WHAT THE 'PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. DEAD CROW BLUES. OLD BIRD THROWN ON THE FIRE.

• 

    LADY CROW AWAITING DISPOSAL

   

  A moment of deep civility amid the bitterness

  Peter Oborne »

• The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Christopher Howse »

• Britain after Margaret Thatcher is a disunited nation

  Iain Martin »

• Will we see another winner like her? Don’t bet on it

   

  Thatcher funeral: applause came from nowhere and followed coffin

   
  Crowds broke into spontaneous applause as Margaret Thatcher's hearse came into view, drowning out the jeers from protesters on the route to St Paul's, writes Michael Deacon.
  

  The funeral saw a miraculous pairing of words and music

  Thatcher funeral: as it happened

  Granddaughter says public speaking is "in the blood"

  Powerful images from funeral  

   

  Despite all this nauseating tripe from Redneck Central, the Filth-O-Graph is still not accepting comments on anything to do with Thatcher.  Obviously those great democrats, the Barclay ZombieTwins believe that their opinion, filtered through such cheap  lickspittles as now edit the shitrag, is all that needs to be said, pack of cheesy lies or not.  They do not own a dying newspaper, after all, to give a flying fuck about what their - albeit non-paying - readers think

  
  

   Daily, ancient, redblooded, well, perhaps a bit anaemic ex-pats, living in Spain or Florida, with sunny erectile disfunction and varicose veins,  flood the Filth-O's comments section with praise for the grubby old git, Tebbit,  or with damnation for lone parents or wogs and the BBC but since the terrible passing of the old crow, now, thankfully, ashes and cinders, like most of the country she so stridently and impertinently fucked-up,  all comment portals are closed, slammed shut, in fact.

  
  

  Might it be that even your whoreson redneck doesn't quite support the adoration of the Maggie, which has so dominated  and colonised the 'papers and  skymadeupnewsandfilth and most notably, the BBC?

  
  

  I suggest this for two reasons.  Firstly, if, as is claimed, only a few feeble-minded nutter anarchists, such as your correspondent, question the mythologising of old Mrs Crow, then surely the Filth-0-Graph would be delighted to publish thousands of tub-thumping comments in praise of the Boudicca de nos jours.  Secondly, in both Paul Dacre's filthy rag, the Mail and in the Filth-O-Graph, a recent editorial posture was that, Yes, the client welfare nation, is, as fuckheaded, innumerate, incompetent squeaky wee George Osblow insisted,   a mindless horde of nascent arsonists, child killers and dogging fiends.  One would have thought that the Filth-O-Graph would be fertile ground for this learned exposition, but au contraire, by a hundred-to-one Telegraph commenters not only disagreed with George Fuckhead but by the same ratio, fired a round of fucks into the worthless little chancer;  it was most heartening, although it must have had the editorial staff reaching for the cocaine or the brandy. The BBC comments pages, too, don't quite toe the establishment line, more than half of all comments, today,  are angry, anti-funeral, anti-crow, anti-politics and a good quarter of them have been censored for breaking house rules,  the BBC, run by thieves, arse bandits, panderers, ponces and child molesters is dead keen on politeness, after all.

  
  

  I suspect, therefore,  anyway, that Mr Retiree, eking out his pension on the Costa del Poverty is growing a bit tired of the continent-wide austerity, as they call it, which is the natural and inevitable consequence of  the ThatcherOrganisedCrime Gang deregulating the banks  and privatising our means of keeping warm, getting around and now of staying healthy.  Blatcherism, as it has now become, a dire blend of OldTory and NewLabour, citizen-hating, anyway,  is dead in the water, anyone with a hole in his arse knows that.  And I suspect that many former Tories are now taking a UKIP hammer to a Thatcher legend once set in stone.  The Barclays and their slaves wouldn't publish that, now, would they? Be interesting to see when ornithological comments are again welcome at the Telegraph.  They will probably insist that comment was disallowed as a mark of respect.
  
  I didn't watch the old crow's  junta-style funeral but I did have a moment of the day, a bit later, during a closely-controlled BBC voxpop segment.  There was this ex-paratrooper, bent as a nine-bob note, he was - a forty-five pence coin, for younger readers - probably has Do-Or-Die tattooed on his foreskin  and he had  one of those noncey, snuffler's beards which are so fashionable;  all rigid he was, in his blazer and his beret, virtually standing to attention.  He said, all parade-groundy, that Mrs Thatcher was a great prime minister because she allowed him to do wot 'e wuz trained for, killing people, and he would always be grateful. Funny how, with this gang, one minute, it's OhMyGod, Terrible Post Traumatic Distress Order, and the next it's a great privilege to rip some bastard's guts out with a bayonet, or better still, your bare hands.  As with the cops, we need to make soldiering a graduate profession.  Asked if he thought she was as great a PeeEm as Winston Churchill, Tommy thought for a moment and said,  the silly fucker, that Yes, in his opinion she was. No wonder Arnhem was a fuck-up, no wonder Bloody Sunday kicked-off.  If this mad old cunt is representative of ex-servicemen then it is they, and not old-age pensioners, tax-credit recipients and disabled people who are a threat to the nation.  Nearly a thousand people died in that Falklands Jamboree, and all because Lady Crow scrapped a South Atlantic Royal Naval patrol vessel;  mad old bitch.
  
