AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN

from wikipedia

The First Two Minute Silence in London (11 November 1919) was reported in the Manchester Guardian on 12 November 1919:

The first stroke of eleven produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead, and the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped also, seeming to do it of their own volition. Someone took off his hat, and with a nervous hesitancy the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there an old soldier could be detected slipping unconsciously into the posture of 'attention'. An elderly woman, not far away, wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still ... The hush deepened. It had spread over the whole city and become so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain ... And the spirit of memory brooded over it all.^[18]

Now, of course, lest we impede Growth, Remembrance Day  is celebrated on a Sunday,  a 'photo opportunity for the filth to posture, as they send more youth to die in some bandit cause, an opportunity for some ghastly Dimblebore or Lardman Boulton to feign solemnity, to hitch their pisspoor diction to a slow, martial beat.  The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month simply too precious to the Economy-Stupid,  think of the money we'd lose, if everyone stopped for two minutes' reflection;  think how angry folks might become, in schools and workplaces,  about the Blair-Bush Wars......Best have a bit of a do. On the weekend.

I wrote this last year, Kipling's not the only poet I know, some of my best friends, if I had any, would be poets.  I say I wrote it but maybe I just, what's the word, channeled it, wrote it straight down without a correction, I like it better this year, it rolls along with an unstoppable venom, who knows where it came from, the shitegeist, maybe.  And given the rubbish that will be published along these lines, I make no apologies for posting it again.  The names and faces have changed, even though it's the same old names and faces, spouting the same old cant, just playing musical chairs, with the quick and the dead.

It is now  the eleventh day of the eleventh month; if you are visiting here,  maybe summonsed by a cyber prompt, maybe just wandering, spare a moment or two.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

POPPIES.

Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all,  lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

And you'd think that they was 'oly, with their kissers all turned down
And a look so bleedin' pious you'd think the angels 'ad come down,
the angels 'ad come down, me lads, the angels 'ad come down
And blessed 'em all, for bein' such a sorry bunch of clowns.
A sorry bunch of clowns me lads, all standin' in a row.
Got-up like tailors' dummies, the lowest of the low.

They do this once a year, me lads, the flags and all the tears
But we live with their rottenness, for years and bloody years.

Was the improvised explosive, done the damage to the lads
And they might have fared right better had they been in armoured cabs,
But they never spent the money, so the lads all 'ad it rough
While Bobby Bleedin' Ainsworth, 'ad is nose stuck in the trough,
'is nose stuck in the trough, me lads, 'is nose stuck in the trough.
'E 'ad 'is fingers in our pockets, an' 'is nose stuck in the trough.

Some is living in an 'ostel, some is livin' on the street
There's some 'as got no ears, no eyes, and some 'as got no feet.
And some 'as got no feet me lads, and some 'as got no feet.
Oh, it's hard to go a-marching, when you hasn't got no feet.

And some 'as melted faces, make the children look away,
Make their wives and girlfriends shudder, though they'd never like to say
That there's worser things than dyin', like comin 'ome this way.
They can do wonders, now, with plastic
Or so the doctors say.

And some is off on jailhouse leave, and can't be here today,
The Judge, y'see, he banged 'im up for ever and a day.
'E banged 'im up for fightin; but that's what soldiers do
And when he's got no war to fight, 'e 'as trouble getting through
Trouble getting' through, me lads, when all the shootin' stops 

And no-one wants to know 'im, just the prisons and the cops
The prisons and the cops, me lads, stick in a soldier's craw
Cos those what sent 'im killin' is far beyond the law.

If I but stole a fiver, now, from comrade next to me
I'd be on charges, sharpish, there, for everyone to see
They'll never get their collars felt, however much they steal
It's like that Alan Duncan said, a splendid fucking deal.
They write the rules, then break 'em, say they didn't understand.
They're shitting in our faces, up an down the bleedin' land
Shittin' in our faces, just as hard as e'er they can.

Pissin' in our pockets and spitting in our eyes
And travellin' on the gravytrain to the house of bleedin' lies.
An Armistice, all of their own, and no-one got no blame
They just paid a few shillings back and carried on the same.
Carried on the same, me lads, for now and evermore
Stuffed like pigs and drunk with power, while we go off to war.

The members and right honourables know only how to lie
And cheat and steal and fornicate, whilst we march off to die
In some benighted wogland, some jungle, veldt or bush
Or in the hills and mountains of the Hindu bleedin' Kush
The Hindu bleedin' Kush, me lads, you'd think they'd understand
That the killing fields of Afghannystan are No Man's Bleedin' Land.
No Man's Bleedin' Land, me boys, and it was ever thus
They shoot from caves and run away, in the Hindu bleedin Kush.

There's Charlie in 'is medals, heir to the bleedin' throne,
The one what we're out fightin' for, while he's sitting safe at home.
E'll 'ave yer Mrs, like as not, you give 'im 'alf a chance
He just takes what he wants, you see, it only takes a glance
For he is true nobility, the country's pride and joy
Whilst we are noble savages, cannon fodder to deploy.
They'll send us up to fiery death, and out in unsafe trucks
And when we're blown to Kingdom Come, why, no-one gives a fuck.

But when we come in sixes, with coffins draped in flags
They look a bit embarrassed, like, they're just a bunch of slags
Just a bunch of slags, me lads, all standin' ramrod straight
They'll smile and say So sorry, just a simple twist of fate
I would have gone myself, you know, but I'm important here,
We also serve, we lousy pricks, who only stand and wait.

