Sunday 22 January 2017


In a startling act of political generosity, Labour, this morning, handed the Stoke Central parliamentary seat to Mr Paul Nutter, the down-to-Earth, plain-truth-Scouser and deputy leader of Poundland, an enterprise led, for all eternity, by Mr Nigel Pimp, of Brussels, Washington and London. 
 Yes, yes, he can call himself leader,

 said Mr Pimp, 

they can all call themselves leader butchanowatt? they'll be asking me to go back any minute now, they always do.
We all know, let's be very frank about this, who's the real leader round here, don't we?
 I mean, younowatt, mark my words, the wimmen are the worst Poundland leaders
If you can't stand a threesome get out of the Poundland kitchen,
that's what I say and d'younowatt, I think you'll find I'm speaking for every red-blooded male in the country, 
just you mark my words.
But this time, when they want me back, mark my words, I might be too busy, helping my old mate, POTUS, to keep the Wetbacks out; foreigners, they're everywhere you know, I travel around a lot, at your expense and I can tell you, the world's full of them, foreigners; something must be done, just you mark my words.

During an extraordinary interview with the PBC's Mr Politics, Andy Neil, a man who went to grammar school and then to Clydeside Poly, before doing post-graduate work in the Murdoch sewer, 

 Madam Diane Abbott, a senior Labour front bencher, handed the upcoming by-election to Mr Nutter, on the proverbial plate.

Whilst agreeing in theory that people had voted to leave the European Union, Madam Abbott said that she respected the vote, obviously she did, hers was a party of democracy and the rule of law, which is why they do so much vote-rigging, torture, money-laundering, blackmail and war crime but the very clear facts of the matter were that Britain could only leave the EU by remaining in it; 

 the best way to affect the change so clearly voted for by the electorate was to keep things exactly the same. 

We can leave the EU, if that's what people really want, because they are stupid, but only if we stay in the Single Market, in the Customs Union, subject to the European Court of Justice, and acquiescing to unlimited immigration from any old made-up fantasy nation which, five minutes ago, was a horse-drawn economy, as long as these conditions remain in force, Madam Abbott was content to let us leave the EU.

 Mrs Askey's stated aim, continued  Madam Abbott, of doing as instructed by the electorate, was muddle-headed and entirely mistaken and as for a trade deal with the USA, well, Andrew, this simply could not happen because Mr Trump was not in any position to make deals because he is not the President.

On viewing the interview, Mr Nutter, or ower Paulie, as he's known down the  Dockers' Arms said,
 Thanks big lass, 
 I'm dead chuffed me, over the Moon,
 I c'n ardly Adam'nWossaname it,
 and now that I'm MP for Stoke, me, yeah, me, Honest Paulie, an MP,  I'll probly reconnect the leccy meter  in me gaff, probly get the tax man t'pay fer me leccy, now, anyway, I mean MPs don't pay fer anythin' do they?
Yeah, thanks big lass,  bang-on,
dead chuffed, me, over the moon. 
(sings: wa-a-alk on, wa-a-alk o-o-o-o-on, 
with hope in your heart, 
and you'll ne-ver walk ah lo-o-o-o-one,  
ne-e-e-e-e-e-eve-e-e-er walk ah-a-lo-o-o-ne. 

Nice one, Di; you're a proper Lady Di, you are, 
 for an immigrant)

Warming to her theme, Madam Abbott turned to why it was better all around for her to make important decisions on behalf of poor people who aren't terribly bright.

 Honestly, Andrew, it's like that chap, ishmael, was saying, the other day: it is entirely proper and truly socialist, in fact it is the essence of democratic socialism - which, I may say, the British people are cying-out for, to me and Jeremy Corbyn and some of my junior colleagues -  for me to send my darling son to private school, far away from my constituents, otherwise it might prove difficult  for him to inherit the family business from me, you know what they say, Andrew,  familiarity breeds contempt, and let's face it, Andrew, when it comes to my constituents there's a lot to feel contempt about, isn't there, I mean, I know how you despise poor people, too, and live in France to avoid them. But no, mr ishmael was one hundred per cent correct, if everyone was to receive a good, expensive education, what would be the point of that, where would be the advantage for rich people, like myself and our precious children? 

And quite frankly Andrew, theres' no point in you trying to catch me out on leaving the EU, I have stated the position of my party and myself quite clearly and you must just accept it:  the only conceivable way for us to leave and do right by the electorate is to stay in.

I took a little opium, early this morning, it is a very rare event, two or three times a year, touch wood, better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it and  sometimes the  lesser of two evils, and watching Abbott, on the Sunday Andy, I thought, fuck me, I'm off me head, but I wasn't, she really did say all that, in that awful, convoluted  arm-waving didactic no-let-me-finish way of hers.

I used to say about Snotty that seeing someone make a fool of themself  is not a pleasant experience, anyone can do it - a slip of the tongue, an unguarded remark, a contradiction, an inconsistency, a Freudian slip, it is easily done.  Snotty's blunders, however, derived from a monstrous ego, a vast and groundless intellectual conceit and an unwholesome, dangerous  megalomania - instilled, in my opinion, by his batshit crazy Presbyterian  parents; from the certainty that he and he alone knew the sol-you-shun, that he alone divined the right thing for the country; Snotty, waving his rusty moral compass, was the flame-keeper of I-Know-Bestism. 

And so it is with Abbott, one wants, has always wanted,  to give her the benefit of the doubt; she was the first black female MP, but like the abominable Oily Vaz - the first Labour Asian MP - she has milked that distinction and wholly devalued it;  she is a lone parent but it has not ennobled her, for she is a greedy snob; she has defied the monstrous Blair, yet grows more like him every day.
 To see anyone make such a public hash of themselves as she did, today, ought to invite sympathy or compassion but her arrogance is breathtaking, her stupidity astounding and her  assurance  that she can bamboozle those who employ her together invite only contempt.
There has been no shortage of Abbott gaffes, this one, however, is titanic and unforgiveable.
Corbyn should sack her and the voters should pelt her with rotten  eggs and bags of dog-shit.
The self-proclaimed parliamentary standard-bearer of the Left,
good for fuck all. 

Saturday 21 January 2017



The white, middle-class, Oxbridge, neo-liberal opinion-sheet which today damns the democratically-elected Trump, which supported the Coalition Lib-Dems,  Tory Austerity, the NewLabour betrayal of Corbyn; which  seeks to overturn the Brexit result,  which supported Hillary Clinton and now relies upon advertising revenues generated by shameless click-bait articles, is reaching for the liberal begging bowl:

Since you’re here…

…we have a small favour to ask. More people are reading the Guardian than ever but far fewer are paying for it. And advertising revenues across the media are falling fast. So you can see why we need to ask for your help. The Guardian's independent, investigative journalism takes a lot of time, money and hard work to produce. But we do it because we believe our perspective matters – because it might well be your perspective, too.

If everyone who reads our reporting, who likes it, helps to pay for it, our future would be much more secure.

Already trashed by previous editor, Alan Arsebridger, 

I'm paid half  a million pounds a year because I'm worth it .
No, no my successor gets nowhere near that sum, and no, it's not because she's a woman - this IS the Guardian, for fuck's sake - it's just because she's not a man.

the Guardian, once a fine, principled  independent broadsheet, is now an improbably pious  mouthpiece for pompous irrelevance; stupid and sanctimonious writers like Jonathan Freedland, Polly Toynbee and the irritant pipsqueak, Owen Jones, promise a just-around-the-corner Jerusalem, which can be reached if only we embrace every lunatic, hateful branch of  identity politics which grows  from the Tree of Spite, every bizarre, minority, sexually aberrant screech must be heard and obeyed, there is but one true, hipster path,  signposted by clearly disconnected, unrepresentative, smug, lazy, so-called journalists, and an overarching media management corporate structure.

I sometimes give a bit of money to lost causes. I sent fifty quid to the Jail Blair Committee and I give wikipedia an annual sum, so I'm not entirely opposed to giving money to people with more money than me, so long as I think their aims and actions just, but the Guardian, well, I'd rather take  money down the garden, rip it up  and put it in the compost.
As the Guardian, today, roared its approval of the IdiotMarch - 

 funny how all these PussyHats never picket the Saudi Embassy, perhaps Muslim despots stoning and beheading and flogging their sisters to death is a much lesser crime that Trump's alleged groping of them, and that Hillary's soliciting of their funds must make them OK, right-on, the horrible, hook-nosed, coke-snorting, whoremongering child molesting fuck pigs - its writers cried Foul, Hillary won the popular vote, they whined, she should be President, and you  just know  that  had Hillary won, those same worthless hacks would be piously defending the Electoral Colleges system which saw Trump victorious.  It is exactly the same with Brexit, had the people voted as instructed by the verminous Cameron and Osborne there would now be no talk of a re-run or of voter confusion and stupidity. These people, marching today, they are the truly anti-democratic,  they are the anti-poor, the pro-torture, the pro-corruption, they are the new totalitarians, for them the only choice tolerable  is their own. This kind of demonstration, opposing  the result of not one but now two democratically arrived-at decisions, this is the stuff of 'thirties Germany  Let these fucking idiots  forego their Starbucks, and their Gap Years,  let them curtail their i-thinging, let them support the Guardian, let them march, let them rally, torchlit, as they define the new Reich.
It'll save them having to think.

