Wednesday 29 May 2019


The doorbell rang,
 it doesn't often ring and when it does it heralds strangers, everybody else just walks in. 
 I've been expecting a plumber, several different plumbers, for over seven months -  I really should learn plumbing, I have done a bit, recently, thinking, well, if they can do it I can fucking do it and  probably a bit better but I can't service a boiler - I almost ran to the door in my haste to get the boiler serviced and an external stop-cock replaced.  
When I opened the front door there was no plumber's van and no plumbers, just a worthy-looking couple in their late thirties, she grinning with her hand outstretched, to be shaken and him just  looking worthy, a bit shuffly.

Fuck me, I thought, it's the Jovas or the Mormons but instantly realised that they only hunt in male pairs, those types, rubber-stamping for God their daily quota of souls, the impertinent bastards.
 Last time they came, the Mormons,  I said, Look, lads, no offence to you or Uncle Sam or the fine state of Utah but I live in fucking Paradise, look around, everywhere is the hand of wondrous, inexplicable Creation; the fragile skies, the metronoming tides, wound by the moon, just exactly the right distance away, warmed by the Sun, just exactly the right distance away; the shores a-teem with life under every rock; the hand of Time's industry in every grain of sand;  the birds and bees. 
Consider, lads,  the lilies of the field, they toil not neither do they spin;  all good things around us, they really are sent from Heav'n above, just not yours; we really are stardust, do you think I live here and not know Creation, do you think I need your nasty, guilt-ridden appreciation of it, when I have my own?
They went away, I would like to think like Coleridge's wedding guest, sadder and wiser men but I doubt if they did.

My mind was whirring, they're not Godly, these two, and its long past the election, they're not politicos and so, ignoring Missy's outstretched paw and winning smile I just said Who're you?

It has become normal for people not to introduce themselves but demand first your self-identification to them; we get calls all fucking day which open, Are you ishmael smith to which I reply, perfectly reasonably, that's not the question, the question is Who the fuck are you? You called me,  never mind who I am, who are you, you got no fucking manners?  
If you were a friend and had my number legitimately you'd know who I was, wouldn't you?  
Often, you can tell by the delay and the background noise  that this call is coming from a criminal call centre in Islamabad or whatever they call Delhi, these days. 
I have a formula, now, for these cunts. He or she says Good morning, Sir, how are you, I am Keith or Sally, calling from Microsoft about your computer. Ah, Keith, I say, how is your mother?  My mother? Yes, I saw your mother on the internet, last night, fucking a herd of pigs, sucking their curly cocks.  But your mother, Keith, she may be a fat, poxy old whore but at least she's honest, whereas you're just a thieving black cunt, aren't you ?  You're not Keith, you're Ahmed or something. If it's Sally on the phone  I say, Ah, Sally, you sound like a nice girl. Why don't you go and do proper prostitution, instead of trying to rob people in foreign countries, you worthless cunt.

People are quite shocked when they hear this, gasping the R word, you can't say that, ishmael.  But these people are trying to steal money from us, they are not really from Microsoft, they bought our 'phone number and they call people like us all day long, hoping to get the bank details of some poor soul and rob them;  racism be damned, they're thieving black cunts, that's what they are, they're the racists, trying to rob well-mannered British people who are soft and polite, conditioned to be nice to vermin. They have declared race war, declared that they want to rob me of what little we have. I've been here getting-on for twenty years and the most black people I have ever seen have been in my house, friends, visiting me; honest, not invent. That wouldn't wash, though, with the Virtuous, to whom it is the pious word which counts more than the deed.

There's no fucking end to this tele-banditry. I had  a recorded  one  a couple of weeks back. Some cunt saying he was from HMRC, it was about my tax and if I didn't call him back immediately I risked imprisonment.  Now,  this obviously works sometimes or they wouldn't do it and one wonders why the government doesn't do something but the government, of course, will be in the pay of the companies that organise it all,  the government, in fact the parliament, are consigliere to Organised Crime, of which 'phone terrorism is just a small branch.  When it comes to the unwonted approach of strangers, therefore, I shoot first.

She was a pleasant enough woman but she was doorstepping me and I just looked at her, like I was Zeus or Thor or Jehovah and was a heartbeat away from incinerating her on the spot, fiery-fingering both her and ShufflyMan. 
Who. Are. You?

Oh, we're here about the stoats, she stammered.

The stoats?

Yes, we were wondering if we could use your land.

What, to raise stoats?

There's a big problem at the moment, with stoats.
 They're not native here, they've been introduced. 
And they have no predators.

Bit like us, you mean.


We don't have any predators, humankind, do we?

