NEWS REVIEW

PRINCE HOORAY  THRILLS CANADIANS WITH BILINGUAL SPEECH.

ER...UM...OKAY, OUI;  N'EST CE PAS?

The Filth-O-Graph reports His Royal Gormlessness and Kate Middleton   are delighted to be visiting Canada together; maybe, in an editorial oversight, the Barclay piggies have forgotten that Flying Officer Wills and Wotsername are now actually married, and that she is the Duchess or Countess of some vast acreage of mediaeval  thievery and no longer plain Kate Chav. Never would have happened in Simon Heffer's day.

Heffer, sacked for  anti-Daveism.

I mean, the Filth-O-Graph has had its head up Royalty's arse for so long that it should at least get the titles right.  Jon Sox got it right on C4 News, where he has a job4life, the  smug, worthless shit, he was all over the fact that we have bought the Cuntess, I mean  Countess  a hundred and fifty outfits for her trip, chosen for her by her team of personal shoppers,  in order to fly the ragtrade flag over there among the fat, stupid, French Eskimos, inbreds and fucking morons: And I'm joined here in the studio by Charles Knob, head of KnobFashions.... Sir Charles, What does this mean for the British fashion industry? Well, Jon, Kate is just wonderful for our industry because.... Thanks for that, Sir Knob but over now to Becky Slut,  our Incest and Humiliation editor who has been at Wimbledon, Becky, what about Andy Murray, what can you tell us.....?

Well, thanks,  Jon and that's right, Incest and Humiliation were the order of the day, here,

 as the Dago, Nadal, kicked seven kinds of shit out of Scotland's - or Britain's - Andy Moron

and the  scruffy, sulky prat crashed, grunting, out of yet another semi-final;  I caught up with the arsehole after his defeat and this is what he had to say:

Well, it's tough, you know, I mean, I'm twenty-five, and every day my Mum comes to work with me.  How would you like it?  'Sno wonder I'm a total fuck up;  other players look up there, in the Bimbos Box, and they see their own expensive Bimbo, all long hair and Botox lips and hundred-pound sunglasses, I look up and see me fucking mother, scowling, sour as fucking vinegar, face like an arse,

no wonder I can't keep a bird, no wonder I can't win fuck all....

And I'm joined now by Dr Raj Persaud, television's famous, discredited pop psychiatrist.....

Dishonest Raj, off the Richard and Judy programme.

Raj, what's your take on  all this?  Well, Becky, as I say in my new book, Tennis Incest, Pushy Mothers & Strategies For Coping, this  is what we famous, discredited professionals call a classic case... ....

Raj, we're running out of time;  can you sum it up for us in ten seconds, what's your professional opinion on Judy Murray?  That's easy, Becky, she's a horrible cunt.  And her son, Andy, what effect has all this had on him? As I said, it's a classic case;  he's a horrible cunt, too. 

That was Becky Slut for us there and now back to the Royal Triumph and I'm joined in the studio by the BBC's  Royal Correspondent, Nicholas Witchell, who's travelling with their Serene Highnesses, Prince and Princess Gormless.

The BBC's Royal Editor, Nicholas Witchell, gets to grips with some right Royal dung.

Well, Jon, I must say, it's been a right, Royal triumph, everybody, especially me,  loves His Royal Highness, everybody, especially me,  loves Her Royal Highness, Catherine the Great, as she is becoming known, by me, anyway, and Her Majesty the Queen, too, I love her so deeply I could shit; and we mustn't forget the First Gentleman, His Excellency, Duke Philip, who, let's not forget,  is celebrating his ninetieth year of pointless idleness, even as we speak. Will Brenda jack it in when Phil croaks, abdicate and go and live in Scotland with Billy Connolly?  Who knows, Jon;  royal sources say she might but they're a load of drunken old queers, so who cares what they say, my best guess is that either she will abdicate or she'll stay on the throne, either until she dies, or until some point before that. And our thoughts, too, must go out to our most gracious Prince of Wales, the  Heir to the Throne, as he enjoys a well-deserved break before his next holiday, in the arms of the delightful and ever-popular Queen Camilla Lungface.