Friday 20 January 2017


This is the never-ending US election, the showbiz rich lost it, Wall St. lost it; the trannies lost it, INTEL-SEC lost it,  the press lost it and are terrified - so terrified that they are obliquely encouraging Trump's assassination, while Obama is still in office - and,  happy to destabilise the nation, are all still fighting it. Have you seen screen hardman, Robert de Niro, stuttering and stammering his way through his Amarchy Manifesto, you gotta laugh, crazy old fascist.

The only time I have seen anything like this is everytime Uncle Sam and his crerwcut goons have intervened overseas, in order to defeat local democracy; Nixon, Kissinger, Reagan and Cli-Bu-Bama,  they have all overthrown democratically-elected governments abroad, why not at home?

Although a bit freaky it is nevertheless a pleasure to see Washington power being deployed so openly against its own citizens;   maybe now they'll find out who they really are;  there is, for instance, a Trumps Hells Angels militia riding to Pennsylvania Avenue,  the luvvies better take care, lest Marlon Brando's ghost come roaring at them on a Triumph 650.

Thursday 19 January 2017



“Unfortunately I am not physically able
 to continue in my current role.............."

Nor were more than thirty thousand  of your fellow human beings, were they, thanks to your repulsive cowardly nationalism.  

Speaking as an Irish citizen I hope he dies terrified; he should do,
so he should.


Far as I know, you can't adjectivise a verb; a verb needs an adverb - it should be Think: different or Think differently.
Think different is shit.

I go to sleep at night - when I go to sleep at all - worrying about a  chap in  a TeeVee commercial.  He's not very bright and he has a demanding daughter, you know the type,  the country's plagued with the little bastards, gotta have a gap year,  le grand tour de nos jours, before she goes to Uni. 

 If I was Seckaterry of State for Education I would ban this practice; if you need a year's holiday after meaningless A levels and before you start a degree then you're not up to it, most of them aren't up to it, anyway, after Blair's Uni Revolution, few graduates can frame a sentence;  I'd say to GapYearBrats,  you've got a place, take it up and work like Hell or fuck off and get a proper job,  even if you're taking out a loan it costs taxpayer money to maintain higher education, if you'd rather be on holiday then fuck off, learn a trade and do something useful, you can't just interrupt the study mechanism, go fucking and drinking around the world and  then carry-on studying as though nothing had happened, besides, your life is a fucking holiday, you don't need another one, you cheeky fucking bastard.

 It is no wonder that employers are all a-whine about graduates hardly being able to spell their own increasingly preposterous names, now that they, by virtue of their undergraduacy consider themselves entitlementistas
But I suppose the gap-year brat is just an extension of Thatcher's property-owning democracy bollocks, in which people shackle themselves to a tiny, rudely built and unimaginably over-valued house, one they can only afford by both of them working their arses off, and then when it's paid for, selling it to pay for social care - to be bullied and abused, pinched and prodded, wrongly medicated and left in piss-soaked bedding by very welcome, culturally enhancing and totally necessary Polish immigrants, without whom we simply cannot do, the fucking horrible bastards, smirking that they've come here to make better life, no; and so everybody bend over or get out of their way. Why don't they stay and make better life in fucking Poland, eh? Why not make Poland better place. Making better place was what Britons did, after the Hitler war, fought on behalf of Poles and French and Dutch and countless others, all now berating Brits for their temerity in wanting to leave Greater Germany. 
Scottish catering is full of them, Poles, and everywhere you go in hotels and restaurants there're little saucers with pound coins in them, so's we can help these horrible fuckers make better life by giving them free money, as well as free health care and education. Oh, but mr ishmael, they work so hard. No, they fucking don't, they just say they do; they can't even speak English most of them, and they make that your fault, you should learn Polish to help Magda make better life. I knew a Magda, in social care, she was a liar, a cheat, an incompetent,  a right monster, hostile, belligerent; a bully, untrainable, every constructive suggestion eschewed as being inspired only by racism - is because I am Pole, that you criticise.

For now, anyway, those like my man in the Apple advert, well,  their half-wit spawn need supporting through their three- or four-year course because, quite rightly, no grants are available for hairdressing and leisure studies, and, in the case of this poor sap, they need supporting on a one-year world  holiday, too. And then  the kids - DoAnyfin'4'Em,Me - need help with the starter-home down-payment, y'know to help them get their foot on the housing gallows. And to drive-up the prices for everyone else.

What Dad does, anyway, is allow himself to be dragged into an Apple store to get his kid some gap-year tech, a sales assistant talks to him for all of about two and a half seconds and he purchases an Apple I-pad Pro, so's his horrid little monster can send all her so-called friends movies of herself, dossing all over the world, and do whatever the fuck else it is you can do with an i-Pad.  It's over nine-hundred quid, this piece of junk, and he just says Oh Yeah, Will This DoYa Love?

We own our house, we own our cars, everything which we own we really own; we have no dependent children and an above-average income but it'd be a long cold day in Hell before I paid a grand for a tablet, even for myself. 
 I already have an i-Pad, one with no apps, and I am continuously receiving billing enquiries, threats to cut me off because I don't use the AppStore.  I really do believe that Apple and Facebook and Twitter are an insidious consumer tyranny, le totalitairianisme consumeriste nouvelle.  That the TeeVee is used to define good parenting as the gifting to non-productive children  of Apple's current model is not only wicked in itself but is a slap in the face - another one - for the majority of parents, who are unable to  spend so extravagantly.
According to HMRC the average UK salary is £28K on which tax of £6K is paid. The average house costs notionally £288K but over a 30-year mortgage will actually cost £630 K, so, assuming  that inflation rises at the same rate as the house repayments, and that the resale value of the house, once paid for, reaches more than the £630K it actually cost - this is the hope upon which house ownership is now built, that howevermuch it cost a house can be sold for more -  we can assume that AppleDad's residential care costs adjusted for that inflation will be about £3k a week, and if he and Mrs AppleMum both need care then the proceeds of their house sale will cover barely two years' residential care, unless, of course, they transfer ownership of the gaff to Little Poppet, which, if they do, should see them jailed, in my IMHO. 

Assuming  longevity for all, apart from Gnasher's Glaswegians, the very best use of one's earnings would be to rent as cheaply as possible and spend any spare money on having nice cars and other sorts of fun because by stepping on the housing gallows you are only saving money with which to pay for dubious care and regular bullyings and mistreatments by people being paid the minimum wage in care homes, whilst obsessing about making better life - the kind run by Mad Mick Fallon, before he became War Minister.  This, of course, is why there are no council homes to speak of and why the property-owning democracy is a myth created to serve private enterprise and discourage workers  from quite rightly going on strike.  The stake of the stakeholder in the property market is actually one to which he is tied.

As well as the abolition of decent, affordable council housing, Junky George Osborne and  That Albino Cunt Johnson made London a money laundry for International Crime; gangsters park their money in over-priced housing stock, forcing unaffordable price rises in  homes formerly occupied by ordinary workers.  This unwelcome trend is now spreading to provincial cities and towns, with the blessings of national government, local mayors and councils, all of whom will be on the take, as usual. 
All our democratic masters are happy, as long as the myth of AppleMan is meat and drink to those poor but Aspiring. 

  Aspirational, it was one of Cameron's favourite words, him, the one with the family money, or some of it, in an offshore tax haven, he loved to describe the voters as Aspirational, meaning poor and stupid, believing  that they, too, can be filthy rich, even though the number of rich people has to be strictly limited, otherwise what's the point of it,  there have to be far more poor people than rich people, otherwise the rich people cease being special and become almost like poor people, only with money, and what would be the point of that? If everyone had lots of money then what would be the point of Lewis Hamilton, people'd thnk he was a fucking lunatic, he's got loads of money and here he is, risking his life, driving like a nutcase, he could be roasted alive, what's the point of that? And if pretty young women were rich then why would they want to snuggle-up to a suicidal lunatic with a bizarrely  stupid beard, whose greatest thrill is squirting champagne over other suicidal lunatics, only not as suicidal as him, because he's the world's champion suicidal lunatic. And as for Mutant Murray, well, if everyone had money then nobody'd go and watch him, punching himself, having Turette's Syndrome and smashing his racket to pieces, climbing into the crowd and snogging his own mother. And if everyone had money then everytime Prince Brian opened his gob he'd get a fist in it or a boot. Keeps things in proper order, it does, most of us being skint, and only a few of us being minted.

