THE SUNDAY SUN. ONLY FIFTY PEE, YOUR SOARAWAY NEWS REVIEW

WHISPERING IN THE WINGS

UN/Arab League -  what the fuck is the Arab League? - envoy, Kofi Annan, hustling in Damascus. I mean Urgently seeking a peaceful solution acceptable to all sides. But mainly Israel.

 It is the losssss of money  which concernssss me, 

I mean civilian life.

Whispering Kofi Annan is back.  Enough time has elapsed, presumably,  since the little bit of bother about he and his son milking his position as UN Seckatry General  and making some well-deserved money. Son, Kojo, was taking bungs from  the UN Oil-For-Food programme in the late Mr Saddam's Iraq and acting as mouthpiece for various well-connected, head-chopping, women-stoning, coked-up playboys in the Middle East;   y'know the kinda folks, Princes Charles and Andy's mates, Emirs and Princes, all manner of dictator filth.   Obviously, though, seeing who his old man was, Kojo never actually did anything wrong, like Jack Straw's bug-eyed, mutant son, Will,  or Lord Prescott's conniving property speculator son, David,  or George Bush senior's apechild, Dubya.  The sons of the powerful are all, in Jack Straw's words, Good Kids, Really.

Anyway, Kofi's back, lisping  his dire and worthless platitudes over the civil war in Syria.    One of the more useless UN Secretaries General -  has there been a decent one, since that guy who died in a plane crash, Dag Hammersjkold ? -    Annan has been wheeled-out as whispering peacemaker at large and we can, therefore, expect a further conflagration in Syria, spontaneous or orchestrated, as he does his masters' bidding, glueing a warped  veneer of diplomacy over the neo-con agenda in that region. look, we sent that great man, Kofi Wotsisname, and even he couldn't sort-out  that nigger shit.  The other main players in the Peace charade - Spunky Bill Clinton, Tony and Imelda, even conflict-resolution experts,  Gerry O'Nonce and Marty Kneecaps -  must all be busy with other projects;  Foundations, they call them, these murdering fuckpigs, busy hoovering-up bribes from WarCorp.

    

 Whispering Kofi Annan and President-for-Life Ali-Basher.

 There are terrorists, you know, Kofi, shooting my civilians....

Yessssss, Basher but.....isssss there sssome way we can all ........earn ssssome money? I firmly and ssssincerely believe that it makessss the world go round.

 

 We are all men of the world, after all.  Yesssss, I ssstill have the ssssame Swissssss account.  Clinton?  Yesssss, he'll want a tasssste.  And his doxy, Hillary Trousssersssss.  Blair?  Of coursssssse.  Bush, Carter, McCain, Romney,  they all need looking after, unlessss you want to wind up, when the night comes falling from the sky, how shall we sssay, dangling in mid-air?

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   GAY NEWS.

GAYS DEMAND RIGHT TO BE STRAIGHT.

I remember when AIDS  - or HTLV, as it was then, Human T Cell Leukemia Virus  ( I am sure that Acquired Immuno Deficiency Syndrome was substituted for it's acronymical convenience, seeing as how we are all deemed, now,  here in Ruin,  to be too stupid to say, much less understand complete words )  first started stalking the sexlives, sniper-like of anybody who had sex. Which is most but by no means all of us.

All of a sudden the commentariat, drunken slags, pimps and nonces,  themselves, generally speaking,  all fur coat and no knickers, like Lady Barbara Amiel,  the tart who broke the bank at  the Filth-O-Graph or shameless gangbangers like Simon Hoggart of theArsebridger; all of them, anyone with a bully pulpit  from which to sermonise  was, with varying degrees of hysteria, urging safe sex on the rest of us;  obsydian, tombstone-like megaliths almost  crashed, nightly,  through the bottoms of our TeeVee screens,

 so portentous was their YouWillDie  message, OhYesYouWill.

Stars and celebrities died from AIDS in a blaze of publicity.  Trusts were established to commemorate victims and to mitigate the arse-blitz, to reinforce NewSodom's barricades against God's own  vaulting, judgemental plague.  Good for fuck all politicians leapt enthusiastically on what would become a  vast, sprawling morality play, as well as  a health campaign. No business like showbusiness

 John and Edwina, spearheading his govament's SafeSex campaign

 As  a health minister I insist that you wear a johnny, Johnny.

