spontaneously from a script on her autocue and very modestly suggested that one day, if  a woman would be president  it would be thanks to her.  Even though the opposite would be true, Jon, that it would be despite her.

Mendacity, even in humiliating defeat.

And, Oh puh-lease,  would  the Deplorables stop calling for her to be jailed for a lifetime of corruption, malfeasance and murder, people like her, women with lotsa stolen money, simply do not go to jail.

And Amen to that, Kylie. 
I mean, what sort of an unelightened, illiberal  world would it be, if the rich and powerful and well-connected went to jail?
Wow, man, that'd just be so far out.  It'd, like, y'know, turn Reason on it's head, wouldn't it? Going forward.

Thassright, Jon.
 The noblesse obligebility of better people, people like Hillary. It is absolutey vital to America and to all of us - the Kennedys, the Bushes, the Clintons and hopefully the Obamas, a secure American monarchy,  each family taking its turn in being elected unopposed. And Jon, one thing that's not generally known here, but as a journalist I've managed to unearth, is that, y'know, Jon,
how everyone says that the Clintons are owned by the Banks/Organised Crime? Right? Well, what's wrong with that?  When you consider that the greatest dynasty of all, the Kennedys, were owned, Jon, lock, stock and barrel by the Mob?

 I mean, it was the Mafia, especially Mr Sam Giancana, who, enlisted by Mr Frankie "Spic" Sinatra, 

yes, thassright, Jon, the Bruce Springbeard of his day, 

No business like showbusiness, 
Brucie, like Frankie, so far up his own stupid, posturing, egomaniacal asshole that he would tutor his foolish fans on how to vote; so vain that  like wee Frankie  he fancied himself  Kingmaker.
 Idiots, entertainers; it's a wonder that they still know how to breathe.

 got Jack Kennedy through the primaries, by means of bribery and threats, and then it was the unions, again, owned and run my the Mafia, who got him elected. Well, yes, they mighta bumped him off later, the Mafia, but most people have been taught that it was the phenomenal marksmanship of Lee Patsy Wotsit, acting alone, which robbed America and the world of the drug addict and great womaniser JFK.  And lessfaceit some more, Jon, Jackie Kennedy wouldn't have bitched about Monica Lewinsky, either, would she; after all,  you didn't see Jackie  saying, Climb over the back of the car and retrieve your own bitsa fuckin' brain, 

you faithless, lyin', drugged-up, pampered sonofafuckinbitch, like maybe she should've done,  or saying, get that whore, Marilyn Monroe, 

to go pick 'em up with her tits.  

Happy blowjob, Mr President.

And  that's the natural order of things. Women stand by their man, like Hills did, no matter how big a cunt he is, and so should the voters. You know, the Kennedys and the Mafia; the Bushes and the House of Saud;  the Obamas, the Clintons and the Financial Terrorists in the Banks, this is just traditional American Democracy, isn't it?  Handed down from one dynasty to another.

A young misogynist,  Spunky Bill, meets an older mysoginist, Spunky JFK.

And so this so-called election, this utter travesty, Jon, in which the voters preferred  an ignoble,  greedy, stupid, redneck shitkicker to the pure royalty of the rotten thieving-bastard Clintons, that was not so much an election as a coup de tete, Jon......

 D'etat, Kylie, coup d'etat, not coup de tete.......

Yes, Jon and thanks, 
this so-called election is being seen here, by people who matter, as little more than a wotsaname, a coup de hat, in a very real sense, in which the mob, for that's all they are, have invaded the palace, stolen the crown and put it on the head of a commoner.  Viewers will agree with me that we are at the beginning of a new Dark Age.  It's like the Romans have left us and we are waiting for the Europeans  to come and rescue us from ourselves. Isn't it? What with Brexit and Trumpageddon and everything.
It's like the beginning of the mediaeval period, all over again.

 No, Kylie, the Dark Ages all over again, the mediaeval  period started when the Normans came, more or less.

Were they, like, all called Norman and they invaded us?  

That was Kylie Moron  there, for us, in an edgy Washington,  a town I know rather well, a place I have come to adore, having been sent there at your expense, viewers, rather often, in fact at every slightest opportunity, to suck Democrat cock - at which I'm rather good - at every slightest opportunity,  I'm off to Washington DC.

Washington, last beacon of worthless, self-serving faux-liberal  hope,  a place where GlobaCrime, quite rightly, runs the legislature, the judiciary, the military, lawnforcement and where my colleagues in the media print and report exactly what they are told so to do by their masters, the very essence, in fact, of modern, liberal democracy. 
And yet tonight, my beloved Washington is a place where the Confederate flag, even now,
 is already beginning to flutter frighteningly over US govament buildings,

 and the Ku Klux Klan are said to be taking  over. 
Civil War? Who can tell? But probably.
 Stay safe Kylie. 