You can put your bleedin' poppies where the Sun don't never shine
For hypocrisy's your only creed, you ain't no friend of mine
You ain't no friend of no-one's, if the truth was only told
To the boys you send to bleed and die and never to grow old.
It wouldn't do for your sons, all to the manner born
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
That's the stuff for me and mine, our bodies ripped and torn.

So you can put your bleedin' poppies where the monkey put his nuts
The only thing we've seen from you is cuts and bleedin' cuts'
And some ain't got no bullets and some ain't got no boots
And some are boys of seventeen, just bleedin' young recruits
Bleeding young recruits, me lads, all blown to smithereens,
They never saw their twenty-first, they never left their teens.

See, they're only paper flowers and you're only paper men
And if the call to valour came you'd cut and run again.
But paper flowers, that's the thing, to show you are sincere
And shiny shoes an' overcoats, that's why you're standin' ere.
We're soldiers of the Queen me lads, and not this sorry bunch
Who steal their houses, dodge their tax and steal their bleedin' lunch
They're one step down from parasite, a squalid learning curve
Lets hope before they meet their end, they get what they deserve.

Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.

Posted by call me ishmael at 23:16

YES, GOVERNOR

Mr Moron King, placeman, stooge and ruinous lickspittle.

One times two is seven,  two times two is  twelve, three times two is twenty-one.....hang on...I know the next one....it's a trick one....yes....four times two is two,  there;  I can do adding-up too, and division.

 

jgm2 said...

Talking of 'treason' Mr Ishmael, I notice that it is only now that Mervyn King is developing a little bit of a twitchy bum about governments printing money. Perhaps he should be reminded of his complicity in the Brownian Imbecility of 18 months (or was it 24 months) ago when the Maximum Imbecile (Eternal Rectal Cancer be Upon Him) decided that what the UK really needed was 200bn quid printed in order to pay the Public Sector and let the next government sort out his monumental economic clusterfuck. The sooner to return Labour to power. Because it's the right thing to do. I must have missed Mervyn's resignation. It is hardly credible that he would have acquiesced in the architect of the UK's economic destruction ducking out of responsibility by the simple ruse of just printing money and leaving the next government to take the shit. Surely a man of integrity would not have saddled every single person in the UK with another 3500 quid of debt just so that he, personally, could shuffle off with a knighthood?

10 November 2010 22:58

Merv's convenient innumeracy has often been reported here, yet, today, even after all his ruinous fuck-ups, the meeja is fawning on his current prediction - which is that we may go into  what they term double-dip recession.  Or we may not.  Kind of a  heads-or-tails approach.  The blogdog, Buster, would make a better Governor of the Bank of England. Why is it that we don't throw stones at these people in the street?

PARLIAMENTARY LABOUR PARTY IN SUICIDE BID. MORE ON SLIMY PHIL.

"Anybody tells you It's a great personal tragedy for Phil and his family, just punch them hard in the mouth; it'll be alright." from a previous commentary

Before we go anywhere, I would just like to point out that it was Imelda,  below,

 

Her honour Judge Imelda Booth-Blair-Haliburton QC,

famous human rights lawyer, cheap hustler

and bomber of brown babies in their cradles.

who was the first to say what a tragedy it is for Phil's family, she, of course has been near the top of the list for a punch in the mouth these last fifteen years.  Imelda the famous, bombing and torturing human rights lawyer,  is said to be supporting Slimy Phil's application for a judicial review of his treatment, although not, of course, with money. As if. Charity begins at home, in her case, many of them. Barmy  fucked-up Scouse witch.

Anyway, Ed Moribund is on paternity leave, can you believe,  whilst the unelected coalition of public shoolboys makes merry with ordinary people's lives and takes itself off  on a Chinky Junket, hundreds of the fuckers, maybe they'll catch something nasty from the rice, or the Beijing rentboys, maybe the plane'll crash.  Good job there's not a war on, Ed, or a crisis in public funding decisions, eh, useless toothy prick, good for fuck all, and poor old Harriet Soursister has to deal with a fresh  outbreak of poltroonishness among the reptiles, screeching nancyboys and bogbastard fuckpigs, bleating about rights. 

I don't know if Moribund minor fathers his own children or like his brother, buys them in Mexico;  maybe, if he's fertile,  he could have gone round  and slipped the tearful,  'celloing sister in law  one,  kept it in the family, sort of, or  they could have deployed  the savage mobsterbully, Blind Boy Blunkett of LittleLadsRUs,  he'll be dead soon and unable to exercise his paternal rights over, wotsername, the MediaMinster bicycle, Kimberly Quinn, that's it, over her/his little lad,  and Jesus, you'd want to be blind and well dosed up with antibiotics after Simon Hoggart and BlindBoy and maybe, even, her husband, had been prospecting down her mineshaft. 

But if BananaMilliband wants to adopt his family from Amerika, that's his affair and we are in danger, here, of straying into bad taste, and that wouldn't do, talking about parliamentarians - but how Ed reasonably can absent himself at a time like this is a curious matter, indicative, perhaps of his certainty that what imperils us will never imperil him. Cunt. Labour party my arse.