Too fucking right I will, if I may say so, 'salright old spinsters riding bicycles but I need to be careful when I'm riding the village bicycle, as I am with you. I'm the fucking prime minister, Oh yes, indeed I most certainly am, in a not inconsiderable manner.

Impudent govament ministers and jumped-up experts and moralists seized on this   relatively minor health problem to further lecture harangue, corral and bully us.  The appearance  of Aids  gave  I Know Bestism a hundred-per-cent-pure shot in the arm. Anybody could be an expert. Shit, I was one myself, briefly. And if you didn't want to be a pro-gay expert, as I styled myself, you could be an I-always-knew-it-would-happen redneck expert,  these people are all diseased anyway.  They need treatment.  And a good punch.


I know that relatively minor health problem is an inflammatory statement to  many  but less than two million people dying from AIDS in 2010 compares with fifteen million children dying from hunger every year.   I don't know if the San Franciscan Interior Decorators Association ever makes a hunger-quilt,  as it so showily made  an AIDS victims' quilt  but I doubt it, too busy with the string quartet in their salons to hear the  weakening howls of anguish  from the  other side of the world.

  I mentioned before that the word community   makes me long for an AK 47. Somehow,  the deaths in New York and San Francisco - on top of the Stonewall defiance - strengthened and entrenched the idea of a Gay community;  more separatism, more exclusion, more Me-ism.  And a further fragmentation of a population which should be remorselessly unified against GlobaCorp.  Black community, gay community, fat community, transgender community, foxhunting community. Bollocks, all of it. Diabetes'll kill me and it's already fucked me right up but I'm not part of a Diabetes Community.  There's only one community,  the planetary community.


 
The starving to death community.
 
 And hunger, preventable hunger,  kills more people than  AIDS, Malaria and Tuberculosis combined. Be that as it may, I digress,  the opportunity to moralise was a gold-embossed invitation to MediaMinster;  now the queerbashers, like Straight Simon Hughes, could really let rip, tut-tutting, finger-wagging; but it was not just queers who got AIDS, our masters reminded us, anyone could get it.  Although it was probably caused originally  by  a queer, further back in the fucking chain.  You know, some  of those queers were actually bisexual, too,  and, y'know, your wife might have had a knee-trembler with one of them. You know what women are like. And she might give it to you.  Or she might have caught it long before she met you, off some other lover who also did it with men.  Christ, why didya marry the bitch in the first place? Dirty slut.


But in amongst all the self-loathing and fear and guilt I spied, one night on the telly, a junkie-cowboy-angel-rentboy, somewhere in Manhattan, in Bathhouse Central,  the revolving door of rough, anonymous, gay sex with a cascade, a multiplicity  of partners, showering one another with maybe-malign sperm.  Fuck that safe sex shit, he raged,  I didn't come out, upsetting my mother and father and brothers and sisters, just so's I could settle down in some monogamy shit with the same man every night;  fuck no,  I like risk, I love it.  Here was someone from William Burroughs'  fevered ejaculatory world or from the divine Last Exit to Brooklyn,  here was one of the people who populate the pages of what mr verge calls Transgressive Literature but whom we usually pretend are just fictional , just some de Sadean erotomaniacal reverie,  or even just rhyming coupleteers from Lou Reed's Walk On TheWild Side.  Holly came  from Miami Fla., hitch-hiked her way across the USA, plucked her eyebrows on the way, shaved her legs, 'n' then he was a she, said Hey, Babe, take a Walk On the Wild Side. This guy, a young man, was as real as pain, was proper queer; not a simpering showbiz Mommasboy narcissist,  like Rufus  fucking Wainwright, but a raging, righteous, independent  Quentin Crisp punque and he spoke for lots of them, I guess. These are people I'd met, as a runaway teenager, in all-night cafes on Birmingham's Bristol Road,   way back, before before. These people are the sexual underworld, these people are the business.