To Krishnan, now, in Europe for us. I'm not so keen on going to Europe, myself. I much prefer the United States, although a trip to Rome at your expense is sometimes welcome, some great shopping there, for the socks and neckties so vital to proper journalism. The thing with Krishnan is that often  he's busy on crappy panel shows, in which he sits like a dummy, 

 looking like a whore at a hockey match, surrounded by proper comedians  - what? why does he do Eight Out Of Ten Cats? - 

fucked if I know. It's like, why do I do Have I Got Stale News For You? 
I mean, I obviously have a job for my natural life, taxpayer-funded, well-paid and pensioned  and as I was just saying to Kylie, I am an icon;  why would I go and let that dismal, tedious nutter,  Paul Merton, make a cunt of me?

 But I do.  
I suppose we do it for the money, 
you can never have enough, can you,
 and at the end of the day we are all in showbusiness. 

I mean,sometimes, Krishnan is actively involved in saving people's lives, as do all journalists, when there's a camera around,
 but he's here for us, now,  in Germany, with his take on President Obama's farewell tour. Krish?
Thanks, Jon and that's right. And he's getting a hero's welcome, too, President Obama, from the Hermanns.  

The Hermanns, Krish, you didn't say the Hermanns, did you?
 I shouldn't need to remind someone like you that NaziPhobia is strictly frowned-upon, here on C4News. I mean, it was all a very long time ago, and things were very different, then. 
I mean, you can't hold a nation responsible for its history, can you?  Unless it's Russia or Syria or Iraq. I mean, Mrs, I mean Frau Merkel's Germany is now the acknowledged leader of the Free world, isn't it?

Yes, I know, it is strange, Jon, me harping-on about history,  but they really did used to put people like him, Obama - yes, and people like me - in the gas ovens.

Nazis Violated Geneva Convention by Imprisoning and Killing Black Soldiers Black prisoners of war faced illegal incarceration and mistreatment at the hands of the Nazis, who did not uphold the regulations imposed by the Geneva Convention (an international agreement on the conduct of war and the treatment of wounded and captured soldiers). For instance, L

 Schwarzers, they called us; German for the n-word, I suppose. 
And their then-chancellor, chap called Hitler,  for younger viewers, who don't know - although they don't give a fuck about that, more concerned about having their  cocks cut off and turned into fannies and texting pictures of the whole grisly butcher's shop  to the rest of the world - chap called Hitler, anyway, caused the deaths of sixty million people,  some  of them Jews, some of them blacks, some of them homosexuals and fucking millions upon millions  of them Russians. 

And it wasn't just Russia, everywhere they went, the Hermanns did this shit, Jon - Poland, Czekoslovakia, France, the Netherlands, everywhere they went there followed Atrocity and Barbarism, men, women, children; hanged, bayonetted, burnt and buried alive. And they would've done it in Britain, too;  that's Germany for you.

But Krishnan, it's grossly unfair to blame Frau Merkel for that, she wasn't even born then. 

And  as if that wasn't enough, well, fuck me upside-down in the shitty River Ganges, the Hermanns before that, in the previous world war, they caused the deaths of, what was it, twenty million killed and caused twenty million wounded? 

Yes, Krish, but that was a very long time ago, wasn't it, and hardly relevant now, is it?

Well, Jon, it's just relevant every PoppyTime, isn't it, most of November, every year, regular as clockwork?  You and I know that you can't even approach a TeeVee studio unless you're wearing a poppy and whistling It's A Long Way To Tipperary, It's A Long Way To Go.  You can't have it both ways, can you? 
Either those wars, both caused by the Germans, were like truly heavy shit,  which we should not shrink from remembering or they weren't and it's frankly the baddest of bad manners to mention them at all, 'specially in the same breath as Frau Merkel. 

And these twenty million First War wounds, these were not not just flesh wounds, Jon, these were heavy-duty woundings, big-time shit,  like gassings and blindings and no fucking legs and no fucking arms, and having to make fucking poppies for the rest of your days because the govament only had then and only has now, enough money to pay for their own pensions.   I mean, Jon, if it was the fucking govament, or its vile fucking spawn, if it was Viscount Straw 

Will Cuntson

or Viscount Kinnock 
Steven Cuntson.

It was mr verge reminded us  recently that Tony Blair hoped his children would do something better than teaching, he certainly wouldn't have wanted them gone for a soldier's life.
I betcha Tony'n'Imelda had this stuck-up on the door of the Downing Street Electrolux.

 had to shuffle around on no legs, begging for charity for the rest of its fucking life, trying to have a wank with no arms;  trying to make sense of the senseless by scrabbling for a photo-fucking-opportunity with that repulsive arsehole, 

Prince Harry Hooligan, 
the worthless cunt, as bad as his dad and his uncles, rambling-on, the spoiled prat, like he was Rudyard fucking Kipling, then it wouldn't be so quick on the old cassus bellus bona fide/WMD front, would  it; if Tony Blair or his vile spawn hadda play hopscotch  in a fucking minefield then Big Gay Ali Campbell mighta forged a wholly different dossier.  He's still on the telly, isn't he, like a horror show, endlessly reshown on Freeview, Ali, frowning and gurning about Brexit, his face all contorted, 

like Satan has already shoved something sharp and hot up his diseased arsehole, just, y'know, a Weapon of  Eternal Rectal Destruction.  