Oh, right, but what's happening is that the stoats are playing havoc with the ground-nesting birds and so we need to eradicate them.


Oh, just with traps.

OK, and what happens to the stoats? 

Oh, they're lethal traps, she smiled a Mother Teresa  smile at me.

You kill them?

They're lethal traps, she repeated, not wanting to say the K word. Nice people don't kill things.

I walked them round the garden, her gasping at the trees and hedges, all most unusual in Orkney and very wildlife friendly, as we say, now.

What they wanted to do, themselves, in the interests of wildlife, was have a stoat-trapper come and plant his traps around my walls, they like the walls, the stoats, apparently,  and then, three weeks later,  come and empty and re-bait the traps. And then I could feel that I was doing my bit for nature, having poisoned stoat corpses lying around all over the shop.

Now, an ornithologist once told me that our garden was a miracle, it was the very first landing/nesting place for birds coming from the East and he'd counted a hundred or so different types

I have been pruning recently and I can't move a branch, it seems, without finding a nest.

 - people don't grow trees or hedges, here, normally, well, some incomers do but the natives don't and I can understand why, it is very hard work, what with the wind and the seasalt in it,

The shore is about eighty metres distant and when the winds blow everything is salt abraded, I am sure you could strip a piece of furniture just by leaving it outside.

I might've mentioned the Great Grouse Adventure, when Harris attacked the resident male, leaving him wounded. I was much distressed, not by  Harris's behaviour  but by the thought that I might have to wring the creature's neck, well it was just a thought, I could never have done it. Instead, we called the SSPB and it seemed that within a few minutes she was here, uniformed and kitted-up, like a one-woman SWAT team,  took charge of the grouse, treated him and then a few weeks later released him back in this area, we only saw him a couple of times, thereafter, Harrised-out, I expect.  He was a lovely sight, proud and colourful.  The SSPB is partly funding my doorstepping visitors;  their torture and extermination of the stoats, it is an odd animal welfare posture.

There was something on the TeeVee, recently, in the background, about the Space Race of my infancy and childhood. Describing weightlessness experiments, it is always best, said the tellyhistorian presenter, pompously,  to test potentially dangerous procedures on animals first.

In a flash I remembered as an infant asking my mother, What happened to that space dog they sent up?

Laika, of course, died from what they called overheating, sort of  boiled alive.  The whole fucking Space nonsense, mind, is built on tens of thousands of Jews and other riff-raff being worked to death by Werner von Braun, constructing his V1 and V2 missiles, projects which he completed for Uncle Sam as the Saturn rocket, where nobody ever asked Werner about all those pesky slaves

von Braun in his SS uniform,  with his pal, Himmler,

and with JFK  and LBJ, Freedom's last best hope.

"We chose not to ask this Nazi cunt about  torture and mass murder,  not because it is difficult but because it is easy. " JFK

Anyway, there it is, from the saintly horse's mouth; whole races and nations of people are evidently disposable, murderable, in pursuit of a bigger objective.

And if someone has decided that the stoats have to die, in desperate agony, alone, poisoned in a box, in order that the birds may flourish, well eradication takes on a newer, higher meaning than  when Europeans  decided that the Jews must be poisoned so that the Aryans may flourish.
I wish I'd asked Virtuous  Missy if  her  stoat eradication plan was a whatchamacallit, a Final Solution.

Animals, peoples, oceans, doesn't matter; some I-Know-Bester, like today's doorstepping halfwits will shit all over Creation and say it's for the best, no, really it is.

No, mate, yer fucked, it's Zyklon B for you.
It's the birds, they need lebensraum.
Wossat? No, mate, you don't need it just as much as they do.
Listen, mate, we're the master race around here, alright, the Devil, if you like,  and what we say goes. And that's why the planet is in such good shape.
Yeah, thousand-year EuroReich,
no problem.

Sunday 26 May 2019



This week we examine how the Royals are increasingly diversifying their business interests into the charity sector.  Her Majesty, Queen Brenda, has always, without irony,  conscientiously waved her diamond-encrusted  hand 

at the poor and suffering and despite having a colossal business empire to run - as well as herds of horses, fleets of  vehicles, breathtaking art  and jewellery collections, sixty-five million employees and a sprawling property portfolio to oversee - Queen Brenda, our longest-serving parasite,  has always found time and energy to allow other businesses - mainly corporations leeching on Suffering, like Oxfam and Save the Children - to append to their begging letters the legend Patron HM the Queen. 
In addition to this monumental sacrifice Her Majesty often confers knighthoods on those virtuous individuals busily raising funds for their own salaries and pensions ostensibly on behalf of those robbed by generations of aristocratic thieves and murderers, like herself and her ugly, inbred German family. 
Virtually all of her Majesty's huge, limitless  family of benefits scroungers are deeply committed to waving at the poor from their Bentleys but the Queen's heir, Prince Brian, has combined his family's  charitable instincts 
with its deep love of oppressed paedophiles; 

No, Peter, come and stay in a grace and favour home. 
I've got loads of them.

