OLD MONEYBAGS IS DEAD. HOW I AM NOT AFFECTED BY THE DEATH OF TERRY WOGAN

 THE DAILY ISHMAEL.

ON ALL PAGES.

  

How I never listened to him.  

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How I never watched him.  

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How I despise all the other cheesy broadcasters basking in his reflected, dubious glory, now that he's croaked.
 
Dara O Briain tweeted: 

"Terribly sad news about Terry Wogan dying. Hard to quantify what he achieved, not just in broadcasting but for the Irish in Britain.
"Hard to separate what he achieved & the accent he did it in, from the times in which he did it. And opened to the door to all who followed."
Sure and he means himself, so he does. 

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"He had a great sense of perspective, he made sure that his priority was the people he really cared about", she said. 
Himself.
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How I never thoughT he had the smoothest voice on radio.
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How I never found him interesting,  funny, witty, ironic or entertaining.  

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How I never married anyone who loved Wogan just as much as I did.

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How I never thought he was my friend behind the microphone.

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How I won't miss his cheery, anodyne banter 

on account of how I never listened to him. 

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How I never watched Terry In Need.
 
Documents released under the Freedom of Information Act disclose that while his co-presenters give their time for free, 68-year-old Sir Terry receives £1,300 an hour to front the charity television extravaganza.
Sir Terry has been paid for his efforts since the appeal - described by the BBC as the most important event on its calendar - began in 1980.
In 2005, the Irishman - who earns £800,000 a year from his Radio 2 show - picked up £9,065 for his seven-hour stint as Children In Need's main presenter.
Yet his co-stars Natasha Kaplinsky, Eamonn Holmes and Fearne Cotton do not receive a penny. All the musical acts that appear also waive appearance fees.
There is no suggestion that Sir Terry, who owns a mansion near Windsor and a house in France, receives any money intended for charity projects, nor that he has ever claimed to be hosting the show for free.
In the past, Sir Terry has made a show of donating personal items, such as his tie, to highest bidders.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-439875/Wogan-celeb-paid-Children-

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How he didn't transform the Eurovision Song Contest.

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How I thought Blankety-Blank was shit.

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Just because large numbers of people like something doesn't make it bad. 

 Doesn't make it good, either.

National treasure, Wogan?  

God fucking help us.

At least Gracie Fields could sing

IN OTHER NEWS.

LOSER ANDY MURRAY AND HIS LEGENDARY PREGNANT WIFE.

 How I don't care about  Andy Murray, his legendarY father-in-law, his legendary pregnant wife or his legendary mutant mummy.

HOW I DON'T CARE ABOUT DAVID CAMERON'S  PRETEND NEGOTIATIONS.

Worthless lying bastards, both of them.
Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

Wogan, though, a fortune of £20 million, Christ, that's worth pretending to be nice to everyone for an hour or two a day.
What irks, though, is the utter banality of his output,  a stage Irishman, running the gamut from self-deprecation to self-deprecation, whist fawning over any number of showbiz filthsters, worse at that than Mike Funerals Parkinson, and that's saying something.

It is part of the national decline,  the prominence of the BBC disc jockey, a man, generally, twittering in-between other people's recordings, about nothing.  There was a case to be made for disc-jockery back when there was a difference between teenagers and their parents, when listening to rock'n'roll or punk was temporary rebellion's  demarcation line,  John Peel and Johnny Walker defining an ethereal barricade.  Now that the land is awash with worthless multi-generational celebrity voted for by  consumerised  families, now that people don't buy singles or LPs, don't listen, together, to the latest thing, now that music is  atomised, ubiquitous and purposeless the role of the deejay seems  as relevant as that of the lamplighter.  A clebrity personality, though, a cynical confection, reflecting yourself back at you, cleverer, wittier and warmer,  that's something else.

