THE CRYING GAME.

BOYS CRY, TOO.

It really is intolerable  that - for the third time -  the nonsensical position of Deputy Prime Minister has been created to satisfy the ego of some snivelling,  traitorous, hysterical  nincompoop - first the screeching arrriviste, Heseltine,  then the bloated ignoramus, Prescott, the gibbering pig, and now the ghastly, toilet-dwelling, dogshooter, Clegg, good for fuck all, never done a day's work in his worthless life, now granted bogus status, office, salary, pension  and title, in order merely that the unelected tosser, Flashman, can front his way into a role which he was unable to win conventionally,  a role he could not legitimately secure without creating capos and stooges who would buttress his bluff -  that, somehow, mystically, in an  unconscious, collective, nation-wide act,  people had voted for a poisonous dogs' breakfast of spivs and shiteaters,  had freely, consciously transmuted  their own will,  the  will of the people,  into the breathtaking effrontery of impudent, incompetent wankers  like Danny Alexander.

Let us remind ourselves, daily, that Cameron was unable, even with the blind, slavish assistance of most of skymadeupnewsandfilth, to conclusively defeat a fatally tarnished party led by the most unpopular, most reviled, hated and ridiculed  politician in living memory and that now, as he robs us of out futures and trashes our pasts, giving our assets to SpivCorp, slandering millions who have worked their lives away, honourably, for a pension of sixty pounds a week, now, as he  steals our money and gives it to the  robber barons nouvelle of MoneyCorp,  the financial terrorists who brought us here, now, as his smirking, frothy public school insouciance remains untouched by the successive shit-morphing of his flagship policies, reversed, abandoned or paused for thought, now, as, triumphantly, inflation and unemployment leap to their traditional Tory bidding, as standards in schools and hospitals decline  even further, as the wheelchairs are confiscated and the libraries closed, now, he owes it all to the overpromoted officeboy,  Clegg,  the man who seriously told us that the nation's poor old bastards survived on, Oh, about thirty pounds a week, isn't it.  Now, the man who had not the faintest idea of what pensions were, helps lead the chorus calling for their forfeiture. Edgar Allan Poe couldn't write macabre shit like this.

Even though he in no sense whatsoever deputises for Cameron  - not even gormless Dave would trust Clegg as far as he can ejaculate - the self-styled Deputy Prime Minister  is free to meddle noisesomely  with our rights and entitlements, to falsely represent us abroad and from his bully-pulpit to seek to ensure a constitutional abortion which will secure lucrative, eternal office for he and his ilk. And as if that was not enough he reveals to us, via the Totty-Journo, Jemima Khan-Goldsmith, sister of poor little rich boy,  Zac, Cameron A-list Tory MP and utter fucking bastard, and  daughter of the bullying shitbag,  Sir Jams Fishpaste,  that his children ask him, Why,  Papa, does everyone call you a cunt and that - as though it tempers his pushy, vaunting,  moron ineptitude -  he cries when he hears Coldplay or  James Blunt or whatever shit he listens to, whist maintaining his work-life balance,  the fucking repulsive hypocrite.

Not content with an influence billions of light years beyond his miniscule, can just about dress himself without help capabilities,  this gabshite, dunderhead, patently stupid, shallow, tongue-tied, unimaginative, cliche-bound, over-privileged nitwit cravenly invites us to sympathise with his archly absurd, contrived common humanity; even if I am a cunt, he infers, surely we can all unite around David Bowie and forget our differences, share a quick , secret fag and get on with dragging Britain back to the 'thirties? You know, I'm just a normal millionaire bloke, who inherited his money and was eased into jobs by his father's friends.  Just like most people.  Now, open wide,  while I shit in your mouth.  I promise to cry, afterwards.

THAT HUGO YOUNG LECTURE. THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE.

WE PLEDGE TO MAINTAIN THE OLD-AGE PENSION AT THIRTY QUID A WEEK.

THAT'S HOW PROGRESSIVE WE ARE.

".......you cannot be a liberal without being an optimist. And it is my unquenchable conviction that if we place our faith in people rather than in institutions, our future, and the future of new progressive politics, is bright. Just as long as no-one  places any faith  in my solemn pledges, of course.