 But Cameron's approval of aspirational  voters is  nothing to do with equality because  an aspiration, by definition, is something in the future, you're never actually going to be rich, you just dream about it, like winning the Lottery.  Aspirationalism  is Cameron's form of the American Dream, in which the citizen is permitted, encouraged, to dream, whilst his masters shit in his face and use his tongue for toilet paper. In that We Shall Overcome nonsense, it is the Shall, that counts, We Shall Overcome, one day, overcoming is an aspiration not a certainty;  aspirationalism is a form of SOMA, whose active properties take away brutal, impoverished reality, for a time, and substitute a waking dream.

If properly aspirational all you gotta do is not rock the boat, live in a house you don't own, even though you pay for it two or three times over;  drive a car you don't own and borrow the petrol money at 28% per annum, if you're lucky; accept that your bosses, who don't actually do anything other than fuck things up, require substantial payrises and that you,  actually, because of things you don't understand, must work for less and less each year;  that way you can be properly aspirational, aspiring to get into even more debt so that you are  able to raise useless, ineducable children and buy them expensive and unnecessary love tokens, on borrowed money,  just like my man in the Apple ad.  And better still,  Apple, like all successful initiatives,  is, as a matter of principle fully committed to not paying any UK tax on its sales of the Apple Dream. What could be better than borrowing money in order to support an industry which doesn't help pay for schools and hospitals?

You only have to Google "Average Incomes" to discover armies of Mrs Askey's, what is it, JAMs, those JustAboutManaging. 
 These aren't the couples doing half a dozen disgraceful zero-hours minimum wage jobs in which we, the taxpayers, support the robbing-bastard employers with tax credits, so's they don't have to waste money on proper wages;  these JAMs are married couples, both with expensive-sounding job titles - systems analysts and senior sales executives - earning between them about £50K and once they've paid mortgage, child care, grocery, credit card and car costs they haven't got a pot to piss in, never mind a grand to spend on a kid's tablet.  Neither the abused zero-hours workers or the twin careerists can afford such a thing, although the Apple advert would  make you think it was just perfectly natural, a casual purchase.

From 2001-2016 average wages have risen by less than 3% whilst the costs of housing, food, fuel and energy have rocketed. During that same period MPs have weathered the exposure of their expenses crime spree and still managed to increase the own wages by 30%.  
MPs still manage the impudence of second and third jobs, Michael Spit, MP, this week, working-away for Mr Murdoch, interviewing Donald Trump, and writing for the Times regularly;

The MP for Surrey Heath 
attends to his constituents' interests.

 his must be a blessed constituency, enabling him to let it care for itself, while he earns a crust, an activity made cruelly necessary, by him only being on £80k, plus food, clothing, IT, postage, travel, housing, bungs, bribes and freebies, the cheeky cunt.

 Despite massive and unprecedented rises in the costs of  living, despite static or falling incomes, zero return on savings  and soaring personal debt we allow ourselves to be persuaded that inflation is running at between one and two per cent when effectively it is ten or twenty times that; just as we allow Apple to persuade us that their devices, produced by slave labour in China, are simply essential to the proper development of our precious consumer children.

The reality - rather than the aspiration - is that a proper society would hound the Apple trash-people into the Thames and burn their bright, shiny shops to the ground. As it is, the Apple adverts will continue to taunt those outside the charmed circle of discretionary, disposable income, whilst its owners will continue to brazenly evade lawful taxation to which the rest of us are compelled by fear of imprisonment.  

Stop me if I've mentioned this before but Apple founder and whiz-kid,  Steve Jobs, was a pathetic Bob Dylan freak,

  he could  never get near Bob but when a chance came up to date his fellow-Californian, Joan Baez - 

Dylan's cruelly humiliated former lover -  
Stevie jumped at the chance. 
Weird, really, but then he was.

One day billionaire Stevie said,
 Hey, babe, I saw this really cool little French dress,  in a couturier's over in Santa Barbara, wanna take a ride over and have a look? Baez says that she thought what any woman would think in that situation but when she did him a twirl in his recommended garment he said, Yeah, I was right, it does suit you, Joanie,  you really should buy it.
Now, that's what you call Thinking Different.

Friday 13 January 2017



My fellow motherfuckers...



Such is the covenant of democracies - and the fate of that democracy lies both in the hands of the people and of the President. And now it is President Trump’s move.


                                      John Meacham, Time Magazine, December 7, 2016.

… for all our outward differences, we in fact all share the same proud type, the most important office in a democracy; citizen.

So, you see, that’s what our democracy demands. It needs you.


                       Outgoing US President, Barack Obama, 
Chicago, January 2017
Eight years ago, we described Obama as the best speechifier of his generation. How quickly his rhetoric soured, how quickly we realised that he was no orator, that without his polished, autocued soundbites he was just a tongue-tied oaf, resorting inevitably to the inane burblings of a late-night TV chat show host, a Letterman or Leno, trading meaningless cant, a clown for all seasons.

Last Tuesday night’s performance,
 before an adoring audience, was vintage Obama, seemingly principled and lyrical but on closer examination mere self-serving tripe, a ghastly, inaccurate, exaggerated, selective, contradictory and misleading psalm to himself.
     A modest man would have blushed but Obama is a shameless hyperbolist;

 there is no red line which cannot be undrawn, no claim which cannot be unclaimed, no truth which cannot be untruthed. He has ended torture, he says, and worked on closing Gitmo.  He hasn’t ended torture and he hasn’t closed Gitmo; he has, in fact, legalised the summary and unconstitutional murder abroad of US citizens (and others) but he makes these pious Gitmo claims quickly, amongst a catalogue of other bogus achievements, and the hand-picked crowd goes wild in an ecstasy of righteous, ethical masturbation. Hacks in the UK, the same vermin who rejoiced at the burning of the wheelchairs and the closing of the libraries, claimed to have wept at Obama’s speechifying. Luvvies, too, are sobbing into their TwitterThings. 
MommieDearest Mia Farrow has issued a proclamation to the effect that Barry and Shell have created the real Camelot, there, in Washington DC. Well, spouse to both Mafia wife-beater Frankie Sinatra and the dwarf beast, Woody Allen, Mad Mia should know a good Camelot when she starry-eyes one.
I have yet to learn Mr Bruce Beardsteen’s view on this glorious tragical-comical-historical event but no doubt light entertainer Bruce,  a man who considers himself not so much a pop singer as a Movement, will have profound thoughts to share with us, about his baby, and being in his car, and about his president. (No doubt he’ll share them soon at a concert near you, at a hundred pounds a ticket. Can’t get more blue-collar rock‘n’roll than that. An insufferable cunt, Springsteen; where is punk 2.0 when you need it?)