I can't remember one such whom I considered worthy, useful, a  voice welcome to the public discourse.  Mark Tulley,  the BBC's sacked India correspondent, used, on Sunday night, to do  a compendium show, his thoughts, some readings  and some bits of music from everywhere, it was a delight.  Alexis Korner, away back, on Radio One, played a blues/roots selection, again, on Sunday night, which made me smile at his almost scholarly enthusiasms -  that was Delbert McLinton, there, Oh, dropkick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of Life.  Unlike so many, Korner was a musician himself, and not a member of the band of gobby nobodies which BBC promoted, and is still promoting. Even in his death, the dreadful old crow, Esther Rantzen, is milking Wogan, like she was masturbating a dead man - he raised millions, hundreds of millions for Children in Need.  And I started ChildLine, even though I had romanced a paedo, myself, and simply adored Jimmy Savile, who also raised tens of millions, hundreds of millions, Oh, thousands of millions, we've all raised thousands of millions, millions of millions, for those less fortunate than myself.

Across the board, many adults are Woganised, infantilised, unable to bear their own silences, unable to entertain, comfort, amuse or stimulate  themselves, millions addicted to the children's programme, Dr Who,  pretending to watch it because it is  challenging, philosophical, science fictional, tackling difficult issues, when all they are doing is lusting after whichever character 

 is the current Dr's current jailbait cyber-minx,
 IS he gonna fuck her?  

Harry Potter, tens of millions of middle-aged people, desperate for the next instalment of a children's book/film franchise, because it is encouraging boys to read books again,  yeah, old boys, and old girls, who ought to know better. Kleptocrats robbing and raping us, angry millions on the move in our direction, ice-caps melting and we lose ourselves in spells and wands and wizards;  in Time lords and Daleks; in retreaded galactic wars of empire;  and we sit at home, doddery, frightened, listening to a highly-paid, low-brow entertainer, chuntering away, like he gives a fuck.

TO WOSSANAME OR NOT TO WOSSANAME, THAT IS THE QUESTION

LENNY HENRY.
  PERSPECTIVES, FINDING SHAKESPEARE

 

It was just on and so I thought I'd have a look at it - 

 

comic, hotelier, divorcee and grand thespian, Lenny Henry, on Shakespeare; oh and did I mention that as well as all that other stuff,  he's black? No need, really, he never stops reminding us.

Henry started-out with his usual whine, basically that he was black working class, yet now he was an acclaimed actor. Not 'round here, he's not but never mind

 I only bin in two plays, an' boaf ov 'em wuz by Shaykes-peer.

I never wuz into 'im, continued OafMan. 
But mebbe that wuz becos ov me upbringin'.

The lecture proper commenced with, for the umpteenth TeeVee time, Henry walking past his childhood home, in the Midlands, a perfectly acceptable dwelling, maybe council built, originally, I don't know. Look, he gasped in amazement, pointing at a window, that used to be my bedroom, Henry, so up his own arse that he is heedless that tens of millions of perfectly decent people inhabit such bedrooms, without any shame or amazement. It is a device employed by many in showbiz, the stupider they are, the more likely are they to  wander past their parents' homes, gasping, wow, hooda thought, a genius like wot mine is, coming from a place loike that. Luckiest man alive, Ringo Starr, does it, 

 

Ozzy Osbopurne and his baggage, Shaz, they do it, 

 

Billy Connolly and his baggage, Pammy, they gloat about how Billy coulda ended-up a welder.

 

 Can y'imagine, a welder? It's extraoooordinry, though, isn't it?
Just extraoooooordinry

 Cunts, all of them, on one hand peddling their working class roots, on the other mocking them and those who fertilised those roots.

Lenny - his Dad didn't love him enough - was whinging, as he does, about how, being uniquely black, he got bullied, in the playground. 

 

 An archetypeal bullied child, wthdrawn and  camera shy.

Unlike all the Irish kids, the fat kids, the ginger kids, the sickly, asthmatic kids, the speccy kids, the limpy kids and don't get me started on the Jewish kids for theirs is a special kind of bullying, with a special name, no, Lenny was bullied like none before or since, just because of who he was. Stupid fucking bastard, even at his age, now, he doesn't know that the playground is the nastiest, most cruel place in the world;  that even the nice kids, whose parents luvem2bits, would do anyfin4em, sometimes gang-up on a weakling, an Other.  No, it was special for Lenny, he's made a career from it, he's still doing it, ranting that there aren't enough people like him on telly, stupid people. He's wrong, of course, most of them are stupid.