Members of the PLP are said to be mutinous over Harriet shitting for a change in one of their lying faces, bless their poxed-up little heads, their fevered little minds, who the fuck do they think they are? Never mutinous over EyeRack, or ID Cards or unlawful detention or torture, never mutinous about their comrades' shafting the public via the expenses crimes, never mutinous, for instance,  about Tony and Imelda shredding their expenses claims...but mutinous now, that the law intervenes in what have henceforth been unchallengeably their own private matters.  Woolas told dangerous, racist inflammatory lies and the fact that  the objector is a Shiteating hypocrite whose party has always done far worse does not invalidate the finding of the duly constituted hearing;  never mind this being a dangerous precedent, these greedy, shirtlifting, child-molesting fucking bastard war criminals  of all hues, subsidised, pampered, immunised from prosecution, have for far too long gotten away with lies, evasion, dissembling and when those fail the  downright impertinence of failing to answer the question properly put to them (see D.Cameron, G. Brown, A. Blair. J Major et al, every Wednesday, see also, Michael fucking Howard and, oh, all of them ) impudent, smirking filth, every last one of them, mutinous?  SeeHowCleverIAm, PoliticianToMySnottyFingertips, Won'tGetAStraightAnswerOutOfMe. Fuck them. Might have mutinied over Clause Four, but then they would have to have been a Labour Party and they had Newly stopped being that.


Ed appointed Slimy Phil to the  inner sanctum, or the Shadow Cabinet as he calls them,  in full knowledge of the allegations and the proceedings, no wonder he's off, modernly burping baby and changing nappies but those likely to have hitherto been impressed by his NewManliness are despairing as the party goes further down the toilet, as boldly unnamed riffraff shout the odds, fearful, of course, on all sides, that it'll be them, next.

It happens to be Labour but it could easily have been any of them. No use to bleat that Woolas deserves better from Justice, Justice hasn't denied him anything, he can try to clear his name, no-one is stopping him, but a party as badly savaged as the Millibandians should never have let him aboard,  that Soursister, alone, seemingly, has the balls to tnrow him to the sharks -  or a column on the Sun and few TeeVee slots - is a mark of how low, how wretched are the  PinstripePoppy gangsters in Westminster, trading still, on the workers and the poor,  happy to shit in our faces. Mutiny away, lads; Murdoch will be proud of you.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE TORTUREGRAPH

George Bush is right: Water-boarding terrorists saves innocent lives.

Con Coughlin

Con Coughlin, the Telegraph's executive foreign editor, is a world-renowned expert on the Middle East and Islamic terrorism. He is the author of several critically acclaimed books. No, he isn't,  they're shit, tittle tattle, humbug and tub-thumping. His new book, Khomeini's Ghost, is published by Macmillan will be just as bad. Bloated pisshead looks as though he escaped from telly's Ballykissangel, one step ahead of the Gardai. I mean, he is drunk in this picture, isn't he? Probably always drunk.

Coughlin is vying with Simon Heffer for the title of stupidest, most pointless columnist in Western letters, as they would probably describe their whoring, cocksucking of Power and Money, letters, indeed; scummy rodents; clinging to the wreckage of the Dead Tree Press.

Here is the Filth-O-Graph's world-renowned expert,  on the subject of torture.

"Whether or not water-boarding constitutes torture is very much an issue for debate. Mr Bush says his legal team approved the technique, whereby suspects are subjected to simulated drowning, while his opponents – including Barack Obama - have banned its use.

But when you are dealing with fanatics who glorify in the murder of thousands of innocent civilians – as happened during the September 11 attacks – simply offering them a cup of tea and a good book to read is hardly going to persuade them to tell reveal their darkest secrets."

 Even the usually redneck, sexist, wog-bashing expatriots on the Filth-O-Graph boards deplore this fucking rubbish.  Some say, pragmatically, that it delivers useless information to the torturers, others ask how you know in advance that the person you are drowning, sorry Con, you revolting drunken slob, the person whose drowning you are simulating - Jesus fucking wept, what kind of minds are at work here? -  is a bad guy, anyway;  whilst others, surprisingly, for the Filth-O-Graph's horde of ancient angry masturbators, insist on the rule of law, some even going so far as to enquire of others, including the babbling Coughlin, how they would feel were their children to be subjected to such obscene procedures.  It's worth a look, for a change, if only to come away feeling that the ethically revisionist,  Ruinous march  of  putrid filth such as Coughlin is not entirely unopposed.

THEY ALWAYS SAID IT WOULD HAPPEN ONE DAY.

CHIMP WRITES BOOK

PRESIDENT GEORGE DUBYA CHIMP, FORMER COMMANDER IN CHIMP AND PRESIDENT OF THE GREATEST NATION ON EARTH, EVER, HARD AT WORK ON HIS JUST-PUBLISHED BOOK, DECISION POINTS. 

 A lower primate, previously deemed incapable of  communicating, a former alcoholic, wifebeater, cokefiend, embezzler and Oh, fuck, I don't know what else,  has astonished the world by putting his name to a book most likely written by one of his keepers, although not a member of his family,  as they are all as stupid as him, especially his mate, Laura Bush, below

FORMER FIRST CHIMPESS, LAURA DUBYA CHIMP, 

DESCRIBES A CHIMP ERECTION, ONLY THAT, SHE TOLD DAVID LETTERMAN,  WOULDA BEEN WHEN HE HADNA BEEN OUT DRINKING OR DOING COKE OR WHORING,

SO PROBABLY NEVER, ACTUALLY.