I don't know if he lived or died, that young man, but I really wished him well  in his outlaw  adventures.  I have been a brinkman all,  no - I lose track of time - some of  my life;  even as a kid, cycling downhill with my feet on the handlebars;  riding on the open platform of the corporation bus, back leant on the chrome unpright, holding on to nothing, an invitation to the blues, one pothole would have thrown me into the following traffic; always standing right up to the edge of the train platform, literally and figuratively, driving cars and riding motorbikes way too fast, falling off and crashing, DOA, one time, revived by an Emergency doctor, whom I promptly, flailingly thumped, as soon as consciousness was restored and I saw him incising my chest to drain a collapsed lung;  drinking too much drink and smoking too much smoke. Bring another bottle, build another joint.  One time a doctor said to me Don't ever get another skull fracture, mr ishmael, your skull's like a fucking jigsaw.  But it's alright, I learned my lesson well.  Motherless children have a hard road, just takes time to work that out, if you've never known anything else.And of course we, all of us, must take, if it's kindly offered,   shelter form the storm -  shelter  which some,  here, have so recently and irretrieveably lost.  I'm alright, now, never travel by train. Or motorbike.


I have friends in their sixties, after a lifetime of predictabilty, regularity and security, moaning about their mothers being a nuisance, and me not having known one these fifty and more years.  One way and another, therefore,  I am seriously sympathetic to the sexual outsider, living out on the streets, battered, mistreated and villified cruelly, even - no especially - by the worthies who  dally with them, so hotly, so moistly, before scurrying home,  their true passion aired,  to their official wives or husbands.


The worst that happened to me, I should say,  was that a Methodist minister  tried to molest  me, shortly after my mother died. He didn't succeed -  I was big for my age and strong and his wife was downstairs  but the attempt was one of the most shocking things that ever happened to me.  I say he didn't succeed but noncing happens  in a funny old world, maybe being able to exert brutish, breach-of-trust power over the vulnerable and get away with is thrill enough. Brian Duckworth, his name was and he and another minister ran a  ring, like they do, assaulting, trading damaged children, between themselves and some Dr Barnardo's staffers. Same old story, same old song. Duckworth went on to be something big and smiley and trustworthy in Methodism, worked in Central Hall.  Dead now,  the bastard.


I don't mention this to make a link between homosexuality and paedophilia, even though I do think that intrinsically, in some cases,  there is one.  Duckworth, for instance, wasn't, to my knowledge, homosexual as such, he was married with children and as far as I know stayed that way.  Just liked to molest children, just a paedophile.  But there are other cases, other currents, in which gay and paedo merge, almost as an act of carelessness.  In many ways, I admire gay activist Peter Tatchell, he's brave, taking on Mugabe's men and he's brave, being wrestled to the ground by Michael Portillo's goons and he's forgiven Simon Hughes when what he needs is a punch in his warty gob but when Tatchell  starts talking about young gay men of twelve and thirteen and how the age of consent should be lowered to thereabouts I can't help but wonder where he's bound.  I go pale, inside and out, at the shocking effrontery of such an assumption,  gay young men of twelve.........Maybe I'm an old reactionary, maybe people, legally children, should be able to fuck whoever they want to from the very second that they are able to.  The idea of an age of consent is, of course, unnatural, repressive of million-year old instincts but much of how we organise society is contra-natural and I think that we have to have ages of consent in the same way and for the same reason that we have speed limits on the roads - to stop people being hurt.  Mr edgar recently chastised me for my use of the phrase Age-inappropriate relationships but the idea of Peter Tatchell  or someone even older than he having penetrative sex with a twelve year-old - and this would be the consequence, or one of the consequences of such legislation - and the emotional damage which such behaviours might cause is poorly, inadequately described by the phrase age-inappropriate.  Believe me, mr edgar, I am a Duckworth scholar in such things.


It is all murky and can be argued either way, libertarian/tolerant or what should we call it, traditional/intolerant but  maybe not all gay people want to see the age of consent lowered to puberty, maybe it's just the in-yer-face segment of that community which wants to have its boy and eat him.