  I had another moment, too,  as some old Tory hag, dressed and made-up and veiled like a whore in a French farce was fronting-out the fact that only criminal Americans had turned-up for this nonsense - Kissinger and some old White House goons, Cheney, for fuck's sake,  the Thief of Baghdad; Margaret wouldn't have wanted either of the Clintons and both Dubya and his old man were indisposed, Yeah, right, Dubya'll be coked off his chimp face or else in rehab, and  his old man's loopy, like Maggie.  No-one would have expected Obama, she simpered, he's far too busy. No mention of Jimmy Carter, this Polyfilled and  lacquered old boot probably never heard of him. There wasn't even a US Ambassador, Obie couldn't be arsed to appoint one, to attend the funeral of the woman who won the Cold War.  So there, a quartet of vicious, warcrimeing old degenerates, none of them in office, all of them lucky not to be in jail;  wasn't that proof of Maggie's specialness in the US?
  
  And yes, it was; most of her kin and cronies, after all, especially her son - what did they call him and his new bint?  the honourable Sir Mark and Lady Thatcher? FuckMeJesus that prat's got some nerve, if he was a kleptobanker, or almost anyone else, people'd be calling for him to be stripped of his hereditary viscountcy -  are or were crooks, thieves, torturers and worse.
  
  MediaMinster put on a good show, with our money but it looked to me that attendance was thin - it wasn't like Diana, for instance, or Michael Jackson - and that  a lot of it would've been a mixture of tourists and applesanpears, troubleanstrife pearly KingsanQueens type Lahndunners, 'avin a day out.
  
  A damp squib, despite everyone's best efforts but one that may yet re-ignite.  We might yet see MediaMinster eating crow, instead of burning it. 

   

   

   

   

STEAL A LITTLE AND THEY THROW YOU IN JAIL....

  ..........STEAL A LOT AND THEY MAKE YOU A KING

WAR CRIMINALS HOT ON THE SCENT OF FREE MONEY OR STUFF OR MEDALS.

TONY AND IMELDA BLAIR, WHORING THE OFFICE OF PRIME MINISTER LIKE NONE BEFORE OR SINCE

Orchestrated by skymadeupnewsandfilth, the nation is about to enter one its fits of   phony moralising;  the two creeps who picked the rucksack of the student - technically robbery, I suppose, but more like sneak thievery - are about to join  the ranks of the Great Train Robbers,  the Moors Murderers and Fred and Rosemary West.  Wasn't them who injured the guy,  they just displayed the morality of the average cabinet minister, but Fuck me, Jesus,  are they about to be shit on. Mr Justice Slag is going to kick their arses and the ethicists of the press,  boozy filthsters like Paul Dacre,  will be calling for their blood.

Meanwhile the Iraqi boy who lost his limbs and his parents has still lost his limbs and his parents

LIBERATED.

and the man who made it all possible still swans about hoovering up bribes from WarCorp.  Or peace-making, as it's called in the  trade. Steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you a king.

WOULD YOU BUY A FULL AND FAR-REACHING COVER-UP FROM THIS GUY?

 

HIS Rt HONOURABLE HONOUR, THE LEARNED  MR LORD JUSTICE SLAG QC, PC.

Brian Leveson

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Sir Brian Henry Leveson QC, (pronounced /ˈlɛvɨsən/;^[1] born 22 June 1949 at Liverpool), before known as Mr Justice Leveson, now properly styled The Rt Hon Lord Justice Leveson,^[2] is an English Judge in the Court of Appeal and, since 2010, head of the Sentencing Council for England and Wales.^[3]
It was announced on 13 July 2011 that Lord Justice Leveson would lead the Leveson Inquiry, a public inquiry into the regulation of the media prompted by the News of the World phone hacking affair.^[4][5]
Born in Liverpool, Leveson was educated at Liverpool College, before going up to Merton College, Oxford.^[6]

[edit] Career

Leveson was called to the Bar at Middle Temple in 1970. He initially practised in Liverpool and took silk in 1986.^[3] In 1989, he led the prosecution of Ken Dodd for tax evasion.^[7] Dodd, who was represented by George Carman QC, was acquitted after a three-week trial.^[8] Leading judge Sir Ronald Waterhouse QC later commented in an interview on Leveson's performance in the courtroom that "he lost the mood of the case, and he certainly lost the jury".^[9] He went on to prosecute Fred and Rosemary West in 1995 for the murders at 25 Cromwell Street, Gloucester.^[10]
Leveson became a Bencher in 1995,^[3] acted as a Recorder between 1988 and 2000, and as a Deputy High Court Judge between 1998 and 2000.^[3] In 2000, Leveson was appointed as a Judge of the High Court, Queen's Bench Division, and served as a Presiding Judge of the Northern Circuit between 2002–2005.^[3] While sitting with Lord Justice Mantell^[11] in the Court of Appeal in 2002 under the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Woolf, he upheld the murder conviction of James Hanratty.^[12] He also presided over the trial of ex-US Marine Toby Studebaker for charges relating to child grooming over the internet.^[13] He refused to imprison 100-year-old Bernard Heginbotham, who was found guilty of euthanasia on his wife of 67 years, 87-year-old Ida, because she faced spending the remainder of her life in the dementia ward of a nursing home.^[14] He also presided over the trial of Michael Barton, who was found guilty in 2005 of murdering Anthony Walker with an axe.^[5]
In 2005, Leveson was appointed to the new position of Deputy Senior Presiding Judge and, in October 2006, he was made a Lord Justice of Appeal.^[3] In November 2007, while sitting under the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, Lord Phillips and alongside Mr Justice Simon in the Court of Appeal, the three quashed the conviction of Barry George and ordered a retrial in relation to the murder in 2001 of BBC presenter Jill Dando.^[15] He was also appointed a Privy Counsellor in 2006.