One of Dubya's former keepers, sacked for being wordy but dumb as shit, Mr Donald Rumschimp, below, said,

THERE ARE CHIMPS YA KNOW ABOUT
CHIMPS YA DON'T KNOW ABOUT
AND CHIMPS YA DON'T KNOW YA DON'T KNOW ABOUT.
AND THEN THERE'S CHIMPS LIKE GEORGE FUCKIN' DUBYA.

 Dubya's a good ole chimp an all and there's nobody I wouldn rather not  wanna have  as a getaway driver, anybody'd do, other'n him, dumb fuck's drunk all the time, or stewed outa his fucking mind on Bolivian marching powder but there's no fuckin' way that sonofabitchin' chimp wrote any kinda fuckin' book. As much chancea that motherfucker writing a book as there is a alla them World Trade Center Buildings just collapsing in their own footprints, neat as you like, somea them without there even being a Godamned fucking explosion in them or anyfuckinwhere near them,  you  believe that shit you'll believe chimps can write fuckin' books.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY: THE OBSERVE-O-FILTH ON WOOLAS

Politicians  are no better or worse than the rest of us. Official.

• Leader
• The Observer, Sunday 7 November 2010
• 
  
Many people were surprised to discover last week that it is against the law for politicians to tell lies about each other. A court ruled that campaign literature, in which former Labour minister Phil Woolas accused his Lib Dem opponent of cosying up to Islamic militants, contravened an old statute prohibiting "false statements" against a rival's "character or conduct". The decision, at first glance, confirms suspicions that politicians are scoundrels. But another conclusion is possible. No profession is immune from dishonesty, but politics is one where it is most conspicuously exposed and (by voters more often than courts) eventually punished. Imagine if secondhand car salesmen or estate agents were routinely held to a duty to be honest. What would happen to dating websites if users had to be thoroughly truthful about "character and conduct"? Politics can be a dirty business. Mr Woolas crossed a line and was punished. But while we relish every opportunity to remind politicians that they are no better than the people they represent, we should remember also that they are generally no worse either.     
 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Speak for yourselves, Islingtonians. It was, of course, the tax-dodging, charitable status Guardian-Observer  -  the world's leading liberal voice - which, before the election,  urged its eleven paying readers to vote for Mr Clegg's gang of shit-eating charlatans; lawmakers slitherng into office on the basis of stirring-up hatred is also obviously cool in the New We Will Lie To You Wholesale Politics. "  Politics can be a dirty business "    and so it will remain with shit  editorials  like this one;  MediaMinster, skymadeupnewsandfilth, bent billionaire proprietors, bent millionaire editors, dreary fuckwit commentators, spouting party lines on an unattributable basis, free and independent press my arse.  The Guardian should try a paywall, like the Times, see how many people will pay for this tripe - its own version of Snotty's awful bigoted woman gaffe .

EVENSONG. GODDAMN, WELL I DECLARE.....FALSETTO DEAD

Grateful Dead - Uncle John's Band (Studio Version)

ANDREW NEIL ASKS THE TOUGH QUESTIONS.

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.

EVENSONG, VIGILANTE MAN, RY COODER & DAVID LINDLEY.

SONGS FOR THE NEW DEPRESSION, NUMBER ONE.

This joint reworking of Woody Guthrie's Vigilante Man is meatier than Cooder's legendary 'seventies solo versions;  Lindley, though not as well known,  is also multi-instrumental maestro Americaine, nonetheless.  The images are of the Price worth Paying  'thirties dustbowl and of the expression of cruel selfishness which underpins the so-called frontiersman nouvelle, the teapartier,  the Godless heathen bastard, wrapped in a flag, pissing out on his fellowa, coming soon to the English shires, towns and cities, Have you seen that vigilante man, I been hearing his name all over this land?

WOOLASS SACKED

NewLabour's anti-wog  minister, Mr Phil Hobbit, 

is treated to some Nepalese Fast food. April 2009.

Phil Woolass, like Jacqui Schmidt, was emblematic of the Brown government - useless, out of his depth and seedy, famously claiming reimbursement from us for nappies, pantyliners and tampons.  Brown, the paranoid snot-munching lunatic, surrounded himself, as far as possible, with  incompetents whom he could bully and who by dint of their worthlessness would be unlikely to challenge his doomed, maniacal leadership. In and out of office Woollass was a brazen lying fuckpig, a fact confirmed, today, when an electoral court revoked his membership of the Commons and overturned the election result in his Oldham seat,  instituting a new election.  The court found that the horrible, grinning little turd had lied about his ShitEating rival for the seat, emails disclosing that Woollass and his team had  in fact, published untrue and inflammatory remarks, that he fought a 'dirty and dishonest' campaign full of 'lies, smears and totally false allegations.'  Proper NewLabour, in fact.

Clever Phil listens as Patsy tells him what, henceforth, will be govament policy regarding wog soldiers. Yes, we was always gonna do that very thing, whatever it is.