He and his film crew went to his old school, where he lectured us about his schooldays' experience of Shaykes-peer.  'E wuz sat, he whined, reminiscing,  in yer typical classfulla disinterested schoolkids.  I turned it off, then.

We don't do the apostrophe jihad 'round here, some people understand them, some people don't, apostrophes, doesn't matter but I think that those who do understand, should demonstrate grammar and language and the BBC should have script-edited Henry's dumb remarks, or maybe his ex-Mrs, 

 

Dawn French, when she wasn't busy stuffing her face with chocolate 

 

 or playing house in their working class, 

persecuted black man's gaff,

could have told her husband the difference  between disfuckinginterested and unfuckinginterested, y'know, stop him making a cunt of himself, 

maybe she was uninterested in doing that;

can't blame her, he is  insufferable just on the telly, fuck knows what he's like in real life. Henry's sense of exceptionalism is so exaggerated that he thinks he is the only person ever to have been bullied, ever to have   discovered Shakespeare later in life, so exceptional that a film should be made about it. Stupid ain't the word; thick, racist bastard.

His is one of those bogus Sun newspaper stories; Henry is no actor. What happened was that some down at heel theatre company  up North gave him a gig in the hope that his name recognition factor would put bums on seats, that's all.

And neither is Henry an arts broadcaster,  not by a country mile. If he is entitled to moan that  there aren't enough black faces on telly, then surely we are entitled to remark that one who would lecture the rest of us on  the greatest of English dramatists - whoever or how many he really was -  might first familiarise himself with basic English; it is all about the language. For Henry, acting  is stretching it quite a bit, lit-crit is really taking the piss.

RECORD REVIEW, DOOBY-DOOBY-DOO, SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT. BOB DYLAN SINGS FRANK SINATRA

Back in the days of Old Showbiz, before celebrity people broadcast every second of their inconsequential lives, there were recordings known as bootlegs;  generally cassette tapes, these were unauthorised studio outtakes, home and concert recordings, sometimes just snippets of sound; they were impertinent glimpses into others' privacy and I never bought or listened to any. Bob Dylan was the most bootlegged person in Old Showbiz and maybe because of his famous reticence, his enigmatic diversion of enquiry, Bobsessives would listen to tapes of the sound of Bob's kettle boiling or of his dog barking; people'd be better-off  doing that than buying this shit.

...So set 'em up, Joe, make it one for my baby
 and one more for the road. 



Next week in Record Review:  

Billy Bragg plays Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on his mouthorgan.

"An unalloyed pleasure. And a surefire Nuimber One" 
 The Guardian.

"A triumph of eclectic arseholeism. Bragg is our most professional folk-singer and paid political activist."  
The Filth-O-Graph.

"Stupendous yet strangely coruscating, brilliant in its epic,  emotional intensity. Billy's mouthorgan breathes new life, strangely virtuosic,  into Beethoven's compellingly complex yet strangely accessible masterpiece."
Lord Melvyn Bragg of the PBC.

SWEET LITTLE FOURTEEN.

I wonder if Bill Wyman, like Mr Glitter, must be nicked by the Vietnamese police before our own Old Bill is emboldened enough to feel his collar.

 
I now pronounce you man and child;
you may kiss the child.

It is not disputed that Wyman raped Mandy Smith when she was 14 and he was in his forties.  The Rolling Stones, of course, are a national treasure and any investigation of Wyman might  lead to scrutiny of Sir Mick Jagger, 

knighted by Tony and Imelda, 
despite Brenda's objections

of Mr Keith Richards or of that other romancer of young women, wotsisname, the painter.

Painter Ron, with his 18 year-old lover.

The Rolling Stones are not a clapped-out old  novelty act, like Glitter but are nothing less than the greatest rock'n'roll band in the world,
 
although, if you believe that,
you'll believe anything

 academics and critics fawn on them, they receive their fan mail, often, between hard covers; just recently, the PBC's smug arty-fart, Andrew Graham-Dixon, 
 
Sir Keef, like myself, you are quintessentially a Renaissance man....

nearly wet himself, genuflecting  in an interview granted him by drug-raddled nincompoop, 
 
Uuuuugggh, like, what can I say, man, 
uuuuugggh, it's, like, you know, 
the blues,  man. Yeah?