[edit] Public inquiry into media behaviour

Main article: Leveson Inquiry

It was announced on 13 July 2011 that Leveson would lead the public inquiry into issues of media regulation raised by the News International phone hacking scandal.^[4] On 20 July, Prime Minister David Cameron announced that the scope of the inquiry had widened to include the BBC and social media.^[16][17]
It was subsequently reported in the media that Leveson had attended two parties in the prior 12 months at the London home of Matthew Freud, a PR executive married to Elisabeth Murdoch, the daughter of Rupert Murdoch.^[18][19] These revelations led to a number of Labour MPs calling for Leveson to be removed from the Inquiry.^[20][21]

[edit] Personal life

Leveson and his wife Lynne, who is also from Liverpool, are devout Jews.^[22][23] The couple have three children and live in London.^[24]

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

THE LEVENSEN REPORT INTO SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH.

Dear Prime Minister (unelected)

1. My learned and lay colleagues and I have  toiled long and hard looking into all his shit and shovelling it into the long grass.

2. Naughty things have been done.  But there have been so many naughty things done, by so many people that it would be invidious to  kick any single individual's arse up and down Fleet Street and into the jailhouse, fuck me, no, ladeezangenullmenofdajury, because we believe in a free and unmuzzled press holding the govament to account. Or at least pretending to. A-ho a-ho, a-ho-ho-ho.

3.  And I make the following recommendations:

Recommendations.

I One bad apple doesnt't spoil the whole barrel.  Even when the whole barrel is rotten.

2.  As a nation we should be grateful that we have a free parliament, a free press and an independent judiciary.  Like me.

I am extremely grateful to His Excellency, Lord Hymie,  for his report.  He and his colleagues have toiled long and hard and I am sure that I speak for my friends,  Ms Rebekka Fist, Mr Andy Coulson, Mr James Murdoch and our chauffeur, Mr Jerry Clarkson, when I thank him for the very effective manner in which he has conducted his cover-up.  Thanks to His Excellency, never again will an unelected prime minister have to stand in this house and defend his close friendships with filthy scum, such as my above named friends. Even if there were to be an Opposition, which, in my case, there isn't.

JUST TRY SHUTTING THE FUCK UP.

SISTERS IN SORROW, AYE, RIGHT.

I'm sick of all this shit. Mother Payne, above, with the witch of Chipping Norton,  claims to be absolutely devastated by something or other, some of her friends at skymadeupnewsandfilth turn out to be - fuck me who'd have thought it -  filthsters, even though they helped to create her own charity and helped her get the law changed, now they've gone and absolutely devastated her, all over again. I would've thought, I do think, that having your kid nonced to death   is absolutely devastating and that, thereafter, finding out that someone had your phone number might be at most irritating, not, it seems, here, in Ruin. Totally and absolutely devastated is the immediate response to any slight, any rupture of one's amour propre.

It is, of course, the Colin Parry Syndrome, in which anyone unlawfully bereaved  is entitled to be front and centre, demanding this and that, as though we had no laws, no law enforcement, as though their loss invests them with the wisdom of Solomon, unable to grieve in private and make what adjustments as one can, the modern victim requires not just the quiet sympathy of the rest of us but a howling, shrieking, demanding celebrity. Colin Parry famously wangling a radio programme for himself after his son, Tim, was killed by Kneecaps's bold volunteers, famously name-dropping that As I was saying to Princess Diana only this morning, famously seeing his Mrs, also bereaved, walk out on him, pigsick of his  lust for celebrity.

I never cared for Sarah Payne and her campaigning;  rightly, we don't have victims' justice and those who, whipped-up by the likes of the foul Rebekah Woods, demand it are the same sort of people who would burn paediatricians out of their homes, are those whose currency is neglect and stupidity, are those who, at one level, manage to blame an entire police force for their own dismal parental neglect, those who shout the loudest being themselves the emptiest vesseels,  the cracked bells.

It's almost an adjunct to the absurd posturing of the multiculturalists, this public, celebrity victimhood, people who haven't a pot to piss in starting their "own" charities, as though they were poncing on the Civil List like Charlie and the rest of them and had to find some means to justify themselves.  Of course in the case of the loathsome Gerry and Cilla McCann  the charity wheeze usefully paid off the mortgage and sent the family off around the world, first class; I doubt Sarah Payne is in their league of devilry and is as much sinned against as sinning,  the weirdo Brooks peddling compassion and sisterhood as glibly as she peddled tits and tittle tattle.  Even so, she and other unfortunates, cruelly bereaved need to learn the value of the phrases No Comment  and This Is A Private Matter,  they need to grieve in private or, like the relatives of those murdered on the Moors, spend a lifetime being egged on, having their hatreds stoked, living a life of no return, truly, a life totally and utterly devastated. If Mother Payne has any  proper friends they'll tell her to shut the fuck up.