As with all the so-called professions, MPs' crimes are adjudicated upon internally and it falls to the smug prick, Mr Tiny Speaker, to ratify this decision and  call a by-election.  Had you or I  behaved so rottenly, so corruptly, so dishonestly, we might be facing a rather more rigourous prosecution, Slimy Phil's being barred from the Commons for three years seems  a puny response to such a serious matter, along the lines of Well, I paid the money back as soon as I was found out, so that's that (D. Cameron, 2009)

Never mind, we must look forward ro Phil being on the This Week  studio sofa next week, trousering another grand of our money and then on any of the celebrity rehabilitation quiz shows, Y'know, think Neil and Christine Hamilton. Maybe he can join the mad, shameless, old cow, Widdecombe, on Virgins Go Dancing, or whatever it is. What is for sure is that his job loss will be as nothong compared to the millions now facing poverty thanks to he and his jumped cronies.  Anybody tells you It's a great personal tragedy for Phil and his family, just punch them hard in the mouth; it'll be alright.

WOTSNOTONTELLY. BEARDY GIT CONDEMNS STRIKERS.

Top hacks at the BBC are striking for a day or two and a nation is plunged into ignorance as the Today programme is pulled, together with an episode of Newsnight. Fiona Bruce said she was worth every penny of her pension  and wouldn't accept  a penny less from an ungrateful nation, Nobody knows how hard it is swanning around the Antiques Roadshow and smirking fetchingly, said the neurotic presenter, And I get my kit off for  Children in Need.

TOP BBC ARSEHOLES

It's simple, look you, isn't it, said top newsreader, Huw Welshman, the people need some pompous , overpaid prat like me to read them all the made-up news, isn't it, otherwise how will they know what the govament wants them to believe, look you?


From the Filth-O-Graph

Writing on his blog this morning, BBC director general Mark Thompson said:


Mr Mark BeardyGit, TopGit at the BBC.

"We believe that much of the drivel on the BBC will be unaffected by this action. However, it is inevitable that some programmes and content will be disrupted, although thankfully not EastEnders or the cooking and housebuying shows, which remain crucial to the quality of our ouput.  But most of them are rubbish, the current affairs stuff, talking heads pontificating,  talking arses more like;  I mean, who gives a fuck about Newsnight, really, who cares about Paxman, man's a pantomime turn?"

"It has never been more important to ensure the BBC is spending every penny of licence fee payers money wisely on talent like me and delivering the quality programmes and services audiences want. And that is why I am worth a million pounds a year, and all the trimmings.  We believe the current pension proposals are realistic and affordable, and will provide fair pension provision for BBC staff for the future, whilst my own will remain huge and entirely undeserved. Along with my peerage.  If I do as I'm told. Lord BeardyGit of Shepherds Bush, has a nice ring to it, donchathink. pompous and shit at the same time, just like me.". 

"This has been a difficult period for staff. However, the people who lose out most in any strike action are the very people we are here to serve - the govament.  And the people I sack, of course.  They lose out, too,  but it's in their best interests, I have it on good authority from Chancellor Spunkface, himself, or is it herself." 

A BBC spokeswoman said: "We are disappointed that the NUJ have gone ahead with today's industrial action.

"This is despite the other four unions accepting our revised offer, and feedback from staff that indicates the same.  We don't know why everybody can't be, just, you know, obedient, like good citizens should.  Everybody knows that the unelected govament frowns on disobedience, especially now, that we're all in it together, trying to crush the poor and lowpaid, in their best interests, just as Chancellor Spunkface says,

"It is the public who lose out and we apologise to our audience for any disruption to services. And for Jonafun Woss, Graham Norton, Kirsty Wark, Paxoman, John and Jim and Sarah Harridan and the Dimbledums and all those producer cunts on the Feedback programme, telling viewers and listeners how stupid they are. And then there's the licensed fools, Hislop and that mad, creepy ,mental patient, Merton, you may not have a job for life, or even for this year, but they do. Satirists? On the BBC?  My arse.  Andrew Neil, he's another one, although you won't catch him on strike, rotten, scabbing, Murdoch-cock sucking bastard; we apologise for them, too. And now, the weather where you are"

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS, TOM RUSH, NO REGRETS.

GOTTA PICKA POCKET OR TWO.

I'm sick of them, now. I was thrilled when they were found alive and  when they started coming up. Didn't matter where they were from, it's just shit, that, being trapped, like those blokes in the Russian 'sub, the Kursk, was it; better just to be killed straight off than all that running out of air shit, upsetting the viewers, well, some of us. I firmly believe that Formula One fans follow these racing  cars all around the world hoping, praying, gagging for Lewis Hamilton or Jensen Button to crash and get toasted,  they'll be the ones who had their fingers crossed for a cave-in, down there in Chile.

 But they're going onto US telly with that sad and faintly disgusting creep, David Letterman, maybe going to join in his decades long nervous breakdown.

So, tell the viewers, Pablo, or Manuel, whatever you're called.

Ninety days underground, how was that?

Eet was sheet, hombre, eet was sheet.

That's Pancho, folks, from Chile, let's hear it for Pancho.

After the break we have some regular Americans....