But the current gay issue is a message from another world, not about lowering the age of consent to twelve, it is about faux-marriage, or the unqueering of homosexuality; those making the running on this one demand that they marry, just exactly like heterosexual couples.  A million miles from the oppositional Manhattan outlaw,  this group is desperate to subdue and colonise the very terrain from which their predecessors fled.  Anything you can do, we can do better.
 
Civil union confers upon gay couples all the legal protections of holy deadlock,  the absence of which underpinned the movement  for civil union. The term marriage, therefore, and the pursuit of the nomenclature is strictly totemic.  The pursuit  by some gay people  of the term married couple is, in my judgement, a bitchy, spiteful, rub-their-noses-in-it  hetero-bashing manouvre which should be resisted, which is an abomination.  Of course we must let people live together without hindrance and with proper legal protection but let them not insist upon this dreary, spiteful  wrongheaded homogenisation;  wassamatter, are they no longer proud to be gay?  Aren't  they now demanding  a right they al;ready have, the right to be straight? 


Despite their aversion to participating in the biological activities  which creates life, gay men, some gay men, rich, pampered,  dribbling, self-indulgent old queens like Lady Sir Elton John can now buy, commission children in the market place, just as if they were sending some gofer out for  a line or two of cocaine,  they take no risk, they bear no pain,  they create nothing,  they only consume.

But that is not enough for them;  they fool themselves and  attempt to browbeat, to cudgel with the truncheon of  equal rights, to fool everybody else that they are young parents ordinaire, wilfully heedless  and expecting the rest of to be as pig-stupid ignorant as they  of the fact that fucking, conception, anxiety, pregnancy, labour and delivery are the only route to parenthood. Obviously. Elton and David may  primp and preen, may act as parents  magnifique et formidable before  their fawning, tonedeaf courtiers, when all they are is shoppers.


 Frothy, empty headed, vacuous and trivial, play-acting at being alive.


And so it is, so it must be with those screeching and whining that not only must they, non-reproductive,  samesexers, be treated the same but must be linguistically, terminologically indistinguishable from the breeders.





 Punch in the gob,  that's what they need;  quick rub-down with a housebrick.


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THE ARTS SECTION


IS THERE A CELTIC CONNECTION, MR MONGOOSE?




 


For some years, now, BBC2 has been running a series of Transatlantic Session in which a basic band of vaguely traditional Scottish-Irish musicians joins forces with some visiting American dignitaries of the genre - some of them are quite magical but they are grown increasingly tedious;

 

 smirking, beardy fiddlers, manic pipers and an absolutely intolerable lap slide guitar player who, regardless of suitability or taste ladles his syrupy tones over absolutely everything, join ensemble with some long-tressed Kentucky singerbabe, just as doggone purty as a picture, 

 

 or a guitar-flailing Tenneseean loon sporting a snufflers beard, the whole cloying confection intercut with commercial ethnobabble about the Music and the Roots and about NoBarriers. Fucking horsehit, really, although it has been worth looking at just in case the late Kate McGarrigle

 or Mad Maestro Paul Brady - surely a cousin of Marty Kneecaps -

 

 or some such transcendent musical jewel made a brief, sparkling appearance.

The redeeming feature of this long-running series is that there is never an appearance by gibbering hobgoblin Sir Jools Holland and his assorted headshrinkers and necromancers; that, in itself on a BBC2 music show, is a kindness.

 No, laydeezangennulmen, don't laugh, I really can sing.

 And I have extremeley eclectic musical tastes.

The loose underpinning of these jamborees is the supposed connection between (whte) United States music and Scotland, the best part of England - y'know, nationalism. Scotland's great influence on the world, the ethnic cleansing of the US by murderous Scots, Paddies, Germans and all the Bible thumping riff-raff of Europe, of which Scotland and Ireland appear to be so proud. Sioux, Arapaho, Navajo, Cherokee, Iriqouis and Innuit, Celtic bandits have slaughtered them by the thousand, stole their lands, desecrated their sites, raped their women and children.; Ah, but Jaysus, the music. And sure the people was starvin' at home, so they were, so why not take stuff from the Redskins, now, dem being Godless heathen savages an all, so they are.