Richards, rather as PBC folk used 

to  display  y'know, like, just massive respect for Sir Jimmy Savile, massive, you know, he's done so much for charity, massive respect.

It doesn't matter that Mandy Smith said she consented to Wyman raping her, she couldn't consent and Wyman should have been nicked and jailed. Bill has since boasted that he asked the cops if they wanted to talk to him about raping a child
and they said No. As usual.
 
No wonder he's grinning like a dirty old man.

Has  anyone now in Operation Nonce the courage to tackle the Establishments in-house bad boys?


In next week's Sweet Little Fourteen: 
Whole Lotta Fish.

How, when Led Zeppelin were inserting fish and vegetables and whips into teenage fans they wouldn't dream of doing it unless they had first scrupulously examined the girls' birth certificates. 'Snot as though they were degenerates, now, is it?  

Led Zeppelin's screecher,
Robbie Plant, 
then

 
and now.

The baubles of the Beast.

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL.

There is much comment, on the information super highway, much of it thoughtful and well-informed, about the conviction of Rolf Harris.  Some complain that the evidence is all hearsay, others that it is too old, or historic, as we must now say, aping our arse-watching masters in MediaMinster.  One strand in this unpopular campaign is the fact that one of his victims took thirty grand or so, in advance of the trial, from a tabloid; another is that Harris's daughter's friend, upon turning 18, voluntarily remained in a sexual relationship with the old creep for thirteen years, only raising Hell when he refused her demand for money and there are yet others who insist that even if he did do that groping and all the rest it, it isn't really that bad. Strengthening their hand, paradoxically, some might think, is the intervention of Ms Vanessa Feltz, complaining very late in the day of events she alleges took place decades ago.  Like so many in showbusiness, Feltz, indefatigably talentless, is a Cantabrian, amongst the finest brains in the country, yet she breaks, it seems, just like a little girl.  I don't know the extent of the Harriskrieg on Feltz's underwear but whatever it involved it is a long way from child abuse and I guess, par for the showbusiness course, these people are uniformly repulsive and amoral and Feltz's belated cant unreasonably fuels the unreasonable assault on feminism which underpins, I think, much of the disquiet around Harris's conviction. 

I do not know if he was guilty as charged, if the charges were lawful but I must presume that the judge and the jury decided rightly, on my behalf, on both.  Judges, however,  are neither infallible nor always entirely honest; look at the trial, ancient now, historic, of Liberal leader, Jeremy Thorpe, in which the judge directed the jury that it could not convict an Old Etonian; look at the trials and imprisonments of so many supposed IRA bombers, who were all innocent; at the outrageous framing of Barry George for the murder of Jill Dando and the unanswered questions about her investigations into establishment paedophilia; we could fill the streets of cyberspace with the rotten, scandalous behaviour of judges high and low. Overwhelmingly white,  privately educated and Oxbridge, who could doubt that these vermin will, first and foremost, protect their own, I would believe anything of Mr Justice Slag.

I am also perfectly willing to believe that Hall and Harris and Clifford have been chosen  as scapegoats; indeed, watching, a few minutes ago, a sinister, former Tory children's minister, smarming and soothing, advising caution in the face of hysterical conspiracy theories and blaming all but parliament for all this shit, I would almost bet my life on it.  Thrown to the wolves or not, though,  I have little doubt that Hall and Harris and Clifford behaved reprehensibly for significant periods and towards those who were vulnerable to them as a result of their celebrity.  This does, of course, open an argument about the nature of celebrity but I have been having it here for years, already.  I wish more would engage, would see the true meaning of the phrase, There is no business like showbusiness.

But the danger I came to talk about is that old one, divide and rule, which Mediaminster so readily deploys against us.  Cameron’s spivs and gangsters would, at a stroke, repeal equal pay legislation – Look, it hampers the wealth creators, simply gets in the way of long term economic reform; would repeal anti-discrimination legislation -  Lessbeclear, it costs the taxpayer a fortune; would, as it so successfully does, even further set worker against worker, black against white and man against woman.  The women’s rights struggle was and remains everybody’s struggle; it is a piquancy of our ruinous times that so many blame it - and not himself - for the apprehension and conviction of a wretched old nonce.