RAG'N'BONE MEN AT SELECT COMMITTEE.

Watching Rupe now, is it him or has someone wheeled in the dessicated mummy of Rameses III and working it like a ventriloquists dummy ? I get the feeling he`s going to pull an Ernest Saunders before too long.         mr yardarm    

 Mr James and Mr Rupert Murdoch, shit merchants, appear at the select committee.

Phwoar, I dunnnownuffink abaht all that, arsk my son 'Arold, he's in charge a the horse manure.

Wot my favvah means is that we are bofe extremely 'umble.

THE NEWS OF ISHMAELIA. BRITAIN'S GREATEST REDTOP SUNDAY PAPER.

EDITORIAL.

For  more than thirty years,  skymadeupnewsandfilth  has corrupted and debased the public discourse, has prematurely  sexualised our children, has cynically entered into anti-democratic power pacts with all-too-willing, verminous political careerists and most recently has urged tax breaks, bail-outs and bonuses for the already over-wealthy, whilst peddling the erosion of such few advances as have been achieved, post-war, by decent working people - or parasites, benefit cheats and idlers in non-jobs, as we must now call one another.

Never mind a  penalty-free resignation and a wealthy pseudo-retirement, touring the TeeVee studios and advising in the boardrooms of lesser forms of filth, Brooks should be in jail, along with Cameron,  Blair,  Brown,  the Murdochs and the whole rotten cabal in MediaMinster and New Scotland Yard.

If some teenage techno-geek had behaved as have our journalists, the press would be calling for his lengthy imprisonment;  one can hear the unspeakable Kelvin McKenzie, on Question Time, snarling in his charmless Essex way for the reintroduction of the death penalty for anyone vile enough to hack into the late Miss Dowler's 'phone;  hanging is too good for them, he would say, to the cheers of Sun readers everywhere.

Murdoch cannot remain so poisonously active forever and, on recent appearances, his son, James,  owes his position to his kinship rather than to any apparent ability, he is a jargonising gabshite and   should he  inherit  skymadeupnewsandfilth  his tenure will be brief and ruinous, Time, if not the house of commons, will break the Murdoch spell.

Big Al sheds a tear, not for dead Iraqi babies,
but for his book royaltiues, or his football club, or his depression.

 That is no reason, however, to share in Alastair Sexy Dossier Campbell's view that Brooks's is a personal tragedy, nor the wider assesment, in MediaMinster, that this wretched, creepy  creature has been a great journalist; she has not, like Campbell, she has been a national pollutant and if Parliament had any balls it would be demanding that an external force investigate this whole stinking matter, with a view to prosecuting wrongdoers, rather than placating public opinion; so, too, should  we all.

A prime minister with his employer.

Another prime minister with his employer.
------------------------------------------------------------

FROM THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Mr Tiny Speaker:
I call the Prime Minister, Mr David Cameron

Now listen, it's quite simple, Mr Tiny Speaker, in establishing a full and far-reaching cover-up, or a Hutton,  which I was against half an hour ago, I am showing the leadership which the house has come to expect of me,  that is, none at all, except when it comes to withdrawing benefits from poor people and giving them, instead, to the wealth creators.  As for  Mr Coulson, well, the party opposite had thirteen years to bring him into Downing Street and what did they do? Exactly, Mr Tiny Speaker, they did nothing, so I won't be taking any lectures on malpractice from them.

Tory & LibDem cheers.

As for the  proposed acquisition by my boss, Mr Rupert Murdoch, of BskyB I have supported this all along which is why I am now so very against it and will be voting the same way as the wind is blowing and I can assure the house that it has nothing to do with principle - as if - and is, if I may say so, another example of my leadership,  demonstrating, as I follow the leaders of the other two parties,  all honourable and right honourable members of this house and everybody in the country, and, indeed, the world, this demonstrates that I am my own man, never better at leading than when I am following someone else, doing as I'm told, especially by NewsCorp. Only not now, fuck no, Mr Tiny Speaker.

There are of course, questions for Sir Paul Gob to answer, Mr Tiny Speaker, he needs to give answers  as to why he is a vile, useless turd, in the finest traditions of the Met,  sitting on the top, Mr Seaker of a shitheap of  greedy, dishonest and often brutal  ...well, I can only call them criminals and I would remind the house, Mr Speaker, that Sir Paul was appointed by my good friend and vicious rival, The Mayor of London,

 or BoJo, as he is known by the cocaine-dealing and prostitution industries . Be that as it may, I am resolved to clean-up Mayor Johnson's mess and to that end I have appointed, whilst Sir Paul is fixing the evidence in his favour,  a world-famous detective to look into....well, to look into all this shit, which is not my fault and I am pleased to announce that, running in tandem with Lord Justice Slag's enquiry, a full  and far-reaching  cover-up will be undertaken by M'sieu Hercule Poirot and his team, Mr Captain Hastings and Mr Inspector Japp.

The Poirot Enquiry Team.

Sir Paul Gob of News International

I must say, worshipful brother Cameron, that I don't care for being investigated by the little dago.....