Thank you. Go back to your constituencies and prepare to be progressively unemployed, cold and hungry"

His   remarks came as it emerged that threats to Clegg's personal safety had led his security advisers to review his travel arrangements. He has been told by his protection officers it is no longer safe for him to cycle from his south London home to Downing Street, and that he must travel by car.

He has also dropped plans to visit university campuses, once the heartland of his support base, until emotions have subsided.

The Deputy Prime Minister - a-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha - is hanged in effigy outside the lecture; far too good for him.

------------------------------------------------------

In the 'eighthies, after a dust-up with the Murdoch-fellating editor, Andrew Neil, Hugo Young left the Sunday Times to join the Guardian.  One of those ghastly, pompous, self-important Oxbridge gits to whom Fleet Street always offered a refuge from work, Young remained at the Guardian, brown-nosing politicians, on a lobby basis,  until his death in 2003.

The annual Young lecture  is one of those incestuous, journalistic traditions which strengthens the mutually profitable bond between Media and Minster;  that the dull as ditchwater, tongue-tied,   fuckwit, dunderhead, opportunistic, cack-handed, unprincipled  clown,  Clegg, was this year's lecturer is the hallmark of its worth. And his.

TUESDAY NIGHT AT THE MOVIES. MADE IT, MA, TOP OF THE WORLD

Ridiculing  the prat,Clegg, in a previous post, mr yardarm referenced the line Made it, Ma, Top of the World! For younger Ishmaelites, this is the source and its climax, a consumation ideally suited to and highly probable for the, what is it now, Deputy Prime Minister. Or any of them.

CLEGGY, SAVING THE FUTURE.

 

LOOK, I'M NOT WEARING A TIE, THAT'S HOW MUCH I CARE ABOUT YOU MORONS.

 It's hardly an illustrious company, the Guild of Deputy Prime Ministers, its members generally appointed under sufferance, as some grubby compromise reached among competing bands of party political bandits.  Heseltine, the nouveau-riche Tory prat, the petulant  fairy with the big hair and the big gob, busting his balls most of his life  to be prime minister, neutralised, forever,  by the dumb but wily  Major, with a worthless, powerless office,  the dogs in the street would run to the big queen, Michael Well-I-Am-The-DeePeeEm Heseltine,  en route to his personally-owned Daimler and piss up his leg, Tarzan, right, Tarzan my arse. Ridiculous, pouting snob, tossing his hair like a prima donna. Perched atop a tank, waving the Mace, set by his betters to unseat Thatcher, rewarded with ignominy and ridicule. It was that plan he scribbled, at Oxford, on the back of an envelope - make a million, become MP, become PM - that's what fucked him, naked ambition, not the proper thing, even the faux-aristo sewer rat, Alan  Clark. said of Hezza  that he was a man who had bought his own furniture. Not one of us, he meant, for all his acres of woodland, all his pretence, all his hair.

And John Prescott, surely the stupidest bastard ever to sit on the green benches, vain, greedy, hypocritical to the Nth. degree, But I'm a former merchant seamen. he used to boast of his cross-channel stewarding days. Yes, John, me, too, across the stormy North Atlantic to snowy Canada;  didn't entitle me to fuck a secretary half my age and brass it out, shamelessly. Prescott was Blair's willing stooge, the voice, a coarse, clumsy,  stuttering one, deliberately chosen, one must conclude, for his gargantuan ineptness, his inability to speak his native tongue,  a voice of the working class, not one which ennobled it or spoke tellingly of its decency and struggle but one which made it ridiculous, what NewLabour was fighting against; listen, they must have  giggled to one another, over their skinny latties, if you wanna see the noble working class we're supposed to represent, just look at that oaf, Prescott. And indeed, they were right, at least abour Prescott, a greedy, vain jumped-up village idiot, growing more and more risible as departments - transport, housing, the regions - were stripped away from his useless control, were sprung from the Office Of The Deputy Prime Minister and placed in hands which might not - as would Prezza's - wreck them completely. Cowboy boots and a night at the ranch, gifted from some Yankee crook in whom Prescott's office had an interest. Aye, well, I were allus interested in cowboys and indians, and sherrif's, like,  wot's wrong wi' that? And Pauline, his Mrs, let him shit all over her, in order to become Lady to his preposterous Lord. Aye, we know how to do proper marriage oop North, silly fucking back-combed bitch,  a laughing stock in History' s pages;  her and her husband, two slags on the make. The downmarket, mirror image of Tony and Imelda.