NO RETREAT, BABY, NO SURRENDER.

I don't know if Rolf Harris included any Bruce Springsteen material in his repertoire but if he did it would be no more incongruous than his version of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven, a perfomance  strangely adored by the popmusic/beasting crossover cognoscenti, silly, festivalising, singalong fuckwits.  

Rolf,  however, is not surrendering to hysterical calls for him to at the very least express remorse but ideally gouge out his own eyes in penance, burn himself alive on a bonfire of his own money, money given him by legions of those wise after the event, stupid and tasteless at the time.  Pay good money to watch a creepy  old party turn like him?  Aye, right. 

As with Savile, so with Harris;  it is the public veneration as much as the personal vice which permitted and encouraged the crimes, let he who never sang along to Sun Arise cast the first stone.  Will his doting audience express its own remorse?  Is Old Queen Brenda going to say, fuck me, subjects, one is really pissed at oneself for posing for a filthy old kiddy-fucking drongo like that?  

I don't know what makes an outsider but the longer I am one, the better it feels. Fuck art and guile and cleverness, I would always rather leave a woman than watch a Woody Allen film with her, and so it was with these two.  I simply could not tolerate them at any price,  they made my flesh creep;  in my view, therefore, their popularity and their license were two cheeks of the same, indulgent, unrefined public arse. They were our creatures, we protest too much.

Seventy-three year old Cliff Richard prances and gyrates about, warbling I'll be-e a Bach-elor Boy until my dying day-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-aaaay and we say, Isn't he good for his age?

A younger Cliff with Tory pervy peer, Bob Beastby,
I mean Boothby.

Lord Beastby, with gangster chum, Kray
 and young friend.

No business like snowbusiness.

But shrieks there are from Harris's formerly adoring regiments of fans.  He must remorsify himself, howls a Godless, heathen horde, as though it understood the word remorse, as though it meant smearing oneself with shit.  In fact, it is Harris who is being consistent and in a way, honest.  He pleaded not guilty to those charges, spiritedly maintained his plea, yet was convicted and we must presume that he is guilty; it does not follow, though, that he should apologise for something which he feels he has not done.  I know that his counsel, in mitigation, acknowledged these as opportunistic rather than predatory offences and such was an admission of sorts but she, presumably under instruction from her client, did not express remorse.  If,  at some future point, he does so feel and speak, that will be more valuable than some pantomime knee-jerking,  today; we have seen enough of that from him.

I once worked with a serial nonce.  He was just a nobody, a mousey little man, in his late forties, deferential, timid, even. Woebegone, he could not understand the charges which he faced. She led me on, mr ishmael, she was a filthy little tart. You know what they're like, mr ishmael.  What's a bloke s'posed to do? He was genuinely indignant.  She should be in court, for what she's done to me, leading  me on.  I looked at his file,  the girl was ten. He was a fiddler, not a snuff killer; he needed profound psychiatric help and we, the non-bestial, we needed him to get it, too.  The judge gave him three years.  I don't know but I wouldn't be surprised if he kept on fiddling until his dying day, Sex Offender Register or not. Maybe, as with Rolf,  all  concerned urged remorse upon him but none took the trouble to lead him there.

Attornery General, Dominic Serpent, has been petitioned over a too-lenient Harris sentence. The sentence, however, seems adequate to me,  I thought he'd get five and that the judge was as right as he could be, in the circumstances.  I would rather Harris  had not been jailed at all but instead forfeited most of his money to better purpose and been compelled to perform community expiation, only not with young people. Almost anything you give a man in his eighties is a life sentence and he doesn't deserve that for what he did, nor does his wife.  In our punitive society, the flames of Revenge are daily fed by the likes of Brooks and Dacre and Coulson, stokers in Filth's boiler room;  the only wise counsel for Harris's victims is that of Forgiveness; hatred and the urge to vengeance, although understandable,  are insatiable, are Villainy's ongoing triumph.