I sometimes think that
I wouldn't mind going to Hell myself if it meant that I could see the Prince of Dypsomania, Pornography and Manic Depression being spit-roasted.

But no, Jon, the Hermanns, they are, according to Obama, the new conscience  of the world.  

Just as long as we don't mention the war, or the one before that.

But what can you tell us about it all, Krish?
 Mr Obama, as he will soon be,  aside from him being called Mr President until he dies, is the greatest ever president, isn't he?  I mean, he's both a Democrat and a person of colour, and very slim and handsome, surely they love him as much as I do,  and flock to him, almost like he was a singer-songwriting rock star? And let's face it, he inherited a pretty poor show and he's made it all better. People of colour feeling better about themselves, apart from those imprisoned in maximum security for hundreds of years, and those gunned-down on the street by the cops;  the Middle East sorted, apart from not being sorted at all, and probably much worse; Guantanamo closed-down;  he's repealed all those Bush invasions of the Constitution and reversed the widespread surveillance of innocent civilians; he has entirely de-miltarised the police;  punished the bankers  and, in short, made America great again.  In fact, it's nothing short of incredible that the Democrats didn't win again, this time.  But at least President Obama is properly respected abroad, you know what they say, Krish,  about a prophet being without honout in his own land.

Well, Jon, all the news reports from  those like ourselves, which do as they're told by the Secret Service, the CIA, the British govament and the banking terrorist industry, are reporting a sold-out, rave-reviews, farewell tour for Obama.

Mein freunde, people of Europe,
I promise you:
 Ein Volk,  Eine Reich,  Ein Fuhrer.

My fellow Europeans, I give you

My chosen successor as leader of the free world, 
President-elect Angular Merkel.
And I'm here to tell you: 

My fellow German sonsafuckinbitches. I am just so proud to stand here at the Bilderberg Gate, the scene of so many other historic photo-opportunities. The United States and Germany is THE very special relationship in the world, today and always.
 We are united in our hatred of Britain and all that she stands for. 
Like leaving the EU.
And I can tell you.
That under my good friend.
President-elect Merkel.

I leave the world a better place.
More prosperous.
Just as long as y'all do what yer told.
Unlike Britain.
Which is at the back of my list.
A long ways at the back. 
arbeit macht frei,
 as they say, back home, in the Rust Belt. 
Only it don't.

So, Krish,  President Obama bows-out, if not exactly in triumph then at least with great honour and dignity? I mean there haven't been any demonstrations or anything, have their, which is more tha  you can say for Mr so-called President-elect Trump, the Golfing Groper.

Well, Jon, if you believe C4News. 
But not if you know the true picture.
Everywhere he goes, your man, Obama,
he sparks protests and riots. 
In Greece and Germany,

In the Philipines
 and in Argetina.
Obama is seen as the latest in a long, long line of terrorists, torturers, war criminals and bankers' teaboys.

But Krishnan, I haven't seen any of these riots and protests.

That's because, Jon, you work in showbiz. 
And not journalism.
 You always have. 

Yes, we can't.

As he trudges up the steps of Air Force One, globally rejected and reviled,  utterly humiliated at home by his failure to even dent the blowhard redneck ignoramus, Trump, Barack Obama provides a grain of comfort, a glimmer of hope for the truly democratic, the truly liberal, in whose stolen clothes he has finally shit himself.

During my recent hiatus I barely turned-on the mainstream news channels, either on TeeVee or on the radio. All of them, but Sox especially,  were almost surreally partisan and subjective, they wanted the bitch, Clinton,  to win. So outrageously partisan was MediaMinster that at times I thought I must be ill, hallucinating;  they did not even make a pretence of objectivity.  That the wretched Trump was able to provide an opposition to the HillaryView was damned as divisive and undemocratic, as though Hillary Clinton's was the only way;  vast swathes of America were damned as racist and stupid; ludicrous diversions from Clinton's villainy were plucked from the air and trumpeted by the likes of Jon Sox as gospel truth - the Russians were to blame for Clinton's  villainies, her crimes of no consequence, compared to the fabricated hacking of her accounts by Vladimir Putin;  Edward Snowden was hijacking US democracy, Julian Assange his partner in crime. In all this nonsense the crimes of the Democrat Party against Bernie Sanders were swept under the carpet and Donald Trump was swept into the White House, the President-elect must thank global MediaMinster for his victory, for it is shrill, self-centred MediaMinster, not the FBI,  which has pushed so many his way. Jon Sox and his grimy ilk, helping to put a redneck in the White House, you gotta laugh.