Mais non, Poirot is not le dago, Commissionaire, 'e is Belgique. And anyway, Iyam 'ere to arrest M. le Snot, the previous prime minister and expose 'eem for the cochon that he is. ... Inspector Japp, if you would be so good........

I say, Poirot, wouldn't it  be best if you left that 'til later. I mean, it looks to me as if this whole place is full of bounders, certainly don't like the look of that Cameron chappie and as for that cove sat next to him, nodding......

 Monsieur le Clegg, but 'e is the prime minister deputee, n'est ce pas?  Although it has been whispered in Poirot's ear that this Clegg fellow, he leads a party of degenerates and  what you call the steel hoofs....

Liberal Democrats celebrate the Coalition,

Mr Heath, left, taking Mr Clegg for walkies.

Iron, Poirot, iron hoofs...

Steel hoofs, iron hoofs, what matters it, mon ami, so long as it rhymes with poofs? Tell to me,  please, 'Astings, 'ow eet is that the whole of the front bench of the 'ouse of commoners, it is full of brigands an', owyousay, ragtoes?

Well, Poirot, that's the thing, they're all  perfect rotters but they and the newspapers all pretend that they're jolly good chaps, really, apart from Mr Snot, of course, who everybody hates - even himself, I understand - when in fact they are all working for Crime Internationale.

Ah, oui, d'accord, the old lines, between left and right, they are merged, now, and all work for GlobaCorp fascism, but never mind their lack of principles,   they think that by appointing the most famous detective in the world they  will see themselves let off Scottish-free, non? But they understimate Poirot an 'is leedle grey cells and it all becomes clear; it is as my good friend, M'sieu Ishmael describes it, we 'ave been appointed  to effect le cover-up far reaching and  serieux an' 'elp get the real criminals off the hook,  these people, they are quite beyond the post, n'est c pas?

The pale, Poirot, the pale...

Oui, precisement.

Now look here, Poirot, are you really saying that my guvnor, the top copper in the Met, has been paying criminals a thousand pounds a day to advise ordinary coppers? 

Oui, certainement, Chief Inspector, he is as bent as owyousay the eleven bob note, his men rampage violently among the citizenry, every station sergeant in London is taking bribes from Mrs Brookes-Wade - a most strange creature, androgynous, the sort of boyish waif,  over which old men, well, never mind,  Japp,  let us not concern ourselves  with the sewer minds of the elderly - and he and his senior officers are both in the pay of le skymadeupnewsandfilth and paying large sums of taxpayer money to sky criminals. It is a situation almost incredible.

Well, I never, I dunno what Mrs Japp is going to say about all this.

You must do your best to reassure her, and we must hope that in her disconcertement she does not burn your, what is it, tripe and onions, or is it le faggottes and peas, which you so relish, Chief Inspector. And now we will please  assemble everyone concerned.

Bon, and now, ladies and gentlemen, Poirot will proceed. First, we come to the matter of who has been in bed, so to speak, with the filthy devils of the press and, I must confess, it is easier, is it not, to decide who has not. All, in one way or another have been involved in this scandal. What scandal, I hear you ask. Why, it is nothing less than the betrayal of the British people. Yes, the very people who have elected you, you have all put the interests of M'sieu Murdoch and Mr Dacre and filthy Mr Desmond and the tres pecliar Brothers Barclay above those of the people. And for this you all stand condemned. And it is like the larcenous expenses behaviour, in which you all treated the public as a large pissoir, n'est ce pas, no, do not insult Poirot with your feeble excuses. Why, M'sieu le prime minister, should the taxpayers buy you Wisteria bushes, and you a multi-millionaire, what possible explanation can you offer for buying shrubbery at the taxpayers expense.? And, as for all of your promises, a referendum, no privatisation, no wars, they were not worth a hatful of roasted snow; cast iron? Mais non,  they are just cast aside, M'sieu Cameron, as you soon will be. And now you have the impertinence to come to this place and  slander Mr Coulson, who is still your regular dinner guest, n'est ce pas, you must think all are as tres stupide as Milord Prescott, the famous cock-waving nincompoop, and you think your broken promises are no more than a storm in an eggcup.......

It's a teacup, actually, Poirot.....

'Astings you will kindly refrain from correcting Poirot in mid-denouement, the trouble with you Anglaises is that you think that because Poirot is Belgian that he knows fuck nothing, but let me assure you, my friend, Poirot knows fuck all.

Well,  to continue the explanation, M'sieu CallHimDave,  it is quite simple, it is that you are a rotten, lying,  greedy bastard, is it not?  And just along the bench from you, is another, M'sieu Spit-Gove, the minister for les ecoles;

former lifelong Murdoch hack, Michael Spit-Gove,
the poorest man in the cabinet, bless.

did he not work for M'sieu Murdoch for twenty years, even whilst serving as an MP, even whilst he was a front bench spokesman. How is this possible?  Should not an MP be doing purely MP work and not working for the piss-pauvre Times, attacking the right of all to free education and setting up the private schools by the back door, Zut alors, if proof were needed that the wretched Spit-Gove was guilty, just look at those who support him, like Mr Toby Young,

Page Three boy Toby Young.

 the  revolting arriviste, who wants only the best for his own ugly children and cares nothing for those of others. And you all  have l'imperTinence to call this le society grande. Imagine, if you will, 'Astings, a nurse or a schoolteacher saying to his or her employers, I'm off now to my other job, writing bilge for Mr Murdoch, just keep paying my salaray and I will submit my expenses every month as usual;  what, the  operating theatre or the classroom, oh no, I do not need to be there.