HRH Brian's  is a kindly disposition, one shared by his half-brother, the Duke of Cock, seen below, comforting paedo jailbird,  Jeffrey Epstein - friend and pimp to  Spunky Bill Clinton, Tony'n'Imelda Blair and Mr and Mr Obama -

 and partaking of Mr Epstein's juvenile  wares, below.

or sex slaves as they are better known

 when it comes to  charity the Royals, then, are truly an inspiration to the rest of us.

And it doesn't stop there, fuck, no, this is the news that Prince Gormless, his mrs and his brother are launching a groundbreaking new charity. 

Building on their late mother's  giving charity blowjobs to army officers, police protection officers, arab playboys, Asian medics and even lepers, the younger Royals are banding together, well, three of them are, to form Royal Nutscape, a charity for the mentally ill.  We say three of them because whilst opening the FA Cup Final, 
Prince Gormless let slip that he, Princess Waitress and Prince Pissed-up Hooligan 

Meet the New Firm

were going to raise the profile of bonkers people,
 poor bonkers people, anyway, not his own gang of deluded inbreds, which is beyond help; 
he didn't say that Princess Caring Slut was going to be involved, probably be too busy, with the nappies and the washing-up and hoovering.

No,no,  I never saw any Casting Couch goings-on in TinselTown, absolutely never, if I had I woulda spoken out about it, that's the kinda person I am. 
 All the actors and actresses got their roles purely on merit,
 yes, that's right,  
 exactly like in the Royal Family.
 (And that's  just a few of them.)

Look, Harry -  m'bro - he gets his picture taken all the time with limbless squaddies, almost like they were his mates, if that wasn't just so, y'know, fucking bizarre, most of those daft bastards haven't even been to Harrow, never mind Eton, how could they be mates with the 'bro, like, of the king-to-be.  Even so, it gets him favourable headlines, takes attention from the fact that he's an utterly useless wanker, poncing off everybody else.  And so I thought it would do me some good to be seen - instead of being on holiday all my life - having my photo taken with nutters.  
Whaddayamean, I already do? 

Oh, yes, Bravo, ha-ha-ha, RAF,  Marshals of the Ruritanian Air Force, jolly good, Harold. Must tell that one to FagAsh Lil, your  StepQueen, I mean mother
(sings) Saxe-Coburg-Gotha uber alles,
 as we'd say in our own language.

The future King of Ruritania, God bless him, long to reign over us, although not in Australia, is continuing his family's fine tradition of feigning concern for those  not as spoilt, pampered, fawned-upon, brutish, pig-ignorant  and deserving of being put up against the wall, motherfuckers as his own family
 whilst continuing to right royally shit on them.
God save the Queen.


Recent tragic events are all about me, Very quickly the dinnerpartyistes  have recognised that I tried very hard to do an impossible job, in an impossible situation  with an impossible bunch of cunts.

Everyone now thinks that  I  am a tragic heroine of the order of Queen Boudicca who, like me,  fighting against the European bureaucracy, gave her life for the British people.  
Thinking dinnerpartygoers have realised that, just like Gerry'n'Cilla McCann, I am the victim here.
Here's the speech I should have given. 
Firstly,  I am terribly sorry that I let myself be put forward as PM following the cowardly absconding of  David Cameron. 

I  am a Remainer, making me leader of a country which had only days before voted to Leave was, to put it politely - I am a clergyman's daughter - taking the fucking piss. 

 But even before that I should have apologised for, as Home Seckaterry, permitting immigration to  rise massively whilst assuring people that it was falling. I am truly sorry for that failure and that deceit. And that is why it is vital that we remain in Europe, so that over half a billion people can come and use the NHS, not that they will, of course, because  as I said about immigration, the figures are much exaggerated, even though, thanks to my tenure in the Home Office, nobody knows what the figures are, could be any-fucking-thing.

I should apologise also for colluding in the so-called Austerity, which was driven mainly by that spiteful, shit-eating little freak, George Osborne  

but also by everyone in the House of Commons, every last fucking one of them. Alright, it was a reaction, quite understandable, to honourable and right honourable members having been exposed as thieves and their wish to take vengeance on taxpayers who had queried their expenses.  And I do think it was crucially important to show the electorate that they work for us and not vice versa and that we work for the bankers. Obviously,  now, I am sorry for Austerity. In fact, |I should  be  ashamed of myself for not speaking out about it. My own tragedy, however, far outweighs that of millions  further impoverished by their legislature, traduced and demonised for their poverty, hiding behind their curtains, idling, as we then said.