They could have been from anywhere, the miners, didn't matter a fuck, the heart went out and the stomach turned over,. Now, the whole thing is like a nationalist party political broadcast, Chile this and Chile that and that pimp bandit, El Presidente,

 What'selike? You must be fucking joking.

waltzing or is it tango-ing, Berluscone-ing his way around the world, as though he, himself,  was down on his hands and knees for two months,  digging like a bastard with his bare hands, rather like Comrade Snot, now of the Kirkcaldy Oxfam Shop, and all his shit about saving the world and it being the right thing to do for the country, and only he could have thought of it because  he was a son of the fucking manse, but normal, really, ordinary and yet the cleverest boy in the school and heard voices in his mad,  snot-gobbling head and no,  he wasn't gay, how could he be, hadn't he married enthusiastically, in his early fifties, couldn't wait, and Sarah-George was his best thing ever, especially now that he was working in the charity shop, because nobody wanted to pay to hear his crap, his nailbitten Claw of Doom metronoming on the lectern, his jaw doing that drywank jawdrop thing Dah-Dah-Dah and bits of snot all over his tie; El Presidente was gobbing away, just like Snotty did, only in better English, surreptitiously, obliquely, taking the credit for the rescue, even though the State had fucked things up in the first place, deregulating the mines and letting the el-Mafia run them.

Not happy with that shameless tub-thunping,  he was  giving people lumps of rock, well, giving 'em to Queens and unelected prime ministers. And how does anybody know that they're genuine rescue rocks? Not like they're from the Sea of Tranquility, brought back by NASA.  Coulda just been picked up off the ground. You know what politicians are like, especially Dago ones, probably kept all the real rocks  and is flogging them on eBay - are they Dagos, the Chileans, don't know anything about Chileans, are they Christians, for instance?   Could be head-shrinking cannibals for all I know, like we have in the wilder parts of Scotland, best part of England. I know they make Cabernet Sauvignon and have dangerous mining operations, proper businesses, see, like Zombie George Spunkface wants us to have, none of that regulation bollocks, health and safety and all that.

Betcha anything that those number-crunching folk over at the Taxpayers Alliance have something to say about health and safety, eh, waste of their taxpayers taxes which, as we all know, are different, more important, than any old ordinary taxes that other people, not in The Taxpayers Alliance pay, well, other people, everybody, actually, everybody pays taxes, apart from rich people.  Don't hear the TPA going on about rich people not paying any taxes at all. And you don't have to be in an alliance, to be a taxpayer;  some of us actually don't mind paying taxes, me and mr mongoose, for instance;  the social wage, is what taxation brings, roads and stuff, I can get in my SmartCar, here in the far North and just drive straight down, largely without let or hindrance, to Land's End, the roads are signposted, driveable, drained and illuminated, the vast majority of people drive more or less safely, millions and millions of cars don't collide. OK, it can all be better, much better, but that is dependent upon a radical, revolutionary change in the way we order our lives and in the people whom we pay to decide on things;  the elimination of career politicians and the selection,  for limited  terms, of non-careerist,  independent, non-party public servants  is the only sensible goal if we would reverse the Ruin which twentieth-century parliamenties have wrought. 

The TPA's incessant whining about taxes, as with the output of most self-selecting ThinkTanks, is  cheap, populist, redneck horseshit. They should shut up and fuck off, the TPA, go and look after their parents, or their greedy bastard illiterate fuckpig thirty-something children, maybe tell them that No, Julian, you can't have everything you want, not even if we shoot all the benefit scroungers, actually, Darling, Mummy and Daddy won't be able to leave you every penny they ever made, with interest, it's because of all those nasty  taxy-waxys that the nasty govament makes us pay. Yes, Darling,  Clearly, it's frightfully unfair.

 They have a fucking mission statement, the TPA, dunno what it is, anytime I hear the word Mission,  misapplied so,  I think: Drunk, Nonce or Non-Specific Arsehole. Missions are what soldiers have, airmen, and the other ones, the ones with no air cover, they do missions,too;  ordinary people have aims and objectives. Anybody come near my house, talking about fucking missions, not that they would, not even the fucking Jovas, impudent fucking bastards, most likely being deterred by the sign: Presbyterians Will Be Hanged, And This Means Jovas, Too, but if anybody does,  come here talking about his fucking mission, I'm gonna kick his fucking missioning arse up an down the lane marked Private. It is part of the colonisation of the language, this mission shit, MBA doggerel,  by the largely illiterate,  the infuriating gabshite, who says Clearly before his every pack of stupid, cliche-bound, Devil-As-Ever-Is-In-The-Detail shitbrain lies. I read the word mission and that was all I needed to know about the TPA. Mission statements are what those awful fuckpigs at  Marks and Spencer have. And Tesco. Save More By Spending More. Easy.

They seem just like Tories without parliamentary seats, the TPA, small govament, private sector is best; shit a fucking red-white-and-blue brick they would, jumping up and down on the toilet screeching, the greedy, grasping jumped-up pseudo middle class imbecile wankers, if any of their services were withdrawn before they can engineer some exclusive alternative, like that insufferable git, Toby Young, of the free-private school alliance.

Bald cookery writer, Young.

Fuck off, Toby. Or we'll set Julie Burchill on you.

Prick's writing in  the Filth-O-Graph, today, that Barack Obama isn't  quite black enough, needs to be a bit blacker, says Whitey Young, the braying, racist cocksucker; mixed race, you see, doesn't quite  tick Toby's boxes, wants Barack to be a full-on buck nigger. Jesus fucking wept, only in the Filth-O-Graph. Or the Times. Or the Sun. Or the Mail. Or any of them, nasty racist poison disguised as commentary. Toby fucking Young - why is anyone called Toby? - wants to run schools for his wretched, ghastly spawn and probably to rub shoulders with the spit-spraying misfit, Gove, the gobby, apologising idiot; giving parents a choice, giving himself a choice,  and fuck everybody else is what he means.