Alongside all this nationalist tedium there is an international marketing opportunity, or should I say grassroots movement, as people all over the world discover their Celtic connection and in the true spirit of traditional musicians everywhere, sign recording contracts and hope fervently for a cross-over, number one platinum album.


I got in trouble - and a little acclaim - up here a while back for publicly  lambasting  the rapacious juggernaut arts movement in Scotland.  Here, and especially  so the further North you go, any smirking wee Fiona sawing at a tuneless fiddle is a maestro-in waiting;  any sourfaced crow singing unaccompanied in Gaelic  a fifteen-verse dirge about hanging or murder or betrayal - some Fathomless Grievance Blues - anyone, in fact, who, lacking taste or modesty, gets up and makes a noise in front of others deserves public subsidy, because, like the horsebeaters in BigFatPikeyWeddings, what they are doing is traditional.  Not while old people are cold, ventured I. And anyway, most of it is shite;  those awful accordions, Jesus fucking wept. And what is  good will survive and flourish without subsidy, like the Delta Blues.  Some were delighted at my heresy, others wounded deep in their morbid souls.


I shrink, therefore, from Scottish traditional music, especially performed by professional ego-tripping ponces and slappers. And I retreat even further from the overseas varieties, from Canucks claiming some spurious ancestral connection to the  banks and  braes o' bonny Doon; from Kentuckians ot Tennesseans blethering about Wicklow and Clare.  The only good things to come from that hillbilly region were the Everly Brothers and Dolly Parton.


Mr mongoose, anyway, suggested this chanteuse, as an Evensongstress.  I dunno, had he been bombarded for a decade or more  with Annie Crow and the Smirking Wee Fionas, he might take a different view of this stuff.

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				------------------------------------------------------ THE FUNNY PAPERS. This is one of those things that we all get. A guy I used to know  never bothers to write to me but instead forwards me  dozens of these things, which, I presume,  he receives  from somebody who can't be bothered to write to him, either; it's communication, Jim, but not as we know it;  in fact, it's not communication at all.  I dunno what it is, some i-phenomenon, waving, not drowning, maybe. Most of them originate down there in mr mike's  world and are generally from some Aussie redneck, hating Koreans, Vietnamee, all Asians, in fact and chinks, niggers, jews and abos,  especially abos, who are ruining his country, immigration, welfare and  women. He hates most things. This one, though,  from the UK, is different and sits well, here,  in these chronicles of Ruin
				They Walk Among Us - BE VERY WARY This is a collection of letters sent to a South of England Newspaper who had asked for examples of stupidity IDIOT SIGHTING No.1 My daughter and I went to the McDonald's drive through check-out window to pay our bill and I gave the clerk a £5 note. Our total bill was £4.20, so I also handed her a 20 pence piece. She said, 'You gave me too much money.' I said, 'Yes I know, but this way you can just give me £1 back.' She sighed and went to get the Manager who asked me to repeat my request. I did so, and he handed me back the 20 pence and said 'We're sorry but we do not do that kind of thing.' The clerk then proceeded to give me back 80 pence in change. Do not confuse the clerks at MacDonald's !! IDIOT SIGHTING No2 We had to have the garage door repaired. The GARADOR repairman told us that one of our problems was that we did not have a 'large' enough motor on the opener.I thought for a moment, and said that we had the largest one GARADOR made at that time, a 1/2 horsepower. He shook his head and said, 'Lady, you need a 1/4 horsepower.' I responded that 1/2 was larger than 1/4 and he said, 'NOOO, it's not. Four is larger than two..' We haven't used Garador repair since. Happened in Moor Park , near Watford . IDIOT SIGHTING No3 I live in a semi-rural area. We recently had a new neighbour call the Highways Department to request the removal of the 'DEER CROSSING' sign from our road. The reason: 'Too many deer are being hit by cars on this stretch of road! I don't think this is a good place for them to be crossing, any-more.' Story from Potters Bar, Hertfordshire. IDIOT SIGHTING No 4 My daughter went to a local Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a Taco. She asked the person behind the counter for 'minimal lettuce.' He said he was sorry, but they only had Iceberg Lettuce. From South Oxhey , Hertfordshire. IDIOT SIGHTING No 5 I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked, 'Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge?' To which I replied, 'If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?' He smiled knowingly and nodded, 'That's why we ask.' Happened at Luton Airport IDIOT SIGHTING No 6 The traffic light on the corner buzzes when the lights turn red and it is safe to cross the road. I was crossing with an intellectually challenged friend of mine. She asked if I knew what the buzzer was for. I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red. Appalled, she responded, 'What on earth are blind people doing driving?!' She is a Local County Council employee in Harrow , Middlesex. (And she's NOT blonde) IDIOT SIGHTING No7 When my husband and I arrived at our local Ford dealer to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it. We went to the Service Department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the Driver's door. As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door-handle and discovered that it was unlocked. 'Hey,' I announced to the Fitter/Mechanic, 'it’s open!' His reply: 'I know. I already did that side.' This was at the Ford dealership in St Albans , Hertfordshire. . .