And look yet again, at M'sieu Andrew Spivsley,



who concerns himself most assiduously, in selling off a health service which is not his to sell to a gang of bandits who employ him, surreptitieuxment. Indeed, one wonders if they are the same people who paid him, by his own reluctant admission a sum of fifty thousand pounds,  oui, fifty thousand pounds per year, whilst he was opposition spokesman for health, in exchange for his advice, as he called it.

They are everywhere, 'Astings, les suspects, even le committee to oversee les flics and les gendarmes and le surete,  it is is  led by a crook, who has no shame.

M'sieu Oily Vaz, he is so discredited he has such an idee grande about himself, why, I tell to you, 'Astings, that this creature once described himself as the most important cashancarry merchant in Britain. No. the leg Poirot is not pulling, vain and puffed up and sleazy and yet he is in charge of investigating Chief Inspector Japp's profession. Is it not truly staggering? What the English will tolerate?

Poirot could go on all day about this place but with few exceptions it is rotten to the core, as rotten as the newspaper proprietors with whom they are all in bed. It is, mon ami,  on all sides a cesspit, it is beyond cleansing or reform;  there is only one  solution to the British 'ouse of commoners and it is one that les Francaises have deployed with some success.

Good Lord,  Poirot you don't mean..........

Mais oui, 'Astings, it is the only solution, pour encourager les autres......

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

And finally.

In the colour supplement

PAGE THREE STUNNA

An old man's number one fancy, is it a boy, or a girl?  

Flame-haired temptress Beka, 

she  knows how to get the senior citizen going.

We at the News of Ishmaelia wish Mr Murdoch a profound and sincere heart attack at the earliest possible opportunity, the filthy old shit.

Next week:  The Dowlers, How Mr Murdoch was really nice to us.

UPDATE 

HACKING SLAG BROOKS  NICKED BY OLD BILL
CALLHIMDAVE COMPROMISED.

This from Reuters.

TIM BALE, PROFESSOR OF POLITICS, UNIVERSITY OF SUSSEX (says)

"I think this was pretty uncomfortable for Cameron already and it will get more uncomfortable now over the next week. It brings the whole thing closer to him. If one believes all the talk of a 'Chipping Norton' set, it reinforces this impression of a cozy elite at the top of the media/political complex."
Regarding Brooks' appearance before parliament, he said:
"I'm not sure she can appear now. I would have thought it difficult for MPs to ask questions or for her to answer without prejudicing any criminal proceedings down the line."
"I can't think of any precedents for anybody being invited to appear who is already under suspicion."
(Reporting by Mohammed Abbas and Keith Weir; Editing by Elizabeth Fullerton)

HONEST, NOT INVENT.

 Rupert Murdoch in Hyde Park, with his personal trainer.

From the Daily Filth-O-Graph

WOTSONTELLY. OH, DO FUCK OFF, ALL OF YOU.

It was my decision to employ Mr Coulson in Number Ten, 

my decision and mine alone.

And Mr Murdoch's.

 A bit lost for words, just now; all that is being revealed to a wider public about skymadeupnewsandfilth - filhty, bent journalists;  filthy bent coppers and filthy, bent politicians  - has been grist to our mill for so long that it's actually quite boring, a bit of a side show to the financial terrorism in Greece, the New Feudalism emanating from the Global Banking Mafia and shored-up by shitty, treasonous  parliaments all over Europe; Murdoch's doings are small beer in comparison, save that his filthy rags act as  diversionary entertainment  for those upon whom he is most predatory, towards whom he is most contemptuous -  we can bet that when the Soaraway Sunday Sun comes out,  Wayne PlasmaScreen will be buying it in his million-strong, shitbrained horde, even though FilthyRupe - may the Devil call him home soon, but not before an agonising arse and bowel illness - and his gang would shit all over him, destroy his life, bribe his family, set them one against the other and pat themselves on their scabby backs, for a job well done.  Maybe our greatest living journalist, Kelvin McKenzie, the  bloated filthy, rotten, traitorous tub-thunping, puce-faced  cocksucker will rally to the editorial flag.

The teevee, too,has been beyond satirising, Thursday night resembling a hallucinatory farce, something from the  opiate-dipped pen of William Burroughs, rage, hangings   and deathbed ejaculations  be upon his unholy name; Question Time,

always a showcase for the  copraphiliac, the  vain, the  disreputable and criminally dishonest,  was surreal, last night,  and black almost beyond belief, certainly beyond accurate description, you just had to see it. The infuriating know-it-all midget,  Douglas Let's Be Clear Alexander, protege of the repulsive Gordon Snot, scion of the Congenitally Mendacious Edinburgh-Fishface Alexanders, 

McMidgetMan.

Let's be clear,  I do go to Mr Murdoch's parties, but I don't enjoy myself.

vying with the unspeakable   old witch, Shirley Williams

You know, the viewers might not remember but I'm one of those, the Gang of Four Cunts, they called us, who was committed to breaking the mould of British politics - trans: shifting it permamently to the right - and that's why I'm now a Tory, bombing Libyan schools and hospitals and  dronekilling Paki wedding guests. It's because I care, so very much.  That's what my party - whatever it is - is all about.