And now we have Cleggy, the Gimping DPM.  I am sorry, I normally have some stomach for these things but I couldn't watch it. Mr DTP,  a post or two back,  confessed to watching five hours of the Tory-Lib-Dems' conference, as they call it, but a few seconds of a tieless, mic-waving Clegg was nearly enough to kill me.  It's the mind,  there is only so-much bare-faced charlatanry that it can absorb without imploding and Cleggy is way across the red-line zone and out on the other side. Wise old Granpa , wotsisname, Vince the Wince,  and his phony old gobbing, I can bear that, maybe because his discomfort in his own skin is so obvious - he knows we know he's a cunt and him being a widower miraculously made whole by dancing with the old boot  who swiftly became his second wife won't excuse him, not among us, not even to himself, as, increasingly feverishly, he mouths the words of the whey-faced inbred freak Osblow, miraculously Chancellor of the Empty Exchequer.  Hughes, Straight Simon, ties himself in knots, explaining how, as Deputy Leader of this shower of shit, he is making sure that the Party does the right thing, as it rolls along doing the wrong thing, robbing the pensioners to give to - what is it now, that Cleggy says, facetiously, unborn generations.  The ridiculous windbag, Huhne, complete with trophy bint, so far up his own arse it's a wonder we can hear him, |I can watch him, poncing and primping.  I can watch all of these cowboys, explaining how they are saving the nation, the world, even,  but Cleggy is too much, too much evidence of utter Ruin, looking like a no-hoper at the Edinburgh Fringe. An entire movement, ragbag and pretentious as it is,  has been dictated to by twenty ministerial MPs, sitting in a Praesideum of Destruction.  The LibDems, always castigated for splitting the left and allowing twenty years of Maggie and then thirteen years of NewLabour, now wrap themselves in glory aiding the Bullingdon Boys in their vengeful, punitive mission;  they, multi- millionaire Oxbridge wankers and us, all in it together.  Mould-breaking, that's what it is. Go back to your constituencies and prepare to be Tories.

It is amazing that a  man who failed to add one seat to his commons party now shores up the equally unelected Cameron fuckpigs  whilst lecturing us about the future and insisiting that this is what we wanted, what we voted for, insisting that even though all parties lost the election, his, somehow, his mangy fifty or so polysexual, shit-eatung, dildo-waving, cross-dressing, toilet-creeping  degenerates may, without any mandate,  endorse and legitimise the unspeakable, and do so, shit dripping from their lips, in high moral tones, too good, too lofty for mere ordinary people to understand, much less question. The toxic rhetoric of the copraphiliac is unpalatable, I fear, to your correspondent and rather than  a review of the worthless Clegg's speechifying, here, instead, is his picture.

HELLO, YES, MR CLEGG HERE, YES, DEPUTY TORY PRIME MINISTER,

NO, NOT OF TOYTOWN, OF THE UNITED KINGDOM

CAN YOU SPEAK UP A BIT, ONLY THE PRIME MINISTER PUT SOMETHING UP MY ARSE AND I'M A TRIFLE DEAF.

POWER TO THE PEOPLE, RIGHT-ON.

NICK,  THE ISLINGTON  REFORMER,
AN POMPOUS GIT.

Am I the Deputy Prime Minister and Chief Reformer? Yes, of course I am, do I feel the hand of history on my shoulder? Well, now is not the time for cliches…..

(stunned gasps from assembled hacks, Forsooth, he speaketh in naught else, is verily an walking fucking cliche, the dolt needst but  open his gob and  out poureth an torrent of o'er use-ed and plainly counterfeit platitude and maidenly wishful thinking, which must, before a Summer’s passing, round and bite him on his pox-ed arse, or I am not Toilets Maguire, of the Daily LookingGlass.

Master Toilets Maguire,
trying to do thinking.