The groom's father, worthless, idle bastard and heir to all our stolen money and land and treasures

displays some of the honours given him by his domineering mother; Andy Murray, eat your mother out. I mean your heart.

And of course neither should we forget the unforgettable Princess Di, who would have been celebrating her fiftieth birthday, doubtless by banging a few Muslim playboys or heart surgeons, as only she knew how, if she hadna been bumped off,  that is,  just in the nick of time, or, if you wish, been the unfortunate victim of a common or garden traffic accident, which ended any further embarrassment to anyone and neatly dropped her seventeen million quid divorce  bung right back in the royal coffers.  Didn't leave a fucking brass farthing to charity, she didn't, nothing at all; still, they don't, do they, the royals, give to charity, or any thing else, for that matter, must be hard for them, having to go against what must be their natural instinct, to give all they have to the poor.  And while I'm on the subject of noblesse oblige, one is always struck by young Wills's nobility and compassion - I mean, if my old man had shit all over my old lady from Day One of the pretend marriage, and then, as soon as possible after her death, married the dirty old slag who caused her so much pain then I'd punch his selfish lights out, I mean, he wasn't much better than a nonce, was he, she was only a child when they married, and he just treated her like shit, fucking spoiled bastard.

That was Nick WItchell there for us in Ottawa, or Toronto or whatever boring icy shithole they're in. And now for the business news, it's over to   'Nkwame-'Nkwame Blackfellow, another one of our C4News token coons......

Well, I apologise for that, we seem to have lost 'Nkwame-'Nkwame there and instead, and I'm terribly sorry for any offence caused, we had some anarchist most unfairly attacking the great financial institutions of our time but least said, soonest mended and now we bring you this from our  chief defence correspondent, Alex Toad, at NATO headquarters.

Alex Thompson, C4 News's Chief Wotsit.

Yes, thanks Jon, and as you know, the big question among defence experts is how do you get to be the right kind of wog,  the countable type? We deliberately didn't count them in Iraq,  could be millions of them, dead wogs, all over Arabia  - ancient Sumeria and Mesopotamia, the birthplace of civilisation, now just mass graves and killing fields, dusted with depleted uranium.  And now there's Southern Asia,  too,  plenty there, nobody knows how many. They're  not even politely machine-gunned by  drive-by, helicoptering cowboys, psychobastard Mommasboy freaks but dronedead, killed anonymously by Uncle Sam's remote control, airborne niggerkillers, 

Satan's vengeful aircraft, joysticked  by a crewcut, gobby, flag-waving moron, jerking himself off,  deep inside  some paranoid, catastrophically expensive, CIA mountainside in Virginia; serialkiller Senators with no money for welfare, patriotically sucking the slant-eyed, Chinky money-cock, shovelling trillions into WarCorp, whilst shitting broken bottles at the very thought of a national healthcare system, a filthy, communist, un-fucking-American idea, if ever there was one.

Libya, though, they're being counted there, the dead wogs, even the babies, which no-one has ever bothered with before. Hague the Fag and Thicko Cameron and Sarkozy the Pimp are getting a daily feast of dead babies and  bombed hospitals.  All part of the UN Resolution to prevent civilian casualties, Jon....

But the dead wog babies, Alex, aren't they civilian casualties...?

Well, Jon, good question, but strictly speaking, these are casualties caused by us and so they don't count. Well, only to the casualties, that is;  they are obviously the wrong kind of wogs.  For them to have been the right kind of wogs, they would have to have been killed by Qaddafi;  we're only there to prevent the killing of wogs by Qaddafi...

And so that means.......

Yes, that's right, if he kills his own wogs it's a war crime...

But if we kill them...???

Doesn't matter a fuck, Jon.

These civilian deaths are brought to you by United Nations Resolution 1973.

Dead babies? Don't talk to me about dead babies. My official wife, Ffffffion, has had more miscarriages than I've had hot cocks, I mean dinners. I can show you the X-rays if you like, she won't mind. No,  it is ay matter of very considerable regret, the dead babies, but what would you have me do, admit that I'm ay pompous hypocrite, ay coward, ay windbagging gabshite? It is often remarked upon  by we - if I may say so - gifted parliamentarians that all careers end in dead babies, but mine certainly isn't going to.  We must hold our nerve and keep on killing civilians until Mr or should I say Colonel Qaddafi gives us all the oil and all the money and allows us to kill him,  this, after all, is what UN Resolution 1973 is all about.

