mixing it all up in a big sort of bowl thing, adding some chicken flavouring, colourings and stabilisers and what-not, rolling it into tempting little balls, dipping it in delicious crumb coating and then injecting it with a garlic-flavoured synthetic butter product, quite ingeniously made from petroleum by-products
so that all the busy housewife has to do when she comes home from her badly paid zero-hours contract employment is pop the delicious little chicken Kievs in the microwave and have her butler prepare the asparagus and les pommes dauphinoise, best to let the Mouton Cadet breathe for a while, so the footman can probably do that before the working Mum gets home. It's easy to see why a Russian city would want to name itself after such a delicious part of British cuisine. Team Nigella? No, no, I shouldn't think so. Don't think she does mechanically reclaimed meat. Unless you mean her tits and her big fat arse. Cocaine??? Instead of garlic?? Now look. Let me make this clear, I am on record as saying that we have all done things when we were younger which should never be mentioned. How much younger? Well, yesterday. Simply not fair to quiz me about what I said or did yesterday.
And I'd just like to remind people of the other aspect of BrandKiev which is that while it may be true that the employers in this fine, traditional British industry are too mean to pay the workers a living wage and so the taxpayer has to help them out with scrounger-benefits this doesn't matter because with the money they save on wages the employers are able to make significant donations to the Conservative Party, so, the country, in a very real sense, gets the money back. Tax? No, I don't believe you have your facts right, they actually pay a rate of 0.010 per cent and not the 0.001 per cent you wrongly stated. I am sure you will agree that this is a huge saving to the Treasury and further evidence that the Chancellor, the Governor of the Bank and the CBI are all lying from the same hymn sheet. Mr Coulson??
I mean, look, how can we let some rioting Russian gay people jeopardise such a vital part of our, um, thing, the GD wotsaname. 'Snot as though I didn't invent gay marriage for them. I did. But, and it is in my judgement a very big but, lessbefair, miniChickenKievs are bigger than all of us, gay, straight or Hagueish.
So that's that, then. As a scholar, myself, and a distinguished military historian I am happy, not only to have been able to rescue the nation from whatever it was that we are all together against, but to have been able to deliver this small lecture on history and geography, and, of course, gastronomy; if only Mr Gove could recruit teachers as able as myself; if only, some might say, poor Mr Gove was in his right mind, and not a dribbling, delusional, spit-flecked nutter.
|Sings: Do not forsake me, oh my Rentboy.|
I think the European Union has to act in a way that helps to stop the violence. There has to be an international response to what has happened over the last few days, whatever it is, fucked if I know.
It is time on all sides for people to turn away from violence, apart, obviously, from the very necessary violence towards vulnerable people which is the hallmark of any responsible govamant, but the Ukrainian government bears a particular responsibility to take the lead in making sure that happens. So there. And I would remind people that I speak as a sixteen-pints a night man.
It is one of the more distressing aspects of my later life that this revolting creature, Hague, head polished, teeth filed and corseted into his ridiculous suit'n'tie outfits minces round the world claiming to speak for I and my ordinary fellow citizens. Like the obnoxious, blackmailing fairy, Mandelstein, before him, Hague is the darling of MediaMinster's degenerate horde; oh, I could wet myself when I hear him speaking, so clever, so erudite, say most Tory MPs. And he's fit, too. Fuck him, the freak; fuck all MPs, I hope he dies of the arse-pox.
Young-ish love in happier days, young Chris with fists clenched, perhaps in memory, perhaps in anticipation, perhaps both.
Organizers hope to build on the success of the Dec 10 protests, which mobilized a broad collection of previously apolitical middle-class Russians angry over parliamentary elections earlier this month that many rejected as fraudulent and slanted in favor of the ruling party, United Russia.
If the movement can sustain its intensity, it could alter the course of presidential elections in March, when Vladimir V Putin plans to extend his status as the country's dominant figure to 18 years.