A man in retarded adolescence and his hero. Take your pick.
That post-election issue of Time, from which Obama seems to have taken inspiration, illustrated the ishmaelite truth that they - the hacks and the luvvies and the legislators - are all just talking to themselves, whistling in the dark, pissing in the wind. Hillary and Spunky Bill Clinton’s defeat at the hands of the Trumpsters is described exhaustively, in Time, as a glass-ceiling issue, the failure of an electorate poorly connected to feminism; the dreadful old bitch is portrayed as an American Moses, an imperfect prophet, leading women to the edge of the Promised Land. Now it’s up to another woman to enter it, for America, according to Time, must have a woman president. Now, given that only the truly rotten can ever come within a mile of nomination for that office, what Time would appear to say is that the system must be influenced, as it was in Clinton’s case, in order that a rotten woman, instead of a rotten man, be elected.
The voters must be educated, alerted to the fact that for Ruin to prosper it must appear to be a pestilence truly committed to equality of opportunity, right? Isn’t that what it means? For surely to God no one in their right mind would find Virtue or Competence in Hillary Clinton.
Hillary, though, claims Time, couldn’t do right for doing wrong; she was too smart, too experienced, too well-briefed for dumb, sexist voters, and that’s why she lost to a redneck fat-head.  What a shame that sexist America isn’t more like Pakistan or India, where women members of political dynasties were a shoo-in to pre-sidencies and prime ministerships; why can’t American political dynasties similarly flourish, bleated the Clinton camp mourners, like good democrats. We want our own royal families, people better than us, just because, well, because they stole more, and because they say so. Steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you a King. Or a presidential candidate.
In the entire post-election issue of Time there was no mention of voters being suspicious of a marriage which may have existed for no other reason than to neutralise Spunky Bill’s sexual predations, to homogenise sexual abuse into a palatable mix of a good-if-naughty-ole-boy, stood-by, loved and forgiven by his family, 
even though the whole nightmare nuptial trip apparently survived only to secure Hillary’s political career. 
There was no mention of vast sums of money being funnelled into both the Clintons’ Foundation and their election fund. Hillary didn’t lose, according to Time, because of her extraordinary and illegal personal IT server and her disappearing of thirty thousand e-mails (Richard Nixon, we must remember, was indicted over a missing seventeen and a half minutes of recorded tape.) Hillary didn’t lose because of her mishandling of Libya or the preventable murder of the US ambassador, nor because of her bizarre relationship with the wife of serial sex offender, Anthony Weiner, and definitely not because of her watertight and highly lucrative connections to Wall Street.                                                       
No, to the ordinary voters, none of this stuff was important enough to make them vote for Trump instead of Clinton; the nasty voters only did it and she only lost because she is a woman. That’s what the faithful were saying to each other on election night and they are still saying it. Worse, they are all still hoping to see Hillary and Spunky Bill in the White House.
Unseating Trump would not be enough; his VeeP, Pence, would have to go as well. Nothing would do, short of the Clintons retrospectively being awarded the White House by default.
Speaking to a partisan audience at a stage-managed event in his home town, Obama perfectly articulated the American Nightmare. Always a bogus illusion foisted by elites upon greedy, gullible morons, the US political system has yet to produce a president of any merit and it never will, now; crooks and cheats and worse, most of them, and if one shows a hint of Decency, say, Jimmy Carter, he is rubbished by his colleagues, knee-capped by the press and a proper dummy installed, in that case the fuckwit, Reagan, and his star-gazing Mummy-Wife, Nancy.
Imagine, Jimmy Carter in the White House when Manhattan sky-scrapers fall inexplicably to the ground in their own footprints, and there’s a ban on US air travel, apart from Saudi Arabians fleeing homeward; imagine that relatives of the dead are beaten by lawnforcement for disputing the facts; imagine that the very steel from the most blatantly deceptive building collapse is immediately shipped to India for re-cycling; imagine that the Constitution is ripped up and the state empowered to read your every written word, to listen to your every conversation; imagine that Torture and Sadism are sanctified at home and abroad by the White House; they’d have ripped poor Jimmy’s guts out.
George Dubya Chimp, however, stupid and compliant as a penniless, drunken whore, was licensed to commit kleptomaniacal genocide and nobody said Boo!
It is this failure properly to control and orchestrate the illusion of democracy which Trump personifies; it was the personification, in millions, of the Can’t-Fool-All-Of-The-People-All-Of-The-Time dictum which saw him elected, and which sees so many attempts  to unseat him before he gets into the saddle.
Obama’s not very subtle plea for people to stand up and participate was a sneaky call to civil unrest, one which, under his stewardship, would have seen its author under arrest. (Obama, interestingly, has never, to my knowledge, since being elected, voiced a whisper of criticism of George Dubya, a man as rotten as can be, yet whilst loyal to the Presidential Fellowship of Thieves Obama unprecedentedly, and, we must presume, with the permission of his masters, used the office of President to join enthusiastically in the partisan campaign for his successor.) To those watching, bemused, Obama’s audience 

appeared either to be on Happy Pills or comprising the very best of CyberCorp’s SynthCitizen range, cheering and stomping at every successive dishonesty.
I confess to never having completed George Orwell’s 1984 but  it seemed that Obama has developed a NewSpeak of his own, deploying blatant lies as Truths, totally inverting disgusting reality into cheerworthy platitude; that he has accomplished this on the back of his notional blackness shows all the more vividly the stupid, voluntary complicity of an audience reared on Hollywood’s presentation of a mythical America.

 I dunno about you - just to digress for a minute -  but if I was on an aircraft hijacked by a handful of screeching, hysterical Muslim nancyboys, armed only with tiny little blades, I'd fucking kill the bastards.  Even if they held Kalashnikovs,
 I would stab the fuckers in the eye with anything that came to hand - pen, spoon, rolled-up magazine, anything; you can make a sharp, eye-penetrating splinter from a plastic coffee cup - I'd grab them by the bollocks and twist as hard as I could,  that'd make them cry-out and pray to Allah in their hour of need, alright, peace and blessings be upon His name, as we should now all say, lest we offend those who want to kill us, out of respect; I'd kick them, punch them, strangle them, I'd bite their fucking faces off. But no, even though they outnumbered the unarmed arabs by ten or twenty or thirty to one, September 11's Americans sat still, doing as they were told, probably expecting Superman to fly alongside, or Bruce Willis to emerge, bloody and in his vest, from the baggage hold; tossers, too stupid even to fight for their lives, too cowed; too fucking special; American exceptionalism, another chorus from the  Obama songbook of criminal fraud.

The great confection of Americanism to which Obama repeatedly alluded the other night was not Nobility. There was nothing noble about drunken Paddy bastards dressed up like cavalry and mutilating native continental indigents at Wounded Knee; nothing noble about refugee Scotsmen founding the Ku Klux Klan and burning negroes alive; nothing noble about Haliburton mercenaries and psychobastard crew-cut MommasBoy GIs looting and gang-raping their way through Iraq and Afghanistan, and there is definitely nothing noble or self-sacrificial about militarised lawnforcement goons shooting black people like clay pigeons. What - in relation to Americanism - Obama was actually referring to was the cruel utility of overwhelming might and technology, to the plantation’s whip-wielding overseer, to the Gatling gun and the atom bomb, to napalm and Agent Orange, to that towering American virtue;  vicious technology applied to defenceless populations. 


  Indeed, every matter to which he had turned his attention had been improved by his thoughtful consideration…

My fellow motherfuckers. When I assumed my great office I speechified like a demented sonofabitch that the authors of the financial crisis would be hunted down and punished.

Now, after eight years, I am happy to report that up to and as many as precisely no bankers or financiers or mortgage carpetbaggers have been arrested, prosecuted or jailed. As many as precisely none. Not one. That aint the way to keep folks working. And I’m proud that my administration helped keep so many, well, all the bankers and financiers and mortgage carpet-baggers in work. And as a matter of fact, as a part of moving forward, I have managed to employ as many members of Goldman Sachs in the White House as they have told me to. Yessir, n’deed I have.

Same as the professional torturers. 
I remember, right here, in mr ishmael’s commentaries, vowing to track down them torturing folks and punish them. But instead I chose to be more progressive, make torture part of our arsenal against bad folks and keep them torturers hard at work, in jobs, and payin taxes. How many torturers did we prosecute and punish? That’s right, up to and including and as many as precisely none. 

The economy is cured, fixed, sorted, even though America is indebted to a degree almost unimaginable, a sum which can never, ever, ever be paid off, but only written off, by a war or some other act of selfless virtue; jobs are abundant, even though voters in America’s industrial heartland think differently (and they ought to know) so differently in fact that they voted for anyone bar the Democrats whom they’d supported for generations, a bit like what happened  to Labour in Scotland; a parliamentary party grown fat on the strife of the poor had its arse kicked, and one hopes that the contusions prove fatal.
The US now has an NHS, even though it doesn’t; Peace reigns, even though it doesn’t; Obama has reined in the military-industrial complex, even though it is stronger now, and more costly, than it was under George Dubya Chimp; Uncle Sam still has eight hundred military bases abroad and is spreading to places from which it has long been absent, armies posted to Australia and the Baltic states, fleets cruising in the South China Sea; US fleets and forces intimidate almost everyone in the world, they provoke and perpetuate tensions; her drones assassinate illegally and at will, and her recent Secretary of State seemed to provoke conflicts at the whim of her Arab paymasters.
To Obama and his handlers, War truly is Peace.

Thanks to capitalist US adventurism, shambolic millions of mig-rants are besieging European nation states, making chaos of national public services budgets and among their ranks are many made sui/homicidal by Uncle Sam slaughtering their infants. 


The world, in short, and the US particularly, are in a better place, thanks to himself. You have to laugh, because if you cried, you know you’d fill a lake with tears.

One of the things I have accomplished with your help is the end of war. And that is why the American arms industry grows almost exponentially, year on year. The US can proudly say that it is the world’s biggest arms producer. And that its Commander-in-Chief, myself, has brokered more arms sales - and to more degenerate, criminal regimes - than any other president in history.