Alex Toad, there for us. And just to recap on the main stories.  The Royal family is doing its very best for the nation, buying lots of clothes and going on lots of holidays.  The bankers, the politicians and the media are rightly joining forces to condemn mob action in Greece and anywhere else that ordinary people protest against their so-called  being robbed blind  by pinstripe gangsters and brave NATO pilots are continuing to bomb defenceless  schools and hospitals on behalf of the IMF, I mean on behalf of whatever it says in the resolution.  There'll be more Channel Four News at lunchtime tomorrow and you can keep in touch with me on Twitter and Facebook and at our website - you need never be away from me, in fact. From me and Alex  and the house niggers, goodnight.

Mr Jon Sox, owner of Channel Four News

And in tomorrow night's show, as the Newsnight anchorman grows increasingly irascible and incoherent I'll be asking,  Is Paxman Mad, has he been in the job too long, might it be time for a new face at Newsnight, someone with a sound understanding of sox and ties? Tune in at seven o clock tomorrow, don't miss it.

MATINS. HAND-CLAPPING FOR MR PTB.

THE BEACH BOYS, PLAY IT LOUDLY.

LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION.

I WELCOME THIS POLICE ENQUIRY -

I AM SHITTING MYSELF SO MUCH I CANNOT GO THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Mr Chris  " Chris  " Huhne,

HM  Seckatry of State  for getting wives to take the blame.
(Or is that William Miscarriages Hague ?)

 

I WOULD WELCOME A FULL AND FAR-REACHING COVER-UP, I MEAN AN  ENQUIRY INTO WHY I AM A COMPLETE ARSEHOLE. JUST AS LONG AS IT FOUND, AS THESE THINGS TEND TO, THAT I AM NOT.

Above, Mr Chris Who, his poor, dumped Mrs and his new  partner,
Ms Carmina Cigarillo Burana-Brogues.

Mr Who, one of our favourite Toileteers,  is rumoured to have got his Mrs, before he dumped her for the dyke, to cough to a speeding offence which would have seen his poxed-up arse banned from driving.  A recorded telephone call between Who and his ex does not show the Energy Seckatry in a good light, although it is difficult to imagine circumstances in which Huhne would seem anything other than the prick he is, a nasty bully, like most politicians.  Old Bill is looking into the matter,doubtless in the hope that he and the fuckawful DPP, Starmer, can rule that it is not in the interests of justice.......unlikely to secure a conviction...blah...blah...blah...that cosy sewer in which MediaMinster does not look too closely at outrageously bent or brutal Filth, and  bent and brutal Filth never quite gets the goods on the honourables, unless they're Niggers or Jocks or Northerners.

Whether he's charged and convicted or not Huhne will still prove to be just one more shifty, amoral parasite, estranged, like all Liberal Democrats  from Truth and Decency.  Should the horrible fucking bastard have to quit the field, temporarily or for Wormwood Scrubs, the Coalition of Doom can console itself that it has another Decent, Truthful senior - how can you be senior, among a gang of turds in suits? - LibDem in waiting, in the form of Mr David Laws; one crook out, another crook in.

Huhne wasn't, like Laws, able to pretend to have shopped himelf, by, once he'd been found out, referring himself to some MickyMouse Commons Committee of Self-protection but it was great, nevertheless, how he pompously annonced, in a very guilty-looking interview, how much he  welcomed the police attention, wasn't it;  Huhne could hardly say, I don't welcome this police attention, now, could he, him a bloated lawmaker, generally shitting in our faces. It would be lovely if he was charged and convicted but if he's not it's still hard to see how even a shitbag like Huhne can emerge entirely unscathed by this and faced with the likes of Clegg, Cable, Hughes, Laws and Huhne, it's a wonder Mr CallHimDave can keep a straight face.

ARMY NEWS. BY OUR DEFENCE CORRESPONDENT, MS VICKY TITS, WHOSE HUSBAND IS A SERVING OFFICER, UNFORTUNATELY FOR HER CAREER PROFILE, STILL ALIVE.