NEWS REVIEW. GREAT MEN LAID LOW.

CELEBS: MICHAEL PORTILLO, THE MAN IN THE KNOW.

Did I mention that I'm half-Spanish, half-Scottish, half-English and a touch Bohemian?

" I don't expect him  (Mr Chris Who)  to be charged tomorrow, the only reason the CPS is calling a  press conference is to explain why he isn't being charged." Speaking on the dreadful This Week show, last Thursday.

MR KEIR HARMER, HEAD OF THE CPS & THE COPPERS' FRIEND.

Portillo?  He's a silly old poof.
Huhne? He's one of the DogShooters, he's going down.
Lying to the police is very serious.
They're the ones supposed to be doing the lying.

It's insights like this Huhne blunder which  explain why Murdoch pays Portillo to be one of his hacks and why we pay him a grand a week to to pontificate on This Week.  And that's not to mention his reading aloud from a Victorian Railway  Guide on some other dismal show.  What, with him and his fellow-Thatcherite spiv, the repulsive Norman Tebbit, shaping the nation's  opinions, is it any wonder that we are hurtling down the toilet?   Portillo, too timid to run for Tory leader, when it might have meant somethung, might have tempered the Blair-|Brown-Mandelstein and Campbell criminality, now moistly smirking in his  frightful shirts, and that other shameless, gabshite class-traitor fuckpig, Alan cuckold Johnson, yes, and Jacqui fucking Schmidt, blowsy and bloated, promoting a nascent career in the shit-spewing  meeja, insist that the poor must take their medicine whilst the rich gorge themselves on stolen  benefits and    on hard-won rights trampled upon  and abrogated.  The very first on the end of the rope, Neil's gang of worthless arrivistes.  Did he ever mention, Neil, the disgusting old playboy,  that he was  a grammar school boy, went to Glasgow University?  Does he ever fucking stop mentioning it and does it in any way ameliorate his cruel, brutish, gutter journalism, his lifetime of pretence,  sucking poxy political cock whilst playing the hard man interrogator. Man should have a fucking BAFTA. At least Sir Michael Kneepads White can manage to speak a sentence  without tripping over his tongue and even pissed out of his mind, as he usually is, Toilets Maguire can mutter a Labour  apologia or two without reading then off cue cards.  It is a measure of Ruin's progress  that Neil is now on Beebtelly every day of the week, bar Saturday.

Newsnight distinguished itself, too.  Not by flagging-up the fact that three of the Cabinet's spivs, Law, Huhne and Fox   are as bent as can be, nor by commenting on the severity of the offence of conspiring to pervert the course of justice but by hosannahing the shitbag, Huhne's,  sterling qualities. Such as being a staunch  family man and a rotten fucking lying bastard. To his wife and to his constituents.

Mr Who, with his then-wife, Ms Vicky Woman-Scorned and, to the right, his baggage, Ms Carina Trumpington-MuffDive, a well-connected lobbyist and slapper.
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SPORT: ENGLAND ANNOUNCES NEW CAPTAIN.