Those stagily  outraged by Harris should, for perspective,  have a look at the lonesome death of Jason Swift, 14, gang-raped and worse, murdered for fun by Sidney Cooke and his gang.

Jason Swift. 
Jason is believed to have lived in Islington council's Conewood Street children's home. Sidney Cooke, Leslie Bailey, Robert Oliver, and Lennie Smith, were involved in his sadistic killing.

As I recall, the press, at the time, rejoiced in calling this fourteen year old child a rent boy.

 

In 1982 Margaret Hodge  became Islington council leader.
She became a close friend of Tony Blair, who lived in Islington, a few doors away.
In February 1990 Liz Davies and David Cofie, senior social workers, discovered evidence of sex abuse of children and reported it to a residents' meeting attended by Mrs Hodge.
In May 1990 Mr Cofie and Ms Davies were told by Lyn Cusack, assistant director of social services, to stop interviewing children about the abuse claims.


Sidney was connected to those,  the great and the good,  in the mysteriously disappearing Home Office  files. Make your blood run cold. As these things go, unwholesome as he is, Harris is small beer, perhaps even distraction.

DON'T CALL ME BLACK, SAYS BLACK HOTELIER.

 After  tour de force performances in the entire Shakespearian canon, after being accclaimed for his lying down  skills in a chain of cheap hotels, Darling Lenny Henry turns his ferocious talent to the world of truly representative ethnic minorityism  at the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation.  Black people like me have no choice, said the overweight campaigner but to enter showbusiness mocking our parents' attitudes  and accents, their clothes, their customs, even their dinners.  And I know because that's exactly what I did, it's what I had to do, simply to have a chance of knobbing an Oxbridge hottie like  Dawn French,
 
 I mean playing Hamlet, or was it Lear, Othello, maybe, the darkie. 

Although, to be fair, she preferred her chocolate treats to come wrapped in orange tinfoil, knowhaddamean, nudge-nudge,
 

 fat cow, how dare she divorce me? Me, the great, campaigning Theophilus P Wildebeest, making fun of black people, as I did so successfully.

But no, it's time for all that Gollywog stuff to stop, what TeeVee needs is more fat, over the hill, has-been, never really was deadbeats during the commercial breaks.  I mean, I worked for Tesco, I work for Premier Inns what more do I need to do to prove myself as a wossaname,  I am actually the king of the TeeVee sandwich-board men,  I can advertise anything, as long as I'm not asked to do anything connected to acting or making people laugh.  Or even think. C'mon, all my fans, I know kiddy-beasting is important, and managers bunging each other massive sums, and  the PBC News department just being a govament press office but Lessgetreal, people, none of these are as important as me not being on telly all the time, are they?

THINGS YOU RARELY SEE.

 SIR BOB CANNOT-SPEAK-BUT-ONLY-MAKE-PROCLAMATIONS GABSHITE.

NO COMMENT. 

He'll probably make another shit  record, won't he, the Saviour of the World, him and that AmyWinehouse father prat, together, when what they should have done is put the silly little tarts over their knees.

CELEBRITY NEWS.

POTATO TO EARN £300,000 AN HOUR.

WAYNE POTATO AT HIS PRESS CONFERENCE,

ACTING A BIT CHIPPY.

This is the news that footballer, Wayne Potato, has re-renegotiated his contract with failing football team, Fuckpigs United.  The terms of the new contract are that Mr Potato doesn't actually have to play football  but merely has to not  keep on saying that he is thinking of leaving FU,  the rest of the time Mr Potato is free to spend his fortune in the GrannySlapper DayCare Home, situated conveniently close to his vulgar palace in the downtown Cheshire countryside, on vulgar, diamond-studded Range Rovers - or Range Rooneys, as some wags call them,  on  obviously vulgar hair transplants and - if time permits, of course - on designer reading and writing lessons. But not adding-up because his accountants do that for him. Or so he thinks.

Signing on the dotted line.

Will an X do? Only potatoes don't do writing.

Fuckpigs United fans, who will have to fund this latest moron levy through increased ticket prices and ever more costly but worthless memorabilia were delighted that the potato was staying with them and could be heard joyfully overturning cars, setting them alight with Fuckpigs City fans trapped inside them,  whilst singing, to the tune of Tipperary, It's a long way to Munich Ai-i-r-port, it's a long way to go....