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WOTSONTELLY. A BEACHED WHALE.

It's said that Ludwig van Beethoven, mad and deaf, had to be turned around to see the applause of the audience at the first performance of his Ninth symphony; it is a poignant example of Art really being created for its own sake, written over decades, never to be heard by its composer; if you cried, you know you'd fill a lake with tears.

Biographies have revealed that he was stone mad, as well as stone deaf, how could he not be? His diaries read, Monday: engaged housekeeper, Monday afternoon, dismissed housekeeper; Tuesday morning: engaged housekeeper, Tuesday morning, dismissed housekeeper, just couldn't get the staff, those days - I know how he felt, it has been a long time since I have been even content with the efforts of anyone I have engaged to do anything for me, and if I ever was, it was only because I was stupider then than I am now.

Outside his muses, Beethoven's relationships were shit, nobody really knows who Elise was and his closest known relationship was up and down, one-sided, with his nephew, he infuriated friends and patrons alike and sank, eventually, into tragic, lonely deafness. Doesn't matter a fuck, at least not to us -  sonatas, quartets, concerti, symphonies, opera, among the greatest ever to be pulled from whoknowswhere and written down, sometimes sixteen lines at a time, for the rest of us to hear, to weep and wonder at, the quality of genius, troubled, ailing, non-conformity bursting out of the shadows, outshining wretched normalcy, provoking, captivating and enchanting the Earthbound.

I listen to the Beach Boys now and again, normally in the Summer - Little Deuce Coupe, I Get Around, Barbara Ann, Help Me Rhonda; Fun, Fun, Fun and on into the sublime God Only Knows, Good Vibrations, Heroes and Villains; perfect pop songs, albeit snippets of white, verging on redneck Americana; Chuck Berry, sanitised in four-part harmony, carsangirls, loveanmarriage, California girls and beach parties, all summer long......Before he became too much for himself and disappeared into bed, sandpits, drugs and therapy, Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys' composer, arranger, and producer, pissed all over everybody, including the Beatles, crafting his pet sounds into  popular songs and albums rated as among the best ever. Ever.

Jools Holland, however, is rubbish. He suits the BBC, though, what with his clunking, faux Edwardianism, his midget suits with too many buttons and pockets and his arse-clenchingly embarrassing interviewing style, ladeezangennulmen; he wasn't even the main man of his original band, Squeeze, a no-account bunch of Cockney wankers, still, sans Jools, performing their handful of miserable chart-toppers, in tiny concerts, unplugged, at any opportunity. Christ alfuckingmighty, bad enough we endlessly revisit the 'sixties - although there were hugely important societal changes in that overfluffed celebrity decade - the 'seventies and 'seventies 'ensembles don't bear thinking about.  Squeeze and Jools Holland, who the fuck are they?

I don't know many people but I must have known a good half-dozen who could play better barrelhouse piano than Holland - and as for his R and B Orchestra, well, you wouldn't go and see them if they were playing in your back garden. Jools sings, but he shouldn't, he has no voice. He's like a Bruce Forsyth-lite, for our times, doing duets with the proper stars, only he can't sing or dance, like Brucie does. Rock icon, Carol Vorderman, was on the show, tonight, often it's the bints from AbsFabs, R and B legends like Krishnan Guru Murty, off Channel Four News, a charmed circle of Celebrity shits, drinking our money and cheering any old rubbish, as though any of them gave a fuck about music. Time it was scrapped and Joolsie sent off to his wardrobe studies, producer Mark Cooper sent to work on the Archers. There have been seriously important artists on the show, for sure, - although Seasick Steve isn't one of them - but Holland is an intolerable, smirking, over-promoted prick and the format - of us watching liggers, media whores and Z-list cclebrity cocksuckers cheering to order - makes tabloid the occasionally excellent. Who says that this little tosser must be the vehicle through which popular music is presented, this isn't intelligent music broadcasting, this is Goddamned fucking Hobbitry.

Brian Wilson was on the Jools show tonight and he shouldn't have been. Fronting his own Beach Boys tribute band, a slew of session men, singing all the parts and playing most of them, Wilson perched on a stool, gutty and goitred, playing nothing, barely singing, waving his arms like a loony at the mental hospital long-term residents' Christmas Party, making wavey gestures with his fingers, in time to Good-good-goo-ood-Vibrations, an offence against Man and God. Lord, how the studio crowd loved it.