My stewardship of world peace has resulted in forty billion dollars’ worth of weapons sales in 2016 alone. And it just doesn’t get more peaceful than that.

Even that great American institution, ForkHead DeathCorp, is on record as saying that thanks to your Commander-in-Chief, the Middle East is seen, more and more, as what its sales teams call an area of outstanding growth. And that’s not all. These sales are led by those good folks at the Pentagon. Those great patriots. Who will, there is no doubt, in future, take up responsible positions in that same arms industry. And who, on behalf of those client states - say, Saudi Arabia and Iraq - decide exactly what arms they need to buy, going forward. We tellem what they need in order to kill or torture folks, which folks they need to kill or torture, and then they pay us for it.

 Was business ever any better than that?
And to those great ISIS libertarians and Al-Kay remnants, fighting Russian tyranny in Syria, we sellem arms, too. Y’know, we can’t expect our allies in ISIS to make progress just by chopping folks’ heads off, or burning them alive in cages. We will sell the instrumentation of Death to anyone. Just so long as they got money. And if they aint got any money we givem credit.

Juss like we did with the Limeys. When they were fighting Hitler and what they called fascism. Loaned’em three, nearly four billion, to buy shit from us with. Okay, it meant that after the war they had a decade or so of Austerity. But that’s just how business is. You have’ta fuck everybody up the ass. 

 And do it hard. 

Even if without them - the Limeys - we might all be speaking Kraut, now, in America. And my folks’d definitely be in the gas ovens. Betcha sweet ass. Schwarzers, Hermann didn’t like schwarzers. Worse’n Jews, is what they thought. But that’s no reason them Limeys deserve special treatment. Just for standing up to bad shit. When everyone else just bent over for Hermann’s racist dick. Is it? I don’t see what’s so special about that.

 They paid it all off, though, the Limeys, a hundred billion bucks in today’s money. Done it in 2006. That guy, Snotty, the one from off the Northern Reservation, he did it. And that’s why we call it a special relationship. We bled Britain dry while giving shitloads’a dollars to the post-war Hermanns. And that’s why, when they wanna disobey us, I, as your Commander-in-Chief, had to kick their asses to the back of the line. Save the world from tyranny or not.
My fellow motherfuckers. That great experiment in democracy. Which we call Guantanamo Bay. Is. Thanks to the efforts of my administration. Still in business. Mistreating nigger folks. Now, they may or may not be guilty of something. They was, after all - most of em, anyway - just pulled off the streets of Islamabad or some shithole like that. And sold by the kilo to the brave men and women of the CIA. Fifty thousand dollars for a terrorist is a lotta money to some nigger in a dress and I guess they just grabbed some other nigger, anyone who took their fancy and said, Hey, way to go, this one’s a terrorist, and this one, and this one over here. That’ll be a hundred and fifty thousand bucks please, CIA effendi.

And so, my fellow motherfuckers. It only seems right. That we torture their asses, these people that we bought fair‘n’square, just like our ancestors bought the slaves offa their neighbours. An find out if they are guilty of something.
My National Security advisers tell me that if you torture folks long enough, they’ll confess to almost anything. That they’ll even make shit up. Shit that nobody ever done, never mind them doin it. Shit that never even happened. And confess to it. So, as part of my legacy, to you, the American people. Part of my legacy is, well, I don’t much like to refer to them Limey sonsabitches these days. Not after they disobeyed Uncle Sam, like that. Over Europe. But there was this Limey poet. And if I can paraphrase his ass, as part of my legacy, 

I will remind you that, if I should die, think only this of me : that there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever Torture.
And when people say they don’t want no more immigrants, they should remember, as I do, that without the Poles and the Krauts and the Wops and the Paddies coming over here we wooden’a bin able to kill most of the indigenous people, burn their villages, baby-rape them and herd the survivors into concentration camps, where, my fellow motherfuckers, they remain to this day, dejected and dispirited, just like we’d ethnic-cleansed them or something, just to make way for greedy immigrants, too fucked-up to make a go of things back in they own countries. Swat made America great. Exceptional.

And just lemme speak to my record on lawnorder, jurisprudence and due process and why we murderered Osama bin Laden - or some nigger, anyways, and his family - in cold blood, and dumped the bodies in the sea when we could’ve easily captured him and brought him back here to stand trial. Well, folks, that’s a simple one. See, when a great crime is committed against America - say, when a president is assassinated or some buildings get blown up - then what you gotta do is find a patsy and killim, quick, just in case, at his trial, he says things about folks who benefited from the crime, things that nobody oughta hear about. And so, in the finest trad-itions of American justice, the man we said was responsible for 9/11, or a man, at least, was shot dead and silenced.

Job done, as the Limeys say. Case closed. It really was a proper example of American justice working just fine. No need to thank me. I was just doing my job, murdering anyone I felt like and perverting the course of justice.

My fellow motherfuckers, you would expect nothing less from me.

Just as I never finished 1984, I actually know bugger-all about Pavlov and his poor dogs, except that they were tortured into responding in certain ways to certain stimuli, 
like Obama’s stooges, though the Chicagoans do it to much greater effect. The Pavlov dogs remained dogs, illustrative of nothing more than their programmability. Anybody can train a dog - well, anybody but meI tend to have arguments, discussions, really, with Harris, in which I articulate his points of view and which, even so, he more often than not wins.
he more often than not wins.

 Obama’s dogs, however, screened around the world, were, as laughter-tracks prompt otherwise undeserved laughter, intended to prove the universal truth of his remarks; they would have cheered had he been speaking out of his arse literally as well as figuratively; they were responding to a kind of psychic cattle-prod, a crowd-taser. They only had to hear the words America or Michelle or Chicago or Liberty or Freedom or EllGeeBeeTee and they would erupt, cheering and clapping and crying as Tee-Vee anchors and hacks all around the world rejoiced, insisting to viewers that the few thousands in the Chicago hall cheered for and on behalf of the whole wide world a-watching. How could we betray such Goodness, by electing such Evil? It’s not too late; we can stay in Europe and we can overthrow Trump.


But my fellow motherfuckers, no matter how hard we’ve all worked together for the bankers, we should ree-dooce the influence of money in politics. I mean, it was fine when me and my fellow presidents were all on the make, sellin our asses to Mammon but now that the president-elect shits golden hundred dollar turds, we gotta review our priorities; leastways until we get rid of him.

Don’t let me be misunderstood. That small fortune that President and Mrs Bill accrued after leaving office (and in her case perhaps while she was still very much in office, as it doesn’t say in the thirty thousand emails which she didn’t destroy and even if they did say that, what does it matter?) that was good, decent, grafted money, correctly given and received, in fair exchange for legal actions in and out of office, and it is perfectly proper and constitutional that once they had taken out what they needed for themselves, they spent some of that money on buying the White House on behalf of all the foreign folks who had given them the money in the first place. I mean, no good American patriot thinks that you can be poor and get into the White House, do they? That aint what the American Dream is all about. It’s all about money; stealin it or takin it as a bribe; protection money or political donation, paid to gangster or politician, aint no difference.

But for the President-elect to have money from none of those fine sources is just one more reason for you to take the law into your own hands, I mean to engage with politics like you never have before, during those years you have been betrayed by proper crooks, like me.

It just remains for me to congratulate myself on my wife 


and the children, as politicians always do;

their children and wives being so wonderful, 

how can the politician, himself, be anything less than equally wonderful?

That was President Obama there, in Chicago. Yes, I know, viewers, fucking awful. And now briefly to Jayne Tits, who’s there for us, in the hall, talking to a tearful Obama supporter…

 Tell me, MaryJo, was that speech wonderful for you?

 Yes, it sure was wonderful.


And why was it so wonderful?


Because it just was. It was just so wonderful.  


Yes, he truly is wonderful, President Obama.


Yes Ma’am, he sure is. He sure is just, I dunno, wonderful?


And President-elect Trump, I don’t suppose you think he’s very wonderful at all, do you?

No Ma’am, I sure don’t think he’s wonderful at all. I surely don’t

It went on like that for about ten fucking minutes, look you, isn't it, make your fucking toes curl it would. I said to them, I said I wasn't gonna be in any news show that broadcast crap like that, look you, isn't it. I mean, there is a fucking limit, even for me, and I've played the piano for Tom Fucking Jones, look you.  Not too many newscasters can say that, not at the PBC. Least he's not a paedo, Jonesy, pity he can't sing, though, just yellin' and fuckin' bawling, 'swhat he does, shame he couldn't lower his voice to a scream, if you ask me.
So, anyway, in a break with PBC tradition we thought we'd bring you this, from my colleague at ChannelFour's News and Indignation Show, Mr Jon Sox. Jon, what's your take on all this, isn't it, look you, this Obama business, you're a bit broken-hearted, I understand.........? Back on the wacky baccy, isn't it/? Don't mind a toke, myself, got to have something to get me through all this bollocks I have to read out. I'll pop round to your studio, then, eh?