The crowd began forming more than an hour before the beginning of the protest, for which city authorities granted a permit for up to 50,000 people. Organizers estimated the crowd at 120,000; the police offered a lower estimate of about 29,000.
I bought a two British pounds, Christmas Eve, hard copy of the Daily Filth-o-Graph, a 'paper I read through most of the 'nineties and it was just a big, papery bundle of rubbish - the news, or what passes for the news, was out of date before it was printed, the op-ed was Home Counties, jingoistic, God is British claptrap, neither informative nor provocative, as the Filth-O-Graph used to be; the property section was for multi-millionaires, as were all the elite consumer products, Oh, and they have a blonde cookess, called Xanthe, they would have, wouldn't they? I have been wondering who on Earth buys these things; having long ago broken my own newspaper addiction, I had assumed, nevertheless, that the broadsheets must still contain material by authors and in a form that one simply cannot acquire on CyberStreet, I was wrong - everything is online - and since I stopped buying them, the physical form of the newspapers has become, to me, at any rate, just fucking irritating, the pages stick together; if you don't have a valet to iron them, they are dirty with ink; if you pick them up or set them down carelessly they fall apart, never to be correctly reassembled; to get to the serious stuff you have to wade through pages littered with out-of-date images of old crows, lady writers, once someone's bright, shiny niece or mistress, now scrawny and embittered, grinding a shedful of axes, Vicki Woods, Rosa Prince; who knows, maybe they started out as buxom, blouse-bursting schoolgirl porn on the Filth-O-Graph's famous A-level results front pages, and now they write columns moaning about the quality of the help - us. Oh, yes and there are vital pages of closely-printed stocks and shares prices - the Daily Lie - which, let's face it, will be flashing away, updated to the second, on the various multiscreens of those interested in committing such offences. In a way, it was, despite my loathing of the Barclay Twins and most Filth-O-Graph writers, a bit of a disappointment to find that it really was the dead, DeadTreePress, good for fuck all, and more expensive, even, than proper firelighters.
But something is going on, something, some movement or movements utterly indifferent to leaderwriters, broadcasters, legislators and all the other forms of Filthlife are undermining the JerichoWalls of political certainty; it is axiomatic, I guess, that revolutions are not recognised as such until they are over, one way or another.
Maybe not all the youth obediently watch Strictly Celebrity Factor, are not habituated to the soma-banality pumped at them relentlessly by GlobaCorp, maybe, despite the very best efforts of their creators, the handheld devices will help people to burn down the mission, rape the nuns, kill the children and poison the well, or whatever it is that revolutionaries do in addition to putting govaments up against the wall.
I heard Fat King Alec Salmond of Scotland, a while back,
If, even here in the Mutha of Parliaments, an elected politician can, as did McFatMan, get away with that sort of mediaeval claptrap, then we must send our best wishes to those currently oppressed in Russia by the thinly disguised hand of the KGB.
Is Putin gay? It really doesn't matter, what matters is a new Russian Revolution. All the wealthy bandits and murderers and torturers can all come and find sanctuary in London, where they are, apparently, most welcome. London, the New Havana.
Apples an' pears, apples an' pears, frog an' toad, trouble an' strife; diamond geezer, that Roman Abramovitch, an 'onorary Cockney, that's what 'e is.
Honest Not Invent and Vent Stack - anthologies of the work of mr ishmael and stanislav, the young Polish plumber - can be purchased from Amazon or from Lulu. Register an account with Lulu to save a couple of quid, as going straight into the link provided below seems to make paypal think it's ok to charge in dollars, and apply their own conversion rate, which will put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow our link; a pop-up box asks for age confirmation - simply set the date to (say) 1 January 1960, and proceed. (If you type the title, the anthology will not appear as a search result until the "show explicit content" box - found at the bottom left by scrolling down - has been checked. You may also see the age verification box, as above, at this point.)