The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
Call Me Ishmael: Taking the Piss since April 2009
The unfunniest man in Britain was today knighted for his services to the Establishment. Licensed fool, bore, public school Torybastard, BBC gravytrainer, mock historian and all round wanker, Ian Pissflap, was today made a knight commander of the order of the Brown Nose, Tongue and Chin for his unfailing devotion to himself and to the ruling class. Knighting the worthless little turd, Queen Brenda said Arise, Sir Ian, Oh, one is mistook, you are already standing up, hard to tell there for a minute, still, one meets all sorts in one's line of work.
Satirist? Hislop? My royal arse.
And they tell one that you are hilariously funny, on the television, at pulling a funny face. And saying Not after everything. Just to let one’s audience know one was being ironic, or sarcastic. Or stupid. Isn’t that a faux-ironic device which the dimmer young people used a little while ago? That Not business? But even they’ve given it up. Even my grandson, Prince Gormless has given it up, now that he's married to Wotsername, the party planner, and his half brother, the drunken Nazi thug, one knows he can barely speak at all, unless it's some made-up bollocks about his mates in Afghan, who'd probably punch his bastard lights out if they saw him swigging eighty pound a throw cocktails, at my expense, I mean theirs, everybody's, but even Harry Shitbrains, a stuttering redfaced moron, he doesn't say that Not shit. Like you do. Moved orn, one believes they say. Only not you. Still, cutting edge of satire. And the Beeb pays you for it. That other chap, Merton, is he gay, d'you know? We queens have an eye for this sort of thing and he certainly seems to be fishing from the other bank. One really must say, Sir Pissflap, that what with the limp magazine which has never changed anything worth fuck all, the tedious railway programmes and that Have I Got Stale News For You, you really do demonstrate the advantages of a good education, how the public school and Oxbridge really do make a man excel. Not. A-ha-ha-ha. One’s little joke.
And Yes, one understands you do edit a magazine, sort of, which has been publishing the same old jokes for fifty years. Mr Auberon Waugh and Mr Peter Cook and Mr Richard Ingrams and Mr Paul Foot. Yes, nearly all of them dead. Just as well, really, one imagines. Don’t know what they’d make of you doing your funnyface trick every week on the telly. And cleverly saying Not after everything. No, no splitarses, of course not, not at your mighty organ, wouldn’t be the same would it, having women around, apart from Matron.
And one understands that you and those rotten greasy smarmy pimping child molesting slags in the parliament, you give each other awards? Quite so. And that you have jolly nice dinners together, in rather louche establishments, how very daring. And that one of them moved a vote of thanks to you for your sterling work over five decades - well, not just you, but Ingrams and so on, whom, one understands you have completely ignored in this fifty year bash - in keeping things just exactly as they have always been, never having, as young mr stanislav would say, called a cunt a cunt. Yes, of course, one quite understands, you have to work within the law; although you should try telling that to Mr Blair or Mr Brown or Mr Cameron or any of the jumped-up cocksuckers, and don't for fucks sake get one started on that whimpering little shit, Wotsisname, Clegg is it. I'd chop his fucking nodding head off if I had my way.
Well, there you are, little chap, knighted for holding the Establishment in check. Not.. So sorry. Couldn't resist. Who's next, don't tell me it's Bruce fucking Forsyth. Well, at least he can sing and dance. And be quite funny.
a reader writes.
The Eye published a self-mocking cover to mark its fifty years in the business; side by side 'photos of Harold Macmillan and CallHimDave, with a caption to the effect that See, satire does work, fifty years apart and we have two Old Etonians fucking-up the country with a government of their cronies; Macmillan at least had fought in the Great War, whereas CallHimDave has been mentioned in PR despatches, Public Relations, the last refuge of the scoundrel. Aside from that, they are one and the same, doing the same shit. It was a rare moment of insight from Hislop, if, indeed, he had anything to do with it. For all his smugness, all his Bananaballs, all his claims to litigative heroism the Eye is as much a part of the Establishment furniture as is the Church of England
But the Eye as public sentinel, as keeper of some sacred flame of accountabilty, of investigative journalism of whistle blowing, is no more risible than is the idea of the BBC covering politics and current affairs. As the unelected fascists of the EuroReich make economic blitzkrieg on the Greeks the repulsive Jock Neil, on his putrid pantomime, This Week, fawned over Big Al Campbell, the man who, inter alia, made millions fucking the labour movement up the arse with a Perrier bottle, blatantly faked the cassus bellus which saw Iraq invaded, burned, tortured, occupied and looted and who carpetbags, yet, for the infamous Blair. Even by Neil's dismal standard of guest this is a truly pistaking choice, Tony McNutter, Peter Stringpenis et al are bad enough but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit. But together with an uncomfortable-around-women Michael Portillo, of skymadeupnewsandfilth, Campbell and Neil drooled over dreadful old baggage, Nancy de Lollypop, courtesan extraordinaire et antique just like, well, just like dirty old men. Cheers and laughter and big cheques from the BBC all round.
It's as though just as long as we, we in the know, get a fix of sarcasm now and again it doesn't really matter that the people in charge are the very same people who fucked things up so badly, are paying one another more for continuing so to do and are, with redoubled effort and increasing pungency, voiding their bowels in the faces of those they piously claim to represent. But who may not have a referendum.
Oh, for sure, the people who toil at the InTheBack section of Private Eye do, fortnightly, reveal the leprous hand of the great and the good, as it fists the arse of Decency; they do expose the rottenness of councillors and chief executives and honourable and right honourables; often they hymn the breathtaking brutality of PC Plod and Chief Constable Gob presided over, serenely, by Right Worshipful Brother, Mr Justice Slag but, you know, if the Eye was really any good, wouldn't Hislop have committed suicide, by now, in some twee woodland, or be on the plane to Sweden ? Isn't that what happens to proper whistleblowers?