Yeah, man, like whatever.
  One newscaster for all and all newscasters for one newscaster. 
If it's cool with you, it's cool with me.
I'm just so fucked-up, man, with Trump winning and Obama going, man; it's too much heavy shit.


noun: learned helplessness
a condition in which a person suffers from a sense of powerlessness, arising from a traumatic event or persistent failure to succeed. It is thought to be one of the underlying causes of depression


Good evening, this is Channel Four News and Indignation, with me, Jon Sox,

 the caring, caring face of madeupnewsandfilth4caring people. 
 And tonight we report, as we do every night, in terms of helpless, ballsaching despair, from Aleppo, where the ceasefire, when there is one, is rubbish; where the non-ceasefire is rubbish, too; 
where John NewFace,  

US Seckaterry of State,  

and all other decent, modest  people, 
like me,  
say that whatever they do the Russians are bastards, 
they're bastards and war criminals.
 And lessfaceit, attacking ISIL and al Ki-wossaname, is just not what we are supposed to be doing is it?  
What we should be doing is something which nobody knows what it is. 
Just that we should be doing it. 
Y'know, as that ishmael bloke says, at the top of the page:  intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.

Except that we don't.

Quite frankly, we in the West have been shamed, haven't we, by Mrs Merkel, who has shown us the true meaning of the word Humanity,


 unless, that is, you happen to be a homeless person, being immolated by some needy refugee children or out  doing a bit of Christmas shopping and you get seasonally mashed-up by a forty-ton lorry

 - did I say Christmas shopping?  
I meant Mid-Winter Festival shopping, because, lessfaceit, there's no exclusive and discriminatory religious, monotheistic aspect to Christmas, is there;  it's not as though Christians own Christmas or anything;

 I mean,  Christmas, 
for it to mean anything at all, has to be Muslim, doesn't it,  Mohamed came first, didn't he, you do the math, and Jesus just happened to be born on Christmas Day, didn't he;  yes, and whilst it may well be a family event, family, these days, takes many shapes and forms, so Christmas, if we must have it,  must be one which clearly reflects and signposts every step on the gender highway, representing the journeys which we all are making;  we, all of us, after all, are born lesbian or gay or pre- or post- or having-changed-our-minds-back-again- transgender or queer and we  are finding our own way out of the heterosexual or homonormativity straightjacket which has so sullied our civilisation.......

Any chance, Jon, we might cut to the fucking chase, pardon my fucking French, boyo, I mean, I brought the PBC viewers here to hear about about Obama, what with you and your connections, look you, isn't it, your connections, in Washington, and all we've heard is gay fucking rights, again....

Yes, Huw, but this is sophisticated news, for sophisticated indignant people, unlike some I could mention it's not all sport and showbiz, all in due course, Hughie, all in due course.

 Yes, now, where was I, yes,  we should be inviting members of the truck-crashing-into-shoppers diaspora 

to come and live in our spare rooms, well, not mine, obviously, but yours, our caring viewers' spare rooms. 
People like Gilly, whom mr ishmael wrote about, people who want to do something.

I mean, 
for all the good these cease-fires are doing the Russians may as well be bayonetting babies, which, we are reliably informed, is what the typical Russian soldier - or to give him his proper name, the typical Russian war criminal  

- likes to do anyway. 

Overthrowing the tyranny of Basher Assad,
Aleppo freedom fighters,
 are freedom fighting in the streets,
like this

and maintaining the rule of law,
like this

in the face of Russian brutality.
And we should jolly well get behind them.

Yes, yes, I know they lost twenty million in the Hitler war, the Russians,  but that's no reason for them disobeying Mrs Merkel now, is it;  and anyway, twenty million, what's twenty million;  it doesn't compare to the six million Jews who were killed,  I mean, you do the math, the numbers don't add-up; yes, and as well as the gipsies and homosexuals there were anarchists and  troublemakers, and talking about trade unionists, when you look at how certain British trade unions are currently behaving, inconveniencing people, well, you can't help but think that maybe there were aspects of Herr Hitler's strategy to which we could  all sign-up. Not with regard to the Jews, obviously, who lost so many more than the Russians, but the Russians themselves. And the trade unionists.  I mean, why should people be allowed to withdraw their labour, merely to protect their working conditions? 

I mean, 
striking's all very well, just as long as it doesn't interfere wth anything, like the bosses, who, let's face it, have enough to cope with, after the Brexit mistake, or the public, who might shout at the bosses, or the govament, when they should be shouting at the strikers, who are just ordinary people, like themselves.

 I mean, 
let's face it, apart from schools and hospitals and state pensions and equal pay for women,  and a minimum wage and health and safety and holiday pay and sick pay and maternity leave what have the unions ever done for anyone?

But Kelvin McFilth, 

who is perhaps Fleet Street's greatest editor emeritus,
 will be joining us to explain why striking workers should be shot.
Hack their fucking 'phones 'swhat I say; 
slags, that's what they are.
Shoot the cunts.
And if they got any teenage daughters,
 make 'em get their fuckin' tits out on page free.
An' their arses.
That's proper fucking journalism. 

Indeed it is, Kelvin, indeed it is.
Always got a platform on the PBC and a few license-payer quid for my old Murdoch mate.  
Those were the days eh, Kelvin, 
me at the Sunday Times, you at the Sun, 
trashing, between us,  everything decent. 
Did I tell you I went to grammar school and then to Glasgow university?
Yeah, right, Andrew, 
and then straight into the sewer, eh?

Well I'm not like Andrew Neil. 
On my show it definitely isn't all about me; well, not entirely.
Later in the show Cathy will be looking at how Brexit has deepened the plight of those suffering in Syria from Russian occupation and shameless Russian attacks on Islamic State freedom fighters and how we, as a nation, should be ashamed of ourselves. 
I mean beating ISIL in Iraq is one thing, isn't it, but beating them in Syria, where we are arming them in order to overthrow Basher Assad, that's a different thing altogether.

And to explain that apparent contradiction - that we are now working with our own worst enemy -  we are joined by War Seckaterry, Sergeant Mad Mick Fallon. 

So the thing is, you fly the plane 
and I drop the naplam on the children, right?
And watch them run around, ablaze?

Mad Mick Fallon, how do we explain to people why on the one hand ISIL are our deadly enemies and we have to listen-in to everyone's phone calls and read their emails in case they are terrorists working for ISIL while on the other hand we are funding and arming ISIL in order that they might overthrow Basher Assad? 

Yes, Field Marshal Ali Baba, and which part of ISIL do you represent?  
Are your wages coming on time?  
Plenty of guns and bombs and things like that?

Well, quite frankly, Jon, 
I think that your viewers have enough on their minds, just now, what with Rick Parfitt, George Michael and now Princess Wotsit, Leah, is it, all being murdered by 2016 - because,  make no mistake, Jon, that's what's happened, unless, of course you are one of those people who believe that great artists just die, just like that, y'know, because of illness or old age - for them to be bothered about us, in govament,  spending billions on arming the people we say are our greatest enemies.

Yes but minister, 
how do we know which are the good ISIL-ites, and which the bad? I mean, we cheer and applaud when we drive them from Iraqi towns but it's a crime against humanity when Basher and Mr Putin drive them from Syrian ones, in fact we don't even call them terrorists, which they are, we call them rebels, which they're not, they're just foreign fighters paid for by us and Uncle Sam to overthrow the majority in Syria.  That is what's happening, minister, isn't it?