 

And so, indeed, it is; what was once a true national treasure, the Manchester United football team of Matt Busby and Bobby Charlton,   is now just another corporation, a byword for greed, bullying and stupidity.  Surely there's a special place in Satan's heart for Alex Ferguson.

THE PBC, AN EMPIRE OF FILTH.

What was most surprising about the Chris Wossisname tax fiddle was not that he's a crook, everybody at the PBC is a criminal, either by deed or by omission.

The corporate plea of ignorance as to this bastard's conduct is laughable and the whole rotten place should be burned to the ground and turned into a carpark;  the PBC's  LardLord Chris Patten could probably run a carpark, with a bit of help. After he came out of jail.

Oxbridge Chris.

 Don't I look clever in this?

What?  A car park?  I daresay I could fit it in,

 depending on the pay, of course.

 Beardy git, Mark Sticky Fingers Thompson, 

former top thief at the PBC.

 No, no,  madam chairman, with respect, the way it worked with PBC salaries and bonuses and bungs and what have you was that the right hand didn't know what the left hand was doing.   Or was it the other way round? No matter, what it meant was that my mate,  I mean colleague,  could fix my salary and I could fix his. Anyway, I work in New York, now,  so the license payers can all go and eat shit. As usual. Savile, no, no idea, well yes, I am frightfully clever but I never suspected he was a beast, even though the dogs in the street knew he was.  Responsible?  No why should I feel responsible? Because I was in charge? Poppycock.

Start your Radio One Day with Chris Wossaname, below.

Moyles - is it Moyles - was, like most over-rich people, reluctant to pay his due tax, can't blame him for that, why should he, politicians don't, politicians' friends and advisers don't, Google doesn't, Amazon doesn't, Starbucks doesn't, Vodafone doesn't - anyone with a connection to slimy, squeaky George Osborne or anyone holding out the promise of a lucrative post-Treasury, post-HMRC job need not pay any tax;  Mr Murdoch doesn't pay any tax, Lord Daily Mail doesn't pay any tax.  London is stuffed to the rafters with international criminals who don't pay any tax whatsoever; so why should this relatively poor, gibbering, egomaniacal showbiz cocksucker gabshite  pay any tax? 

Chris Gob of the PBC
Seven years'd be about right.
Dartmoor's nice and warm,
with thick walls, nobody'd hear his gobbing and whining.

No, the surprise is not that he tried to avoid tax, it is that we paid him seven hundred thousand pounds a year.  Better off, I think, burning the money in a brazier outside a food bank, keep a few people warm for an hour or two.

Still, he's said he's sorry, that's the main thing, deserves a second chance, eh?  Not as though he's one of the Wicked Poor. 
 

RADDLED, BARREN OLD WITCH ACQUITTED.
 
Welcome to Sky News, your first choice for madeupnewsandfilth.
 With me, Kay Bully.

               And this is the news that Rebekah Filth, the so-called witch of Chipping Norton has been compeletely cleared at the Old Bailey. of one of the charges     

Ms  Filth, 

Hubble bubble, toil and trouble, 
Blair burn and Murdoch bubble.
 
whose familiars have included EastEnders' tough guy-fairy, Mr Ross Cock, unelected prime minister Mr David Cameron, stable boy Mr Charlie Brooks, war criminal and fraudster Mr Tony "Butcher" Blair and the octogenarian sex-God Mr Rupert Murcock - none of whom were able to impregnate the rancid old bag - has all along maintained her innocence and told Skymadeupnewsandfilth that she now feels to'ally an'  u'erly vindicated. skymadeupnewsandfilth believes that Ms Filth still faces four other serious charges and will probably g to jail.

I put a spell on you, prime minister.
'Slong as there's some money in it for me.

Speaking from New York, Mr Murdoch said,  I fuckin' well hate that cunt, Tony fuckin' Blair, fucked my chink Sheila, he did, I'll have him.  I made the cunt and I'll unmake him. Tax, in the UK? Sorry cobber, I can't remember nothing about that.