Sir Ian and Lady Pissflaps. Scourge of the Establishment, Shurely shome mishtake.
Sir Andrew Nonce, BBC's Mr Playboy. Jesus fucking Christ
. Nighty-night. I'm off to Annabels with some wanton teenager; that's how funny I am.
On me 'ed son! … We're sticking the boot in to sexism! Yeah!!
So, we've coaxed a couple of comely bits of stuff onto the This Week sofa.
Former Cabinet Minister Charles Clarke will be joining Michael Portillo for a girlie pillow fight! ...stand well back.
Ladylike media queen Greg Dyke will be telling us why the phone hacking investigation is ruining that cosy old sisterhood between the papers and politicians.
And Mary Ann Sieghart is turning her hand at rat-catching in her vermin-infested roundup of the politcal week.
As if that wasn't enough, rockabilly queen Imelda May will be here to explain why sexism isn't music to her ears.
So, come on sistas! Kick off your comfortable shoes and join us!
We are on live - after Question Time - at 23:35 in England and Scotland - and 00.05 in Wales and Northern Ireland. If that's too late, catch us on BBC Parliament on Friday at 18:00 or later on the BBC iPlayer.
We've been enjoying your tweets. Keep them coming via the hashtag #bbcthisweek and click here and come and Twitter with us on our site.
MaryAnn Shitbag, Mr Ratty AND Fat Charlie, not to mention Playboy Jock - he went to grammar school and university, you know - and La Portilla. AND none of them will be wearing a tie! The things people have to do for a measly grand. Fuck me, I don't know if I can wait.
And now, Jacqui Schmidt, viewers will want to know, what about the porn?
Oh, I haven't done any yet.
You mean you might? Confessions of a home seckatry, bottles of blue nun,
nighty-night, that sort of thing?
Well, clearly, the script would have to be right. And the co-stars. And the money.
No use looking at me, I'm not like that.
But I hear David Blunkett's always looking for money, that would be confessions of two home seckatries. A-ha- ha-ha. If you will forgive me. One of them blind, both of them stupid. Porn for blind people. I think we may be onto something here, Andrew.
Evenin' all and welcome to our little Westminster studio and on tonight's show we have a rotten, wrinkly, clapped-out old reprobate who loves the young female form, or a dashing playboy approaching middle age, as I prefer to describe myself.
We'll be looking at the cuts proposed by the Coalition of the Unwholesome. But not too closely, because they mean fuck all to the likes of us. And certainly not to me because the BBC gives me all the work I want. Some say it's because of my searching interview style, others because I'm right up the arse of the political establishment and they can trust me not to go too far. You ask yourself, as you open your bottle of Blue Nun, while you can still afford it, if I was any good, wouldn't they run a fucking mile from my Daily Politics show? Well, wouldn't they?
On the show tonight there'll be some fading, jumped-up celebrity like Billy Bragg or Bill Wyman and they'll be sharing their thoughts, such as they are, not that either of them could even spell elected dictatorship or expenses whitewash or even pisspoor Tory leader who couldn't win against a mental case and a gang of thieves.
But never mind that. And talking of gay mental cases, on the sofa, still - and true to form, he's not standing for the leadership of anything - is the Smouldering Spaniard, Don Miguel - as he's known on the cottage walls - our very own Michael Portillo.
This is what happens to people who tell lies
Michael, your moment of the week, did you have your minders attack some defenceless little poof, who was trying to out you, - not that there's anything to out - wrestle him, quite illegally, to the ground and quite illegally rough him up a bit and you a former cabinet minister, and a privy councillor and everything and a lawmaker, but then, of course, the law, as we have seen, doesn't apply to cabinet ministers, past, present or future, we might almost say, and since we are all so closely connected, probably doesn't apply to journalists, like myself, either. And it must be true because if I was an ordinary elderly person then my colleagues in skymadeupnewsandfilth would be yelling at me, staking-out my homes and front-paging me with pictures of very young women and calling me a pathetic, dirty, filthy, old cunt abusing my money and my position at the BBC in an attempt to stave-off Death and to obliterate the guilt I feel at being such a lying, distorting, unprincipled, money grubbing gabshite charlatan - or a typical Journalist - all these years, which is what I am of course. All of the above. Did I tell you I went to grammar school?
I mean, it's alright, Michael, you sitting there looking outraged, you know I wouldn't really ask you these questions, it's only that the bloke who writes me has been sent some herbal cigarettes for his birthday and is trying to portray me as an almost decent old bloke, instead of the festering canker that I am, leeching, symbiotically on the diseased body politic and pretending, quite ludicrously, to be its Nemesis, it's scourge and that's why people old enough to know better, some of them as old as me, still consider me, despite all the evidence to the contrary to be a people's champion, a tribune, my life spent commissioning, editing and proofreading a fanfare for the common man, skymadeupnewsandfilth style. That Neil, he really goes for it, rips 'em a new arsehole he does, that's what they say, which, let's face it, is bollocks, when's the last time I broke a story, exposed a political fraud, a conflict of interest, never, that's when, gossip pretending to be news, that's my thing, rips 'em a new arsehole, as if, I didn't get where I am today by challenging the status quo. Obviously. Aye, People's Champion, me and John Prescott.
But now to our first guests, satirist Mr Chris Wotsit, whatever a satirist is, nudge-wink, nudge-wink, Ah, the old ones are the best, although some of my young female acquaintances might disagree, and Mr Peter Poofter - did I mention I was from Glasgow? And went to University? Peter is a fag activist who doesn't have very much money. Chris and Peter, what's your........TakeOfTheWeek?