That's a very good question, Jon,  
but you'll appreciate that if I were to answer that I might be endangering the lives of our very brave servicemen and women, not to mention the share price of the arms industry, upon whose profits your pension and mine depend. Mine more than yours, obviously, because I work for them and you don't, not directly, anyway.  
And it's just exactly what it says at the top of mr ishmael's commentary, which we are all appearing in - the News, and you, especially, Jon,  peddle Learned Helplessness, and it does so  by broadcasting, day after day after fucking day, miserable, shitty, tragic, horrifying  events which no-one here can influence or change and you leave them utterly washed-out and therefore  unable to influence or effect those things upon which they can act, by, just  for instance, sacking cunts like me; you are as much to blame  for cunts like me, Jon, as cunts like me are, you are part of the Learned Helplessness business, you teach it.  Earthquakes and floods, Jon, in places no-one ever heard of, much less cared about, and you sit here, all indignant, that nobody's doing enough, either to remedy that day's particular tragedy, or to stop tragedy ever happening again, feigning an innate, all-encompasing and inexhaustible Goodness you make people feel bad.  Feeding on death, Jon, you're like a nightmare, sermonising carrion crow; 'swhat you are, Jon, what you have always been, one of Death's long-distance parasites. In your own way, you are much worse than me and my kind. Death's Seckaterries, they only serve a  handful of years, you, his Broadcaster and Praise Singer, you are his life-long liegeman.  Nightly, you gorge on those maimed, murdered, drowned, buried alive, imprisoned, starving, freezing, leprous, thirsting, trafficked, abused by their fellows, swept aside by Nature, you, Jon Sox, you are the ultimate pornographer, your show is a state-sanctioned snuff movie; squalid, repulsive and probably insane, you are a cancer in the public discourse.
But the main thing, anyway, Jon, regarding your question,  is that I, 
as HM War Seckaterry, know exactly what is going on and that's all that matters, isn't it? Unless you want to give the people another referendum? 
Oh, and apart from that,  as well as being an obnoxious bully, I am, like yourself, stark, raving mad. Now, should we have another referendum, about  war or anything?

Fuck me, no, minister, 
certainly not, 
not after the last one which they got so wrong. 

Yes, Jon, very good, glad you're co-operating with govament. 
It's rather like the aircraft carriers, them not having any aircraft to carry, unless Mme le Pen lends us some, which she won't.
That's strictly on a need-to-know basis. 
And I don't need you to know.

Gosh, that was Michael Fallon, there, for us.
Here's Cathy Stilletos. 
The token feminist harpy.


It's not too late, y'know, viewers,  to pull back from the brink and  reject Nigel Farage and all his works.  I mean, clearly, the numbers show that we sensible Remainers won the vote and have been cheated.  Just do the math, the figures don't add up, seventeen million is actually, in the real world,  far fewer than fifteen million.
And anyway, I mean, it's not all about  numbers, is it, voting?

And Krish will be reporting from Mexico City, where Donald Trump, having stolen the US election, has caused the spontaneous combustion of  millions of pesos' worth  of fireworks, killing a couple of dozen wetbacks.  It is believed that Mr Trump's threat to build a wall between the Greasers and decent white Americans has, rather like the inexcusable Brexit, destabilised the entire hemisphere. I'll be joined in the studio by prominent columnists and pollsters, like this cunt, here
Not this one, the one below him.

PBC, December 2016.
John Young-Parent Humphrys:

David Snuffler's-Beard Aaronovitch,  you work as a journalist, pundit, commentator, forecaster and all-round know-it-all.
You didn't see the Great Tits-Up coming,  you didn't see the Cameron majority coming, you didn't see Corbyn coming and staying, you didn't see Brexit coming, you didn't see Trump  coming;  let's see how you do with general knowledge:
 Which US President was distinguished from his presidential father by the use of their middle-name initials?

Dave Brains Aaronovitch.
 Was it Quincy Adams? 

It was actually President George Dubya Chimp, whose father was President George Herbert Walker (Dubya) Chimp.
And at the end of that round, Dave Aaronowitch, you've made a cunt of yourself, as usual.
Not that you care about that.
How could you, after all this time?

 to discuss how, in the interests of democracy,  President Obama might be persuaded  to stay in the White House for another four-year term. Or until President Trousers is duly declared the winner of the election which she bought so hard to win. 

New faces for old. 

I mean the election she fought so hard to win.  
No, no, I don't, I mean bought.
You'd think, wouldn't you, that losing two US presidential elections'd make any sane old lady retire, look-after her syphilitic pretend-husband and her retarded daughter and any retarded grandchildren which may come along. Either that or set-up a not very idyllic SapphoStudiesCentre, with the former Mrs Wiener, somewhere in upstate New York. I mean just do the maths, two out of two is almost a hundred per cent, so the numbers just don't add-up, do they? 
And now she's talking about running again, in 2020, when she'll be, what, seventy fucking three?  Nothing whatsoever wrong with old men - like me - clinging-on to jobs which we are incapable of doing, but old women doing it, well, that'd just be tokenism, wouldn't it?
  I know that that's what we do here at C4's SnowNews, pretend that we really value people like Krish and wotsername, that gobby Asian woman, Zainad Badawe, is that her? No, no, I'm hearing in my earpiece that she left thirty years ago - doesn't time fly when you have a job for life, as I do - and that we now have another brown bimbo, no, dunno her name.

 Anyway, Huw.......

Fuck me, Snowy, bach, I was just gonna put me feet up and get some kip, thought you were gonna rant-on for fucking hours, look you, isn't it, with that arsewipe, Fallon, he's truly insane, you know, isn't it, mad as a fucking hatter, think's he's Napoleon. I wouldn't have him on my show. Are we gonna talk about Obama, now, is it ?

Yes, Huw, and we are joined now from Washington

 by my American friend and colleague,
 Mr Joe Klein, of America's Time magazine. 

Joe, like me, you are a professional journalist of great integrity
 and you, therefore, worship the ground on which President Barack Obama walks.
 It must be a hard time for you, seeing him leave office, with the whole world either laughing at him or ignoring him, rather like our own Mrs Askey, I mean, I don't know if you saw the pictures of her in Europe the other day, 

everybody looking at her like she was a whore at a hockey match.
I couldn't help but feel a little indignant about that, but it doesn't take very much, people denying tnat we are all gay, for instance, that really gets me going. But anyway,
I mean - and I dunno what you think, Joe -  but maybe if she'd worn the leather trousers,

and maybe a pair of spikey boots, and given the Europeans  a good, stern Yes Miss, No Miss talking-to....

 I dunno, whaddayouthink, Joe, 
would it work for you, 
would you talk to an old lady 
dressed-up in bondage gear?

Run a fucking mile, me, JonBoy;
 what is it you Limeys say?
  Like shit off of a shovel, is that it? 
 Her husband, he's a comedian, right? 

Does stand-up, in flea-pit thee-ayters and on the radio, right? 
Ya still call it the wireless, here, in Limeyland?

Can't somebody have a word in his ear, 
the comedian, get him to kinda rein-in the old bitch.
I mean, you know as well as I do that thee-ayter folks are all stone mad, cock-wavin' perverts, exhibitionists, drug addicts  and child molester, an' that they dress-up in each others clothes and all kindsa shit, beat each other on the ass with sticks'n'belts'n'whips'n'barbed fuckin' wire, an' even, when they cain't get no-one else to fuck-about with, they string 'emselves up in a fucking noose like Clint Eastwood done to them bad guys  in Hang 'Em High - no, mebbe it was in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, mebbe it was in  both of 'em, it's a kind of a signature note for America, isn't it, hanging folks, shooting 'em, gassing 'em, poisoning them and electrocuting them, just one of the great things about this great nation of ours - an' then they balance themselves on a chair an'  jerk 'emselves off while they're nearly choking - auto-erotic asphyxiation, that, I believe, is the latin name for it, JonBoy.  Unless those guys from MI5 bust in and kick the fuckin' chair away and phone for Filthy Kelvin McKenzie to send some slags around to photograph the body 'n'print the story. 

I'm tellin' ya, JonBoy, 
I hate to think what goes on in that Downing Street dive come night-time.

 Nah, give me the fuckin' heebie jeebies, you Brits do, with all yer mad vices, an' the prime minister, floozyin' about, like a fuckin' old-age pensioner dominatrix wet-dream nightmare;  well, you know, once upon a time that stuff'd just stay behind closed doors, more or less; nowadays, though, within  a heartbeat, everybody in the world can see that the UK prime minister has some serious fetish issues on her mind. 
 Bondage trousers? 
On the sofa? 
In Ten Downing Street? 
What with Brexit and everything? 
The rest of the world'll think you've all gone insane. 

And don't start me, neither, JonBoy, on what'll happen if these heavy colds that the Queen'n' Phil  have got turn into pneu-fuckin'-monia and the pair of 'em croak.  
Fuck me Jesus, the whole fuckin' place'll turn into the Land of Perpetual FlashMourning.

But Jon, thanks for having me on the show, 
it means a lot. 
Y'know, we're very much alike, you and I, old buddy, we both get things as wrong as it's possible to get them - Eye-rack, Brexit, Trump, the Great Banking Tits-Up -  you name it, whatever it is, even though we're the experts, with the inside knowledge and the contacts, we still always get things wrong, not just wrong, we get them ass-backwards, nine times outa ten, Jon, we get things completely shit-faced, half-wit, dumb-ass motherfucker wrong.
An' that must be why, Jon, old buddy, they give ya alla them medals and cups and shit, don't it?  