It doesn't matter, much, that Bob Dylan grunts and wheezes his way through his own repertoire; instrumental flawlessness, sophisticated arrangements and heavenly harmonies were never his stock-in-trade, on the contrary, swift Chaos, unrehearsed, wrought his ensemble meisterwerks, often first takes, recorded live and people, maybe too young to know any better, still visit his dreary concerts, it doesn't matter, man's a legend, people have bootlegs of his kettle boiling, his dog barking. In concert, Paul McCartney plays Beatles' songs much better than did the Beatles, and generally that's saying something. The Rolling Stones do what they've always done, play a load of old dross, illuminated by selections from their two or three exceptional albums, nobody overvalues the Stones, just as long as they get to hear Keef Richards riffing in open-G, like he was a bluesman, or something.

But Brian Wilson, tonight, a madman in an empty room full of heartless strangers; a third-rate, jive-talking emcee, who believes that his being there, gobbing, dignifies the unforgiveable, is all; and one of the very few musical  classics of our times is trashed by its composer. Watch it and weep.

A TERRIBLE PERSONAL TRAGEDY.

LAWS AND LUNDIE, HOUSING BENEFIT CHEATS. BLESS.

 ANOTHER SEVEN DAYS OFF WORK

LORD SILLY FUCKER. THE WRONG SORT OF HOUSING BENEFITS CHEAT.

OUT IN TWO.

ANY DAY NOW, ANY WAY NOW, I SHALL NOT BE RELEASED.

one of our submarines is missing

More than one, actually. Stuff has gone. Posts and comments and ree-plies to comments. Blogger was unavailable this morning, maybe o'erloaded with people blogging about the foxtrotting nincompoop Vince Mabel, I mean Cable, silly old woman, Cable the Unstable on QT last night - which was certainly a topic vexing your correspondent - together with some mad Tory bint, his partner in crime; also there was Blind Boy Blunkett, talking about his wife -is that his wife as in his wife or his wife as in LittleLadsRUs, in which the silly old fucker manages to impregnate someone else's wife, just as though she was his wife and then, when spurned, set MI5 on the silly slut, who was, by all accounts, a bit of a Westminster bicycle?  I think we should be told, whenever Blunky is waxing lyrical about wives, just whose wife he's on about, the horrible fucking git, gives disability a bad name, that cunt. Spanky Max Mosley,was on, too, grinning and chortling like he was sitting on a seat with no bottom and someone was underneath, dressed in an SS uniform, flogging his arse with a bullwhip,  he was a waste of space, actually, one expects better from a rich flagellant than that,  and there was some  cliche-spouting fuckwit nobody, off Radio London or something, one almost felt sorry for Dimbles, surrounded by pouting, moist, talking arseholes, like he was in The Naked Lunch and not on the BBC, or the CIA Broadcasting Authority.

Saw that huge, fat fuck, Mark Mardell, last night, too, the BBC's North America - ie Washington - correspondent or editor or whatever these wankers call themselves, when they're not all queueing-up to play Pantomime Dames on This Week, with Jocky Neil, and he must have tripled in avoirdupois since he got Justin Webb's job as mouthpiece for  WhiteHouseInc, just blethering, unquestioningly, the latest press release from Uncle Sam's gang of organised criminals, it was as though he was reading it from an autocue, Anyone we kill is legally killed because the Attorney General says so.  Thisnis the greatest nation on |Earth, ever, because we say so. I  bet we're paying this cunt a a hundred grand a year for this nonsense, and supporting his family of fat children and fat wife in some luxury, could have been worse, though, could have been Jon Sox, Channel Four's Job-for-lifer, and he would have been down on his knees fellating any passing Democrat Congressman, the worthless piece of shit .