- once Labour, then SDP, then Liberal, then LibDem, now shrinking, dissolving into her own putrid arsehole, barking mad, unknowingly lampooning herself,  apologising, magisterially, the despicable old cunt,  for her Tory masters, not only the preposterous, stupefyingly cack-handed, babbling Bullingdon wretch, Cameron,  but also  for  the braindead, gibbering charlatan,  Jeremy Hunt - and some smirking, whining, gabshite imbecile called Grayling,  a minister for something or other in the  ShitEaters Coalition,   it doesn't matter what he does, he's just a piece of shit, dessicating, turning white in the daylight, he never had any facility with anything except lying and he's pretty fucking poor at that, an embarrassment, even by CallHimDave's miserable poxy, spivvy standards - as they all feigned incredulity and outrage at the pretend news that All Coppers Are Bastards - but best that they be left to conduct a full and far-reaching cover-up into themselves, Commissioner Sir Paul Gob is in the best tradition of great British, Met Commissioners, queer as arseholes, brutish  and bent as a nine bob note. C'mon, now, who the fuck do you think you're kidding here, might have been the response of a proper invigilator but instead we had the self-congratulatory, national hereditary broadcaster and fellow Bullingdonee, Dimbleby,

You can trust me,  Oxbridge and the BBC, 

real man of the people, that's me.
Now shut up.

smirking and asiding, almost as though he was at an Oxfordshire dinner party.  There was one hysterical little fag, too, from the press, or talk radio, Christ knows where he plies his rancid trade,  John Gaunt, he calls himself, squeaking in a high-pitched, indignant, rabble-rousing fashion, archly similar to McKenzie or that other cunt, Piers Moron,  if the filthy little turd lowered his voice to a high soprano, people might take him a bit more seriously, but not much; you know you're watching hundred-octane nightmare shit when you start agreeing with the ridiculous cock-waving non-actor, Sir Hugh Grant, but that's what happened. Grant wiped the floor with the slimy little muckraking pipsqeak. And everybody else, too.

Dimbleby might have said, to Williams, for instance, Listen,  you've been on this show for a lifetime, speaking for Labour, praising the DogShooting ShitEaters' Party and now you're hymning David fucking Cameron and his cowardly spivs, do you have any fucking political principles, whose knob will it be next week, that you're sucking, as a means to  some spurious, lightweight political influence, UKIP, the Ulster Undertakers, Fat Alec Salmond's  Angry Tribesmen,  there's probably plenty of opportunities remaining for you to turn your coat and show your scabby old arse to the taxpayer, you ridiculous old crow.  Aren't you just a shabby, worthless opportunist fuckpig, who's got away with all this shit for years, for ever? Don't you have any fucking shame, coming on here, decade after decade, doing moral contortions, turning yourself inside out, like a gynaecologist's visual aid, but drab, pasty, shifty, ungroomed  and unfuckingwholesome?   He might have said to Alexander, Listen, you irritating shortarse git,  do you seriously expect people to believe that all this shit about Old Bill is a complete surprise to you,  when every sentient adult in the country knows it's been going on for years, do you think everybody is fucking stupid, you're as bad as your fucking sister, never done a days work in your life, good for fuck all, save lecturing decent people with a pack of fucking lies, why don't you fuck off and work in Ethiopia, do something useful, give people a break from your endless,  counterfeit cleverness, you're just a pollutant, a cancer, go on, fuck off, before I clip you round the ear.

Dimbleby and his panel of talking arseholes can be seen for twelve months, yet, on the BBC iThing, performing for the sort of people who write-in for tickets for his particular shitfest, who clap like fucking zombies at some feeble mot juste  and however dismal the show,  clap with enthusiasm and gratitude when instructed, at the end of the show, to do so, by some embittered, pimply floor manager; they think they're taking part in democracy, if you told them they were unpaid extras, volunteers  in a piece of establishment sleight of hand show business they'd probably have an attack of the fucking vapours. Cross section of society my arse;   tossers and morons, holding the Andrex for those shitting in their faces.

Former Murdoch lieutenant, the ScabPrince of Wapping, repulsive, wrinkled old playboy and holder of millions of pounds worth of NewsCorp shares,  Jocky Neil , the BBC's Mr Politics

Andy, an elderly Scotsman, relaxes after a hard day,
pretending to grill his  mates in MediaMinster.

- is it any wonder we're wading around in rivers  of shit, with this toupeed turd asking his mates the questions - had a different kind of equally bizarre fun on his grisly This Week show, with Dame Portillo, Victorian railways expert,



Dame Michael Portillo of  The Times and the BBC.

the breathtakingly over-promoted postman, cuckold and singing and dancing nitwit,  Al Johnson   and the worms' worm, Max I worked for Frank Sinatra, as though the nasty little over-rated spic warbler and Mafia bumboy was better than the shithole-crawling celebrities who make up Maxy's contemporary clientele of whores and rentboys and born-again scumbags Clifford.  Jesus, a wilderness of mirrors, if ever there was one, Not one of the worthless, hypocritical  monsters daring to ask the others about their own Murdoch connections. No, Now, Michael, we all have a crafty wee joke about you being gay and that's alright, no harm done, and about you being too cowardly to run for Tory leader which at least might have spared us the execrable, shitmouthed, aberrational  dunderhead, Ian Duncan Smith, but whaddabout Murdoch, you've worked for him for years, are you gonna jack it in, at The Times, out of principle, maybe concentrate on the railway programmes.....are you fuck, as we say in Glasgow, where I went to grammar school.  Don't you care about Dead Milly Dowler? No, there was none of that among Murdoch's servants on This Week.