Dost think, brother Heffer,

An fat greedy scoundrel.

that Calleth-Me-Dave doth engage in  rogering the scoundrel, behind close-ed privvy doors, that they are what are call-ed, in Westminster, an item, even unto them being in an toiletmen’s alliance ? I knowest not, brother, but Calleth-Me-Knave enjoyeth not the comfort of an majority, strut and preen as he may, his odd, irregular face alight with pride and cruelty, and who knoweth where he might, to  briefly gainful political purpose, be thrusting his John Thomas, he is, after all, an Etonite, and to the manner born, mayhap they just thrash each other with sticks until reaching some curious satisfaction, or shit, each in the other's face, as is custom among Ye foully misnamed  Liberals, but soft, grandiloquent and intolerably pompous, the buffoon rambles on …)

….am I nothing less than the political arm of the British people? Well, of course I am, and I am here to stay, this is the new, irremoveable democracy. Once you have not elected me, you cannot get rid of me. Brilliant, isn’t it? You might argue that in overwhelming numbers the British people have not voted for me, much less my reforms,  and it it is true, but it doesn’t matter, anyone who can sieze power can keep it; this is the New Politics, so long as they don't offend Mr Murdoch,  and so therefore I have won; my fellow unelected British Prime Minister, my friend, David, says so. So, if he says so and I say so then it must be so, isn’t it, can’t get a more convincing coup than that, both the instigators insisting it is the right thing to do. For the Country.

Are you saying that because we won less seats or is it fewer than last time that I am a failure? Well, no, of course I’m not; less, in the New Britain, this New Britain which we are forging under my reforming zeal, is actually more. As Mr Laws will shortly be advising the nation’s poor and sick and disabled and, well, everybody really. We are all in this together. Some of us more in it than others.

(The clown ist havin’ an laugh, he maketh merriment, doth he not; verily an wealthy, idle poltroon, with ne’er a days artisanship or merchanting  or man-at-armsing under his belt and good, as the Poles say, for fuck all, toying leisuredly with affairs of state, as though ‘twere his portion, to sit on the ermine bench and shitteth down in our faces, his Spanish doxy enjoining, Me-No-Speaka-De-Englishing for all she's worth. Aye and hast heard his promises? An churl, taken by the constables in felony, canst henceforth abjure the statute by which he is detained, Nay, fucketh off, Lord Sherrif, 'tis an odious law, wrought under Gordon the Ruiner,  and shouldst be remov-ed. so sayeth the Reformer, Nick; an citizen may'st but write to him and all laws shall be set aside, Hey Nonny Nonny and thus return unto me that bolt of cloth and that sheep which are now mine and stayeth, thee, yonder hangman's rope, for thou trespasseth on my yooman rites. And henceforth, Lord Sherrif, thou shalt elected be and not an placeman for robber Kings, unless thay be call-ed DaveanNick.

Aye, forsooth, 'tis an shock to the system, this coalesence of venality and hypocrisy, of cant and sermon; 'tis as though one wandered unwarily homeward after an evening wassailing with  brother hacks, harlots and soothsayers and,  'neath an o'erjetting bedroom window, felt, cascading on one's pate, a foul broth of  pisswater and turds.....)

.....Empowering people, that's where I start from, giving back Power to the People, Right-on, but in a measured sort of way, incremetally, but like a BigBang.  But mainly keeping it to ourselves. In the important areas. Like elections.This piece of paper that I have here, in my hand, is the most important piece of paper since Moses came down from his Party conference with tablets of stone, telling people not to fuck their neighbours. Alright, it wasn't exactly a piece of paper but that's the Old, Bad Politics, nitpicking over pieces of paper, or slabs of stone, what does it matter, just so long as we, the Wise ones, tell the stupid ones what they may and may not do.  For fuck's sake, citizens, comrades and fellow-Tories,  it's worse here than in Malta.

(Malta, Malta? What, pray, brother Aronowitz,
is Malta. Why by my tiny, infinitesimal, faggoty beard,

Master David PussyFace Aaronovitch
of Ye Daily Satan.

Brother Gobsley, I knowest not, mayhap it is some realm beyond the Spanish Main, where daemons do foregather to entrap the incautious traveller. I shall  reee-surch it, forsooth, and write an learned column in Ye London Murdoch-Satan

But this is thin gruel, comparest thou this blackguarding popinjay to Tony and Imelda, in their prime, Things Can Only Getteth Bettering and For the Many Not The Fewing, even though 'twere, in the realisation, the opposite way around; but  thin gruel indeed, must think we are stupid, this buffoon, our brains heedless to the evidence of our eyes and ears, or entranc-ed by his elfin good looks, as though we were sore afflicted with the SimonHughesPlague and lusting after man, woman and beast and thus not an disgusting nancyman, fuck, no, but an highly principled polysexual and revolting, squirming abomination, festooned about with warts and sores, as happy with himself as a dog with two cocks.)