Mabel Cable, anyway, the shameless, worthless old cocksucker, was  telling us how great it would be if David Laws could find his way back into public life.  And there was the rest of us thinking that being an MP was, sto all intents and purposes, being in public life.  I suppose, when you don't ever turn up for work but stay at home, sulking like Gordon Snot or sulking  and counting your stolen money like this revolting shithead,  Laws, then actually all you are in is receipt of state benefits, awarded once every four or five years, in the festival of competitive promising. Proper public life, according to Cable,  means being in the cabinet of doom, regularly humiliated and demoted. Or being on Strictly Come Dancing.

If anyone can explain the doings of Blogger - I am sure I posted on Laws and mr ptb responded, and sure that I answered several earlier comments -  please send a message in a bottle. And herewith my apologioes to those whose comments prompted ree-plies, now disappeared. Off, now, to search the garden for little Maaaahdlin McCann;  she has to be out here somewhere, that's what Gerry and Cilla say, and they should know.

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

 THERE NOW FOLLOWS A NOT EVEN A PISS-UP IN A BREWERY PARTY BROADCAST.

A MESSAGE FROM THE CUPBOARD OF MR NICK GIMP, MP, THE UNELECTED DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER, IN WITH THE BROOMS AND MOP BUCKETS, UNDERNEATH THE STAIRS,

 TEN DOWNING STREET.

Mr Nick Gimp:

My fellow Toiletpersons. In the light of our stunning victory in the elections and in the referendum I have decided that under my leadership we must now blow our own trumpets a bit more, I mean cocks, we must blow our own cocks a bit more,  no… no……I don’t mean that, I do mean trumpets,  a Jeremy Thorpe moment, there, or do I mean Charlie Kennedy or David Laws or Simon Hughes or, Oh, take your prick,  I mean pick, blow our own trumpets, that's it…….Am I asking myself to blow my own cock?  Of course I'm not. I didn't come into govament to do this stuff, but if self-fellation is in the interest of the nation.  I'm not in this to be popular. Which is just as well

Straight Simon Hughes:

Make your mind up duckie, trumpets, trombones,

which is it, not that it matters to me because I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. And of course if the party asked me to stab you up the arse, I mean in the back, I would be compelled to serve the party which is my first priority and not going off to Spain on holiday every five minutes.......

Mr Chris Who:

My cock is entirely green.
Energy minister, Mr Who, his poor old Mrs and his new partner,
as they call them, Ms Carina Cigarillo-CarpetMuncher. 

Just because I left my wife for a lesbian doesn't mean I'm a Liberal Democrat, no, of course it doesn't, I'm a multi-millionaire and that's why I can identify so much with all these cripples and blind fuckers but that's no reason for them to clog up the Westminster thoroughfares, making it difficult for Ministers like myself to roar past in a green convoy of motorcycles, armoured RangeRovers and three-litre limousines. And anyway, anything anyone says about me is all lies and I'll sue them.  I've got the money, you know. Nick Clegg? Man's a cunt. 

Disconsolate Scottish LibDems head North for the last JockLib redoubt of Orkney and Shetland, where, unknown to them,  they will probably be burnt at a Presbyterian stake.

Mr Big Al "Big Al" Carmichael, MP,
Orkney and Shetland.

Do you know I get to go in and out of Downing Street? All the time. Almost.
(from Big Al's weekly fan letter to himself in the Orkney&Shetland Catechism, circulation 127)

What, men and men, together, you mean, Och No, we don't do that sort of thing here, certainly not. The Lord is my shepherd and he maketh me not to lieth down with other men and lick their bottoms;  well, only in London, anyway, and at Party Conferences. Blow Nick Clegg? Well, He did make me chief whip, so fair's fair, a man's a man for a' that, as we say in Scotland, or we would, if we had any MSPs there, which now we don't. Thanks to Mr Clegg.

NOT THE REASON WHY

It's just one of those remorseless milestones on Ruin's highway,  as you come upon them the heart sinks a little further,  the knees buckle a fraction more, the shoulders stoop  themselves;  it's just another example of the moronic gobsters shitting all over everything, including our precious language,  and of their turds of wisdom fertilising the ghastly managerialist patois which befouls the public - and probably the private - discourse.  Clearly, on balance, in a sense, in a very real sense, I simply say, a myriad of, at the end of the day, the bottom line, end of; of course the Devil, as ever, is in the detail; hindsight is a wonderful thing, you simply cannot underestimate the importance of this;  a gobbledegook of clumsy, infelicitous phrases strung together like sausages in a facetious,  clodhopping attempt to convey eloquence, erudition, even; the purveyors of this claptrap were probably never  aware that hopefully is an adverb, or even of  what an adverb is.