I mean, that must be right, they must be givin' ya all that stuff for being more fuckin'  useless than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, mussen they? Right?

 But one thing we ain't wrong about, old buddy,
 is our adoration of President Obama. 
I mean, you've told me privately, more'n once, old buddy,  that you'd use Mr Obama's shit fer toothpatse, aincha? 
An' I tellya somethin', JonnyBoy, you'd plumb haveta wrestle them little beauty-turds outa my hands and shove 'em straight in yer kisser, know what I'm sayin', buster, 'fore I'd part with one a them there fee-cal dee-lights.

An' I tellya sump'n else, old buddy, 
that President Spunky Bill, 

his turds, they ain't half bad, considering, that is, that he ain't a nigger, and that even though the true copraphiliac cognoscenti would always prefer the flavour an' the texcha of that sweet brown stuff, comin' from a sweet brown asshole, 
 why, JonBoy, 

no-one in the journalistic fraternity's ever gonna turn their nose up at cleaning their teeth with a Spunky Bill Sphincter Special. 
That's me, standin' in line, Jon, right there, ready to be his toilet.. 
Yeah, I guess he was askin' her if she liked a nice cee-gar from time to time.
Well, I'd heard, Joe, on this side of the pond,
 as it were, that there were worms in it....
The Hell you say? 
What, worms in ole Spunky Bill's shit?  
An' we journalists're still falling over  ourselves to lick his asshole clean, like he was still president? 
How'd he get worms in his doo-doos?
 Them critters crawl up his asshole, or what? 

No, Joe, 
it's widely rumoured that he has some horrible disease,

 and that he, 
well, he just sort of manufactures the worms,

 inside of himself.

Inside of himself? 
 Just like that? 
Like he was a walkin'-talkin' wormery?  
Some kinda two-legged compost heap?
And what, they eatin' his ass up, from inside? 
That's some heavy shit, that. 
It's like somethin' from the Old fuckin' Testament. 
 Is it all down to his lifetime of fornicating with every woman he meets, 'n'every girl, too, from what I hear?
  Is that what it is? 
 Like syphillis, some shit like that? 
I betcha that's what it is. 
Worms eatin' ya up from inside, an' you ain't even dead yet. 
That's fuckin' mediaeval, that, Jonboy. 
Just as well he ain't President no more, 
or even First Gennulman. 
Imagine that shit.

Imagine President Trousers, in her mad, scarlet pants suit and her brain-tumour faintin' fits, needing to be held-up by a secret service man and her plastic surgery bruises hidin' under her dark glasses, looking like she's escaped from some old lady funny farm and First Genullman Spunky Bill, all whey-faced, like he was having a heart attack, and them both gibberin an' fuckin' droolin' as they're welcoming some foreign fuckin' dig-nit-erry to the White House and a bucket of fucking worms comes cascading down outa his trouser legs an' starts wrigglin' and writhin' all over the fuckin' carpet.
Hundreds of the slimy bastards, 
all glistening with former presidential shit an' blood
an'  that oitment, wossitcalled,  Anusol, is that it, the stuff they give folks with piles?
 You're bound to have piles, aincha, passing hundreds of fucking worms every half hour? 
If you don't get piles in a poxed-up asshole infested with an unlimited supply of worms, when the more worms you shit, the more worms you grow inside of you, then you ain't never gonna have piles, not ever.
That's some heavy shit.
Ya cooden make that shit up, Jon.
Not even in Time magazine. 
I tell ya what, boy, you'n'me, we better think twice,
'fore we eat any more PROTUS doo-doo,
ain't that the trooth, boy?

And, pardon me, isn't it, look you, for intruding; I know this isn't my bulletin, but just a thought, 

thinking out-loud, as it were, isn't it,
but it wouldn't do Wall Street and the Stock Exchange much good, would it? The First Gentleman being worm-incontinent, as the broadsheets would put it, or Spunky Bill Shits Worms in White House! as some of Mr Kelvin McFilth's colleagues might headline it. 
I should think the dollar would hit an all time low, probably never come back up again,
I shouldn't wonder; 
  be a bit of a laughing stock, look you, America, wouldn't it, having elected a pair of gibbering, geriatric, poxed-up, worm-shitting lunatics to the highest office in the world, eh, isn't it?

But I had hoped that you might, Joe, if I may call you Joe, that you might tell us of the rumours that Michelle Obama, child of a Chicago drugs boss,  is really Michael Obama;  that her physique, her musculature and skeleton, are incontrovertibly male, in shape and proportionality, that there are many photographs which show an extraordinary, penile shape in her groin; that there is no offical record, anywhere, of the birth of the two girls and that they were said to be delivered, purely coincidentally, by one of her closest friends;  that there are no pictures of either of the two girls below the ages of three and that they are, therefore, adopted and that Barry and Michael, longtime supporters of gay marriage are having what we call a laff, that they are, in fact, a gay couple, Michael having had only the hormone and cosmetic surgery and not the removal of the meat and potatoes as it were. 
Whaddayathink, Joe?

Well, Huw, Joan Rivers  said that was the case. But then she died within a few days of saying so, so I don't think I wanna get into that.

And what about the fact that a young gay man testified to a Senate Committee that he had oral sex and crack cocaine with Senator Obama? It's there, to be seen, on youtube, Did he die, too?

No, not as far as I know. But Obama's assistant, who had been doing the liaison with the young gay man, on behalf of Obama, he died, mysteriously. And so, again, I don't wanna get into this.

That's fine. Rumour casts its wild spell and some events, like the disappearance of Madeleine McCann, are so mired in deceit and obfuscation that the truth may never emerge. 
I am not convinced that Michelle is a man, nor am I convinced that it is any of my business if she is but there is a wealth of persuasive argument in cyberspace. But I would just like to say, for the record, that the accusations about the Obamas' sexuality and about his narcotic use have far more substance to them than do the current rumours about Donald Trump and yet they have not prompted any offical fears of malfeasance, lewdness or blackmailability; unsurpising, given that, just the other night, with the help of MediaMinster,  Obama self-sanctified, and saints, we know, are immune to Earthly prosecution.

Here's what happens when Decorum prohibits an autocue. The tongue-tied bum can always do a bit of song and dance and have it described, by Time magazine's grateful Joe Klein, as Elegance.

Mr Bojangles, the showbiz president.

It all falls a bit flat, this amazing grace gospel turns graceless, when the young and clearly disturbed perpetrator of the multiple church killings 

is sentenced to death, and Obama's fellow congregants applaud the sentence, 

one of the bereaved saying that it proves what Love can achieve - Execution.
Grace Americanised, Grace made Murder.
Apposite, then, and truly representative of America's sickening, brutalising hypocrisy, 
at home, abroad and in its outgoing president.

And in other news, Lady Sir Elton John is said to be deeply traumatised by the death, at only 72, of former football manager, Graham Turnip, as he was unaffectionately known by Kelvin McFilth and his colleagues, down in the sewers.

McFilth's Sun,
 raising the level of national discourse

Does everyone have to die, wailed the distraught, elderly light entertainer and young parent. The football chap was so very, so terribly important to me. I just don't know if I'll be able to carry on. But I must do, for the sake of the children, 

little wotsaname, and the other one.

Graham was secretly a great fan of myself and all my good works, 

selfishly undertaken on behalf of poor, stupid people who didn't go to Oxford and join the PBC, for life, revealed charity queen and   beastfucker, 

Dame Esther Crow. 
( motto: see no evil, not about rich celebrities, anyway)
Like most red-blooded males, Graham kept his attraction to me secret, so's not to offend his wife, but I know that he not only had the hots for my extensive good-doing but for my taut, hot, mature body. They all do.

Wull, it were Graham, bonny lad,  who got me on't road to bein' rich and I'll allus respect 'im fer that, 

stuttered former England captain and cheat, Alan Gob.

Elsewhere, millions of George Michael fans and David Bowie  nutters said their thanks to the dead footballer. Honestly, we were kinda running on empty, as regards mourning fuel, until this chap, Wotsisname, passed away and put, well, he put a tiger in our tanks, a dead one, like, and got us mourning again at full speed. we didn't know him, like, but then we never knew George or David, either, but who gives a fuck about that? It's the mourning that counts, the AreEyePeeing, respect, that's worritsallabout, I mean, this bloke, he was really big in the world of root vegetables, wasn't he? 


And that's it for now. 
Kirsty'll be on Newsnight, later, by which time we hope some more celebrities will have died and we can bring the news to you. 
It's why I became a journalist, to obituarise nobodies.
Here's Jayne Tits for you, with the weather, again.