Am I saying that I will reform the situation where a few per cent of the populace own nearly everything and pay, in the way of tax, fuck all?  Am I saying that? Well, very nearly, but Tomorrow is A Long Time and we cannot do everything at once, so in the meantime one of my outstanding reforms is to leave things pretty much as they are on the RichPeopleDeserveMore front, after all, I am one, and so is CallHimDave. Oh, we shall talk about rights and civil liberties and CCTV cameras, like the ones watching you now, in case you get violent, and we shall make the case for their abolition, and retain them. It's the talking about it, you see, makes people realise we are takimg things seriously, which we are, only not in the way they think. We are LiberalConservatives, so that's a mixture of our traditional indecision and the Tories' economic brutality, but mainly the economic brutality bit. And that's how  the New Politics differs from the Old Politics, not at all. No longer will JP Morgan and Goldman Sachs be able to direct the affairs of strongstablegovament from the sidelines, No, we will bring them in, give them cabinet jobs, just like in America. In fact one of the objects of this NewManifesto of Change, which no-one voted for, is for us all to go into coalition with each other, us here in Britain, - which I love, but not as much as Europe - and the Republican-Democrats in the States. Well, why not, we are all part of the same,  exciting New World Order, which none of you want but are going to get.

I intend to give regular gimmick bulletins, like this one, as and when I make-up new stuff to reform, or if anyone starts complaining, unpatriotically, about the very necessary cuts which are  very necessary because they just are, if we want the banks to continue lending you your own money at rates favourable to themselves. So, thanks to you all for coming. Don't vote for me. I don't need your votes any more. Brilliant, isn't it?

( 'Tis as we feared, brethren,  'tis for the moneylenders and usurers in New Amsterdam and Shanghai and London, that they rule,  and not for the yeoman and peasant, and for all this prating of novelty, all this lofty drivel of reform and improvement it is, as Brother Nose of the Oo doth say in his balladry, Meeteth, thee, the new Boss, Same as the Old Boss. And Clegg, consum-ed by ambition and by Call-Me-Knave is as big an cunt unto himself, as he is unto we, or very nearly. Up with him, against the wall, ye motherfuckers.)

A PUBLIC INFORMATION BULLETIN, FROM THE DAILY FILTH-O-MAIL.

The old age pension? That's £30 isn't it? Nick Clegg condemned as 'out of touch' after TV blunder

By Ian Drury
Last updated at 9:39 AM on 17th September 2008  

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Nick Clegg was left looking out of touch with voters' lives last night after a question about the state pension revealed he had no idea how much it was worth.
The Liberal Democrat leader - who lives in a £1.3million home in London with his lawyer wife - said a single person's pension was 'about £30 a week' rather than the £90.70 it is.
His blunder risked undermining £61,000-a-year Mr Clegg's insistence that he is in touch with the ordinary person and he understands their concerns. 

Nick Clegg kisses babies ahead of the Lib Dem conference. The party leader mistakenly said that a state pension is just £30 a week

Pensioners' charities said there was 'no excuse' for the mistake.
Mr Clegg made the howler during an interview for ITV Westcountry which was broadcast yesterday on the eve of his speech at the Lib Dems' annual conference in Bournemouth.
Several voters were filmed asking him questions and one of them, retired welder Wally Cotgrave, 69, wanted to know what Mr Clegg would do for pensioners and if he knew the current level of the basic state pension.
Mr Clegg outlined his policies, including ending means-testing for pensioners, until reporter Sally Biddulph pressed him on how much OAPs received each week.
Mr Clegg said 'about £30 a week' but it is actually £90.70 for a single person and £145.45 a week for a couple.
The gaffe follows the ridicule heaped on Mr Clegg, who has two homes, when he complained the credit crunch had forced him to switch weekly food shop from upmarket home delivery service Ocado to Sainsbury's.