I WILL WEAR THE CAPTAIN'S ARMBAND WITH PRIDE,

VOWS NICK.
JUST AS LONG AS IT'S THE SWASTIKA.

Following the sacking of Mr John Knobhead, the FA has announced that Mr Nick Griffin has been selected to captain the England wife-beaters, gang-rapists, coke-snorters and all around arseholes team in this year's European whatever it is.  Mr Griffin was seen at training with the England squad, where he was leading a community sing-in of Niggers! Niggers! Niggers! Out! Out! Out!

I firmly believe that all white men are created equal, shouted an ebulllient Mr Griffin, apart from queers, of course. And  the Jews.

Ex-captain, Mr Knobhead, seen below, at a meeting of the Professional Footballers Association, said that he wasn't bovvered eever way, about being the captain of his national team, knoworramean,'smore important fings in life than football, innit, knoworramean. Like shagging uvver blokeses crumpet. And fighting.

The manager of Chelsea Football Club, Mr Julio Greaseball, below,

 

said that while he understood Mr Knobhead being stripped of the captaincy he deed not agree weeth eet. Eet ees all 'owyousay ze load of bollocks, ee ees not raceest, an' eeven eef 'e was, eet doesn't matter, ees football, an' we let ze neegnogs play een ze team, just ze same;  zey 'eve ze great sense of reethymn, eenit. An we all 'ave zee pees-up een ze shower after ze game. But you should see ze cocks on some of zem neegers, Madre Dios, zey are fucking 'uge.  'An all black an' shiny, like ze coppers truncheons.

In Moscow, Mr Roman Kalashnikov, the billionaire Russian criminal and owner of Chelsea FC, said,  if zis 'appen in 'Oly Mother Russia, my friend and co-accused, Comrade Putin, 'e vould make it all go away and ze FA vould find zemselfs in prison for hundred of fucking year.

 

I can haff you keeled, you know, just like zat. 

Abramovich, wealth creator.

Or international criminal as we call oligarchs around here.

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THINGS YOU SODOM SEE, SORRY, SELDOM SEE.

Look, as the deputy unelected prime minister I'd just like to apologise, first, to the people of Britain for enacting a whole shitload of measures designed to punish them for the offences of others and which neither my own party or the party of my right honourable friend, the unelected prime minister, had even dreamed of when we put ourselves before you at the general election and you didn't put your trust in us. Especially the pensioners whom I had thought  received a very generous pension of thirty pounds a week, a fundamental stupidity on my part which, in any normal world, would see me confined to a re-education camp until I knew what day it was and whereabouts was located the hole in my public school buggered arse.  Instead I am the unelected deputy prime minister and this is the main thing.  I can tell my children about it. If they ever, when they are grown-up, can stand to be in the same room as me.  But, and it is a big but,  we had no option but to cobble together an illegitimate and some would say unholy govament consisting of some very rich people and Mr Michael Spit-Gove.  I am terribly sorry about this, as far as normal people are concerned.  But if you are asking me if I have disappointed my own tiny privileged and vengeful class, well, what do you think?

Secondly, I would like to apologise for Mr Huhne to the voters of wherever it is, and wherever it is will be a triumph of true LiberalDemocrat values, although not, obviously the ones we stood on but those which we have been forced to adopt by the unelected financial cabals of the world.  Look, let's be clear, it doesn't reallly matter, can't really matter, what we said yesterday and it is clearly unacceptable for people to try to hold us to something we said well, yesterday, when in fact it is now today.  And tomorrow, it will be today again.  I like to think I have framed a new, modern Liberal Democratic philosophy here, which could be summarised by my asking myself the question - as I do - do I mean anything I ever say? To which the answer is clearly an honest, principled, LiberalDemocratic No. The logic is inescapable.  But as for  for Mr Huhne, I would like to apologise for him saying at the last election that he was a happily married man.  In a sense he was,  just not to his wife but to himself, and to the idea that he could have my job. Instead of going to prison. And I must say at this poimnt that as a Liberal Democrat I do not believe in prison. Except for those who need to be there, like Mr Huhne.  He was, also, as is often the case in the party I am so proud to lead, in a sense, happily married to his bi-sexual media adviser and unhappily married to his - some would say -proper wife, although I would hesitate to be judgemental about this, unlike her, or is it she, who has fired a right good round of fucks into him and continues to do so.  Some women take a kinder view of things, knowing the frightful pressure which MPs are under, having to work so hard at breaking their promises, fiddling their expenses and fucking  the arses off their HagueBoys or mistresses whilst presenting themselves as scrupulously virtuous.  Mrs Oaten, for instance, when she found that her husband, Mark, our former Home Office spokesperson - tough on tarts, tough on the causes of tarts, that was his policy-in-waiting - when she found out that Mark had unfortunately been found paying young men to shit in his face she quite properly put his misfortune down to his premature hair loss, caused by him working so hard to curry favour in the press, I mean serve his constituents.  But each to his or her own.  Mrs Huhne, for her part, has invented an unlikely scenario in which she was a very long way from her husband's speeding car when she was driving it and contends that there are many witnesses to her presence, a very long way away from the car she was driving;  she insists, in fact, that it is impossible for her to have been in the car at the time and in the location that it was speeding. As if.   