On reflection,however,  it was probably tright to confiscate their wheelchairs and tax them on their specially adapted spare rooms which were simply too much of a strain on the nation's finances,  especially since the bankers have ordered us not to build council houses which would rob tnem of ever-more unaffordable mortgage repayments. Same with the libraries, a huge expense and in any event people only get dangerous ideas by going to the library instead of watching Daytime TeeVee, as they should.

As I depart, therefore,  theatrically tearful, I am deeply apologetic for all the lies I have told since being elected MP, for all the wrong decisions  I have made in office and which have had such a resoundingly dreadful impact on the country which I  love so deeply and have tried all my political life to mis-serve.

I shall go back now to my husband, Arthur Askey, and lick my shoes. 
I mean my wounds.

Friday 24 May 2019


I'm Fat Frankie Boyle, the BBC's excuse for an alternative comedian. 

 Aye, I am a big, fat, face-stuffing, idle Glaswegian but the expensive suits and the beard disguise all that; naebody'd ever know.

See? Nobody'd ever think I was a typical truculent, overeating, whining, ill-mannered, piss-in-the-sink, wife-beating, cross-dressing, inebriate 'Wegie scumbag, that I typified the kind of deranged lunatic who worships Nicola Sturgeon, would they, just another snarling, retarded obese Jock?
My act is always the same.  
Me and this other bunch of utterly worthless nobodies slag-off and sneer at ordinary people,  the mockables,  the kinda dummies that work for a living and don't eat-out every night and then, my piece de resistance is that I call them cunts, the ordinary people.
It's kinda like, y'know, a Children's TeeVee version of Have I Got News For You, Satire's graveyard, only for half-witted New People, the kind of imbeciles who have metal piercings on their cocks and their tits and have tattoos round their  arseholes, sayin' Fist Me Hard, Please; Syphilis Is My Friend. 

And so, as well as saying He's a cunt, he is, 
or How fucking racist is that?

 - whatever the that is - my other sparkling punchline, which always gets a cheer from the pissed-up audience is How homophobic is that? 

 See me, I live in London with my partner - none of that heterosexist, racist and homophopic husband'n'wife cutishness for me - with my partner, Shereen Taylor, aye, I know, you couldn't invent a more cuntish chav-twat  name than Shereen Taylor, but Hey, she's livin wi' me, in London,  so she's gotta be brilliant, Yeah? And if anybody disagrees wi' me I'd drop the fuckin' heid on them, if only I wisnae so fucking fat, that is. 
Cos, y'see, spastics and mental divvies, they're fair game for a brilliant, radical comedian like me. Calling sick people names for a cheap laugh, that takes a lot of integrity.  But the suggestion that because my partner, Shereen - I know, I know, sounds like some sad,  prematurely aged chav slapper whose only romantic experience is every Friday night  getting fucked hollow, up against a 'bus shelter by a gang a drunken schemies and them gi'ing her a bag a chips, in gratitude, and her eating them - the suggestion that because I'm a prize cunt she must be, too, well that's just unacceptable.

I remember, back in stanislav's day, when order-order was relevant, that we honoured the worthless, thieving, murderous Jeff Hoon by making his name a synonym for cunt - a bit of a Hoon, that Toilets Maguire; stop talking like a Hoon and so on - the point was not to encourage the gratuitous use of a particular word but to illuminate the fact that Hoon and the rest of the NewLabour gangsters, would rejoice in the immolation of countless working-class Iraqi men, women and children but their amour propre would simply never permit them to use a perfectly valid Anglo Saxon word, only recently outlawed by the language fashionistas - roast the world's children but NewLabour's mass murderers would never, ever-ever say the word Cunt, that really would be unforgiveable. I think Frankie missed the point and  I think the same should happen to him  and his gang of infantile cocksuckers.  
There oughta be  a law against it, hadn't there, greed, spite and beardy stupidity, dressed in Mirth's clothing;  the fucking Boyle.

And another thing, which just demonstrates how completely fucked and racist and homophobic and xenophobic we are as a country is the news that ten nurses have been arrested for Spazz-Abuse. What is BBC Panorama thinking about, exposing perfectly normal behaviour like that as though it was a crime? They've changed their tune a bit since Smirking Paul Gambuccini 

said that he daren't expose Jimmy Savile because it would have affected his own career, and that's the main thing, isn't it Paul?