Oh, yes,  much easier for Jemima and I to have all  of our delightful and gifted children privately,  in very special and suprisingly cost effective  private hospitals, yes, especially if something goes wrong, requiring intensive lifetime care, it'll only cost us pennies,you see, because we take the money from the riff-raff, who aren't as well equipped as us to work the system,  we need to have have a private health visitor, pay privately, but only a little bit,  for all the innocculations, drive them to private schools on private roads, pay for our very own private police constables,  yes, and courts and prisons, too; drink private water from private taps; have private libraries, and parks and private, yes, private public transport and best of all privately care for our elderly, demented parents who might spend decades farting and dribbling and not knowing who the fuck they are, or us, tubes up their noses and pipes coming from their dicks, stinking of piss.  Think of all the taxes we'd save, if only we could get away from this dreadful notion of society, and people pooling risk, working together so that all can be cared for. Well, Clearly, it's simply not good enough.

Can't think why anyone pays them any mind, meself, the TPA. Anybody with a  hole in his arse knows that local govament, taking its cue from MediaMinster, is corrupt and  useless; fucking Rotarians and fucking Masons buying-up fucking councillors by the coachload to whatever the twinned fucking town is;  counting the TPA pennies isn't going to shame them from office. Just look at the so-called parliamentary expenses scandal, last year, business as fucking usual, now,  every last fucking bastard of them guilty of at the very least guilt by association, of turning  a blind eye. And them supposed to be lawmakers.  Oh, fuck me, was I thieving, well, of course, it wasn't my fault, I'm an honourable fucking member and look, I paid the money back; just as soon as I was caught out, I said to Mrs Cameron, Samantha, Darling, we have to pay a few quid back, but don't worry, we'll get it all back again when I'm prime minister, no, don't worry, you won't have to touch your millions, or mine.

But anyway, rescue celebrities, it's a bit much, innit. Get down on their hands and knees and thank God, or Whoever, and never go down underground again;  that's the ticket. Not as though they did anything brave, is it, just sitting there, underground, any bastard can do that. And many of us might have to, as the Toby Young Taxpayers' Alliance Pig Society kicks us all  into  reverse gear, onwards, to the 'thirties. Coalition my arse, wankathon, more like, for horrible fucking bastard public schoolboys.

CAMERON: MY MESSAGE TO THE MOTHERFUCKERS.

 

e pluribus unum, it means old etonians have big ones.

And so I say to you, teapartiers, rednecks, morons and imbeciles, My fellow motherfuckers, we have much in common with you, everything really.  For we are not an elected govament either but a bunch of demagogue wankers and freaks -  David Willets? Michael Gove?  Fuck me Jesus, motherfuckers.   And Eric Pickles?  And Teresa Shoe-Fetish?  And Ken Clarke, silly old queen? Crazy sonsafuckingbitches.  Just like you. And that's before I even start on the ShitEaters.

But it doesn't matter.  For that is the old politics. And if we had believed  in that we wouldn't be here, today. Being elected no longer matters.  What matters is that you tell the other motherfuckers that they have elected you. And that they've voted for shit you never, ever mentioned to them. Even though they haven't.  And then you give tax breaks to the very, very rich. And shit all over everybody else. It's what, motherfuckers, we came into politics to do.

Obama, well, the best I can say is that he'a bit of a John Taylor, or Lord Taylor of Warwick, as the silly coon likes to call himself. I'm all for giving people a chance but, you know, motherfuckers, sometimes we can take things a bit too fast.  I have some in my cabinet but I'm fucked if I can remember their names, now, and don't forget, if we cut all the trees down some of 'em wouldn't be able to get home.  No, no, only joking, I really love diversity, just don't want the children marrying it.

And so we send you fraternal greetings, motherfuckers, and pledge you our support as you try to kick the niggers out of Washington and fill it, instead, with good conservatives. Remember, motherfuckers, the motto of this great Limey Conservative party which  I claim to lead, but only part of it:  If Rupert Murdoch is our boss he will print and broadcast lies about our opponents. God bless skymadeupnewsandfilth.

EVENSONG, JACKSON BROWNE FOR PRESIDENT.

PLEDGING MY TIME.

STAGGERINGLY OVER-PROMOTED FOX-TROTTING NITWIT BREAKS MORE PROMISIES.

 

DR VINCE CUNT, THE PEOPLE'S TRUSTED FRIEND

You see, the thing about a Pledge is that it's not a sincere and binding declaration, or anything like that, of course it's not, it's just bollocks, spin and lies, for the voters, and I can give a solemn  undertaking that I don't mean any of mine. It's like, you know how I said I would never join the Tories and now I have, simple really, we politicians have to do what's in the best interests of our careers,  I mean, I was never gonna be a minister as a Liberal Democrat, was I? Now, slow-slow, quick-quick-slow.......

PREFECT ADOPTS STRONG LINE.

Am I saying that all my MPs promised to do one thing and now I want them to do the very opposite thing?  Yes, of course I am. Is it  hard being a worthless piece of shit?  No, not really.   But am I making a good job of it? Of course I am. Look, I simply have to do what the IMF tells me. And  my good friend Mr CallHimDave, which I do. And he calls me fag, which is as it should be, at any decent school.