It is of course now a matter for the jury and the amount of pressure which can be brought to bear upon it by Mr Huhne's money.  I mean his legal team.  But all of us in politics have an interest in seeing him getting away with blue murder.  Just as long as he doesn't afterwards expect to come back into govament, with decent people, like myself and Mr Laws.

I would also like to apologise to his constituents for him not resigning his seat immediately upon being charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and being a rotten lying bastard piece of shit. But LibDem MPs are made of sterner stuff than that. It is in our DNA.  Just look at our roll call of heroic figures.  There was Mr Jeremy Thorpe;  why should he have resigned just because he went with rent boys when it was seriously illegal, conspired to have them killed and shot their dogs.  Didn't stop him doing a great job for all concerned.  And he did get away with it. There was Mr Straight Simon Hughes,  the closet poof, elected on a queer-bashing platform.  He got away with it, too.  And there was my predecessor, Charlie Kennedy, the Dipso, whose drink problem we all denied until he had no option but to publicly  and as a matter of great principle, admit it himself, five minutes  before his former assistant did so .  And only all of us, every last one of us,  lied to the electorate about him being a fit and proper person to be prime minister, even though he couldn't, most of the time, stand up unaided.  We are the party of truth, you see, only not about ourselves.  And that, I suggest, is the sort of party you want in govament.  Remember, if you want to kick the cripples, freeze the old, raise banker pensions and bonuses, cover the land with useless, shit-generating windmills and stuff the frontbenches with  alcoholic, degenerate, shiteating, moneygrubbing, child-molesting, cross-dressing, hypocritical, fraudulent, money-laundering, toilet-creeping extorionists then vote Liberal Democrat.  Or Tory. Or Labour. Or SNP. Or Plaid Cymru. Or the Ulster Undertakers' Party.

Many of us will recall a time  when a whisper of  character, never mind behaviour such as Huhne's would have initiated a swift exit from the cabinet.  I think I'm right in saying that.  There were, long ago, stories about Boothby and the Kray Twins about Boothby and Harold McMillan's wife; about queer Labour MP Tom Driberg, about Ghandi and Mountbatten's wife and doubtless many others.  But I believe there was a line over which none could cross with impunity;  Huhne and, by association, his colleagues, have crossed it.

My young friend, stanislav the plumber, used to argue that the NewLabour govament was the most dangerous organised crime family in the country. That this shower of public school spivs sees Huhne's partial downfall only in terms of political advantage or disadvantage, sees it only selfishly and that MediaMinster, too,  sees it only in similar, gamesters terms recognises formally the corruption, illegality and  utter worthlessness of the present parliamentary system, Thieves, philanderers, perverts, slags, pimps and ponces, all of them;  Huhne is just one of them, dragged out into the sunshine;  maybe, like snot expectorated in the gutter, he will shrivel  up and be washed away, down the drain. But the body politic remains, diseased and rotting, it's only cure, its only deliverance a massive, lethal dose of Upagainstthewallmotherfuckerism.

NEWS REVIEW, AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS.

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