I mean these nurses were just abusing the patients,  like I do; they hadn't killed them or anything, so what's the big fucking deal?

  I mean, how so fucked-up is that, 
when decent, hardworking nurses can't abuse 
 some spazzy patients?

 And I mean, what else is the point of spazzers and dummies?

Have I contributed to Spazz-Abuse in this country? 

 Well I should fucking well hope so. 

Frankie, you're a model to us all. Just lookame. I'm Marcus Bogstick, brilliant, radical alternative comedian,  who, like you, fought his way up the mean streets of the BBC until - now that I am a brand  - I can work mainly for the moneylenders. 
 And that's as radical as cutting-edge comedy gets.
"He helps me with my credit rating...."
The thing is, thanks to the govament and its owners, nobody can actually afford to buy anything.  I mean there's that poor bint on the telly - her shower's fucked and instead of telling her worthless little shit of a son to boil a fucking kettle and wash in the sink 

 she says, Oh, fucking brilliant, I can borrow some shower repair money at only a thousand per cent interest. 

Everybody, well not me but most people have to borrow money to buy the things which thay are persuaded that they simply must have, otherwise they're just cunts. 
And that's where I come in. 

To be able to borrow money at a thousand per cent per annum you have to have what's called a credit rating.  Oh, I know people just used to save-up but saving is unpatriotic and anyway most people's wages aren't enough to live on, never mind save from.
So I just explain to these people that the better your credit rating the more unrepayable debt you can get into. 
 Lets face it, it's radical comedy of a sort.

If you want more of my alternative comedy you might be able to borrow some money to buy  tickets for  the Edinburgh Festival. It's where cheesy shits like me gather together to give ourselves awards.

Thursday 23 May 2019


''Allo, good evening and welocme to Celebrity Chase with me, BradleyWalsh, the oldest Butlins Redcoat in the business......
First up today is Tracey May from Maiden'ead; now-now, it's a place, y'know, as well as that uvver thing.
Lovely t'seeya Tracey my love and whaddayou do fer a livin'?

 Well, Broderick, I'm the prime minister

Prime minister? 
 Right, an I'm the Pope, yeah? 
Well, girl, if you wanna call yerself the Pee-Em then that's fine wiv me, luv.

Tracey, my dahlin'  what would y'do if you was to win some money on the show today?

Well, Brindley, I'd  give it to my husband, 
Mr Askey.

Wot? Arfur Askey? 
My child'ood comedy  'ero? 'Se still alive then?
 Cor, stone the blooming crows. 
 I fang yew, I fang yew, I fang yew, 
that was 'is catchphrase. 

An' what would Arfur do wiv the money, then, Trace?

Well, Brindley, he'd put it safe in a tax haven, overseas somewhere, it's what he does.. 

 Wot? An' not pay no tax on it, for schools an' 'ospitals?

Well, actually Brady, we have no children, 
although I tend to think of my shoes as my children 
and we only go to private hospitals,
 so why on Earth should we pay tax?

OK Tracey my love, if you say so.
Here goes, then, with the cash-builder round.
Ya ready?

 Well of course I'm ready, don't I look ready? 

Cor, blimey, love, 
ready for a straightjacket if you don't mind me saying so.
  But 'ere goes with your first question, for a thousand pounds: What does Brexit mean?

It means whatever I say it means.
And I say it means Brexit.

Need more'n that Tracey........

It means, Barnaby, that my job, entrusted to me by Brussels, is to fudge, delay and complicate what Brexit means until people are fed up with the whole thing and demand a second referendum in which we will change their minds for them so that eventually NoBrexit means NoBrexit. Just the same as Brexit meant Brexit, even though it meant the opposite.

You what?
Run that by me again, Tracey, never had an answer like that before.
What yer sayin, luv, is  that reaiity is the opposite of whatever you say it is at any given point? But even though everybody knows that you insist on saying that you mean what you say, it's just that people fail to understand the true meaning of it?  
Which is that Brexit means No Brexit.

That when the nation voted to leave Europe it actually meant No for fucks sake, we wanna stay in Europe.

This is pure comedy gold, Tracey, pure gold.
Yes, that's it, luv, you go an' 'ave  a nice lie down, in Europe somewhere, you've earned it girl, you really'ave

After the break the rest of the team, Jake Mogg, Jerry Corbyn and Boris Cockson will be seein' if they can succeed where poor Tracey, well, didn't. Unless, actually, she did. I mean, by now we was supposed to've left Europe  an' 'ere we are, 'olding elections fer anuvver gang of freeloaders.

Stay tuned, we'll be back.