LibDem MPs are said to be angry - now, there would be a sight, angry, bisexual, untrustworthy sandal-weavers, wouldn't it - at  Cable and Clegg reneging on a promise that they woild resist rises in student tuition fees.  Quite how angry they are, we shall see, the LibDems' morality being as  elastic as Straight Simon Hughes's warty bottom.  This is the way of old NewLabour, always going to be a Govament-defeating rebellion on the back benches, Bob Marshall-Andrews, Jeremy Corbyn, all the conscience-peddlars and then, at the last minute, a compromise is reached, concessions, they claim, are wrung from the the govament, which allows honourable members to live with their dishonour. Such creatures are these, crawling and squirming in the daylight, munching on the corpse of the body politic, stroked and tickled by  giggling Martha Kearney, brash Jeremy Paxman and  hysterical Adam Lard,  all rowing together. 

Next week:  The LibDem policy on The Iraq Invasion. Well, we thought it wrong at the time but now, given the mess that Labour's left you all in - but not us, obviously, we're great - we think it was absolutely the right thing to do.

WHAT THEY NEED'S A DAMN GOOD WHACKING.

LORD AND LADY BLACK ENJOY A FAMILY MOMENT BEFORE HE GOES BACK TO PRISON.

 ONLY LITTLE PEOPLE SHOULD BE LAW ABIDING.

Former owner of the Filth-O-Graph, thieving bastard, bully, rotten fuckpig  and Conservative peer,  Conrad Black, ennobled by great statesman,  William I'm Not Gay Even Though It's Obvious I Am Hague,

  

Hague and his " adviser "   with whom he quite innocently shared a bedroom, 

and has sacked.

and the personifocation of  impudent greed, sorry wealth creation, to which the so-called Coalition is slave has had two of his convictions upheld by a US Appeals Court and faces resentencing.  He was originally sentenced to six years for fraud and obstruction, having plundered his shareholders' monies in order to lavish them on his vile Mrs, Barbara Amiel's, insatiable demands for furs, mansions  and jumbojets but was released on bail a few months ago, following changes to US law which invalidated parts of his conviction.  Considering Black's connections to organised  crime, Henry Kissinger, for instance, and Whisky Maggie both served as directors of his companies, signing-off his larcenous accounts in exchange for a few quid, it is unlikely that he will do more jail time. But we live in hope.  Foreign Seckatry Hague, the prick, made Black a peer during his own disastrous tenure as Tory Chief BaseBall Cap,  John Major wouldn't touch Black with a bargepole but Hague knew better.

 

 Hague and his one-time Chief of Staff and Gym Buddy, Lord Cock, I mean Coe.

Nobody has asked Hague about his Black connection, for fear that poor Ffffffffion might have to have another miscarriage.

LORD AND LADY BLACK CELEBRATE THEIR STOLEN MONEY.

AMERICA RENEWED. BACK TO THE FOUNDING MOTHERFUCKERS.

and ethnic cleansing.  and slavery and segregation

bury my heart at wounded knee

strange fruit

roast that nigger's ass

only good slope's a dead slope

...America, the last great hope of mankind.

WOTSONTELLY, THE TEA PARTY, THIS WORLD, WITH ANDREW NEIL, BBC2

MORE EMPIRE BURLESQUE

An inconclusive and at times lightweight examination of the TeaParty phenomenon, Neil's tour of America nevertheless puts some flesh on redneck bones.   The TEA stands  for Taxed Enough Already and TeaParty, of course, harks back to revolutionary events in Boston Harbour, back before civilisation was born.  In a nutshell, TeaPartiers,  childish,  disgruntled would-be frontiersmen are being led by the nose towards civic rebellion,  a rejection of the very idea of essential public services funded by  taxpayers being co-ordinated by national government;  the leading, of course, as in  the UK, is being done by big business, notably but not exclusively by skymadeupnewsandfilth's Amerikan arm, FoxShit.

The political nous and expertise of this apparently spontaneous, grassfuckingroots movement comes from former members of the House, too extreme even for Bush's swaggering Republicans.  God, as ever, has a starring role in  the preservation of racism, bigotry and dumbass, cynical Bible-thunping stupidity;  it is hard to believe that some of these whining, hysterical, headbangers can take themselves for a piss, yet, with Murdoch's help, they might just take the Presidency.

In the  modern home of ethnic cleansing, a bankrupt nation which nonetheless maintains eight fucking hundred overseas military bases, all sorts of insanity are possible but this programme reveals that some of the states contain extensive and wide-open lunatic asylums,  their inmates running around organising themselves just like regular folks, just crying rather a lot and probably masturbating all over the Stars and Stripes.

Even the right-winger, Neil, a man who detests the poor, was taken aback by some of the bizarre, anti-Obama rhetoric, although he didn't and never does reveal how his millions of Sky shares are faring, how far he personally supports the soon-praise-God-to-be-dead-rotten-filthy-fucking-bastard Rupert,  they fell out but for people like Andy, money's thicker than anything.

Shot through the summer in anticipation of a Democrat meltdown shortly - I'm not sure it'll be THAT bad  for Obama - this is, when you stop laughing, chilling stuff. Selective, infantile interpretations of history and fundamentalist sub-morons being educated, agitated and organised by Uncle Sam's neo-Nazis, whilst damning Obama for a Hitlerite, it's good shit, black and foul and even Neil can't help but signal that.  It's all we have on mainstream telly about these loonies. Well worth a look.

IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS, KATE AND ANNA MCGARRIGLE.