Well, Andrew, my moment of the week was talking to some friends in America and they can't understand what the fuss is all about,  they get their news from Fox and they are all as happy a pigs in shit, which is what they are, of course, and by the way, Max took a million quid keep-quiet bung from Rebekah Wotsit so it's no wonder he's sticking up for her, so leave me alone and pick on him. Is David Cameron in  trouble? Yes, I should think so, but I always say that.

It was a typical BBC night of snivelling, unmitigated cowardice as our Corporation stooged for the worthless legislators who  have, for decades, since Whisky Maggie, let Murdoch off his tax and permitted him to shit his Ruinous shit all over us, the filthy, disgusting old bastard.

The biggest, the most obvious question of all remains, of course, unput:  What is it that skymadeupnewsandfilth has on so many of the greedy jackasses in Westminster?  For this is what it will be about, this is why they are all worried to death - they don't give a fuck about the integrity of the press or aboyt Milly Dowler, these people only care about themselves. Murdoch's power as Elector, as KingMaker, is exaggerated and in any event it doesn't matter to him who's notionally in charge, obedience to him is cross-party.  What matters to those in MediaMinster sitting, constipated with worry,  on the Great Latrine of State, is what Rupert has in his safe - all the good stuff which he hasn't published; he will know the truth about the Miranda Blair cottaging rumours, for example, he will know the truth about Dunblane, and the police, bless them,  envy of the world,  will have sold him copies of all the evidence they held; Cameron's drug use; Osborne, Mandelstein and the Russian gangsters;  if there's fraud, murder, noncing, treason, blackmail and worse in high places, and we know there is, Murdoch will have it all in his safe   and nobody - nobody - will want him to open it up.

NEWS REVIEW.

 VIEWERS CALL FOR NO JACKO ZONE ON BRITISH TEEVEE.

OH FUCK, NOT HIM AGAIN.

FORMER GENERAL SIR MIKE "MIKE" JACKSON.

Urgent appeals were being made to the UK's broadcasting authorities as former General Sir Mike "Mike" Jackson threatened to over-run the airwaves.  It only needs a couple of coons having a punch-up in Dar Es Salaam and he's all over the shop again, gobbin' away in his deep brown voice, said Mr Wayne Prat of the skymadeupnewsandfilth viewers club.  Slobbing about in his pullover and crackin'-on like he was  Alexander the fucking Great, an old soldier like me shouldn't have to put up with this arsehole, said former lance bombardier Dusty "Dusty" Miller, 83, formerly of the Desert Rats,  they should declare a No-Jacko zone and enforce it with extreme prejudice.  Yeah, the minute he opens his trap they should bayonet him, said former corporal,  Chalky "Chalky" White.  I mean, I was in the desert with a proper general, Monty, bent as a nine-bob note he was, Monty, like most of them presbyterian Ulstermen, but you wouldn't catch him in front of a teevee camera,  I-know-besting, in his deep brown voice, like this cunt does.  Most of us have had enough of generals, one way and another, and if they don't declare a No-Jacko Zone sharpish there's no telling what might 'appen.  I mean I don't pay my teevee license to see this cunt popping up every five minutes, his hand out for money,  he should have enough money, greedy fucking bastard, dunno what the world's comin' to, me.

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MORE LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION.

No Fly Zone = War

Protecting Libyan civilians = aerial bombardment, roasting alive hundreds of Libyan conscripts.

Protecting Libyan civilians,  = diverting domestic attention from prime ministerial shortcomings.

Listening to the people and reducing the price of petrol =  treating the people like idiots and raising the price of petrol.

Localism = all local decisions being taken by Eric Piggie Pickles,  the one too  fat and idle to make the ten mile journey to work.

Creating the conditions for economic growth = cutting economic growth; raising inflation and unemployment.

Safeguarding the health service = privatising the health service.

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HOLLYWOOD LEGEND DEAD.

Lady Sir Elton John and his husband, Mrs David Furnish,  were today said to be inconsolable over the loss of their dear friend,  Mrs Betty Taylor, an old slapper and fag-hag,  I don't know if Elton will be able to continue, said Ms Furnish,  what with Diana,  the two fashion designers,  the nutter, Whacko Jacko and now this mad old crow,  the poor man is beside himself with grief, quite unable to rewrite Candle In The Wind, breathing new life into this great number and into our joint bank account.  I expect he'll have a lot of tantrums but we must all be grown up about things, now that we've, quite naturally,  bought ourselves a son. You know, actually, we in the heterophobe community believe that buying a child in one's sixties is actually more normal than the way straight people do things. Me being an independent film maker, maybe my husband will allow me to make a film about his grieving process. Ms Taylor was married many times but, a child star, she was, like all of them, too far up her own arse to make a go of any of her marriages.  Or films.  We shall not gaze on her like again. With any luck.