It wouldn't be so bad if it was just  Celebrity, gobbing away like this but it's Power, too, and Academe, lazy and stupid, they may as well be blowing bubbles.  One hears and reads govament ministers, jumped-up seckatries of this-and-that who wouldn't - at their current age - pass the eleven-plus,  so grossly malformed, imprecise, ambiguous and downright ugly is their spoken and written English.  The BBC - or Radio CIA  as it has recently reinvented itself;   these Oxbridge Atlanticists, what are they like, eh? - its cabal of job-for-life idiot presenters wallowing in Estuary solecisms, no longer quietly guards the language, is no longer an exemplar,  while Mark Beardy and Alan Yentob are paid millions,  the arseholes. Editorials in the broadsheets  are littered with sentences which aren't and the numbskulls who  leave university with degrees can neither read, write, speak nor add-up.

Seems a little perverse, then,  to object to  one more idiocy, one more tautologism, why bother, who gives a fuck, not the UPM, fluent in shitespeak, not the foreign seckatry, a man whose clunking cadences jerk up and down like a fiddler's elbow, a man who thinks he dignifies his creaking rhetoric by making all of his ays long ones, yet a man who is lauded by his fellow parliamentarians as ay most scholarly fellow, even though he is ay noisesome poltroon. Wasn't BlindBoy Blunkett Education seckatry, isn't Alan Sugar in the House of Lords, isn't Adrian Choylds the new Voice of the Nation, or is it Chris Moyles or, God help us all, Chris the gobby nonce Evans?

Object we must, though, if only to comfort ourselves momentarily, to help steel ourselves, quicken our own step,  against  Ruin's backward quick-march. I know you, and you know me.....we come together rarely in peace and love but  in sonnets of disquiet,  commentaries of outrage - you know, Who the fuck do they think they're talking to, this garland of nincompoops, slung unwontedly around our necks,  these people who bleat about falling standards, heedless that they, all over the media like the pox, are instigators, culprits not victims.

It is not for media consumption but for myself and my friends my stories are sung, nothing here is going to change the world  nor be deemed Art and some here will recall my young friend, stanislav, railing against the apostrophe Jihadists, those, still around, still nit-picking, cheese-paring, hair splitting like spiv Tory lawyers, who would by dint of their lifelessness, their faux-grammarianism ,halt or dismember, make joyless this people's forum,   and who would, bucket of cold watering,  claim to have dismissed a post or an individual comment simply by having gleefully complained that an apostrophe was in the wrong place or absent, even though their own, mean rebuttals were often a linguistic and intellectual desert. Pray, let us not be so infantile, was the burden of stanislav's song.  It is  not vernacular prose rough-hewn or inadvertence or  educationally short-changed  ignorance to which he objected   but  to the well-educated turned language-fashionista, to those privileged by grammar or private schooling   who are so contemptible;  lazy, stupid  and self satisfied, not for them the internalised self-editor whose rigour so polices many of us here,  they don't have to think about what they are saying,  these mediapolitico pricks,  or how they say it,  they are just cheap shits, in love with the sound of their own rank, turgid voices, bleating in chorus, singing, as they never fail to say, from the same hymnsheet,  on a level playing field, not moving the goalposts. 

In the 'forties, effete, public schoolboy layabout, George Orwell, wrote a furiously grand, snobby essay on the subject of politics and the English language and I will reproduce it here, eventually, it is uncannily prescient - you can hear the 'forties counterparts  of the likes of Blair and Straw and Hague and Cameron burbling away meaninglessly, arrogant, conceited and empty-headed, soundbiting in cheesy concert -  and reveals that this coarsening, this watering-down  of language's precision and invention has been on the march for some time;  who among us, here, would try to outguess its pitiless, vulgar legions? Well, now that the media nation, MediaMinster, is transformed into  no more than  a downmarket talking shop, I would. Statesmen, speechwriters, orators, my arse.

It was the reason why, which so recently bugged me ;  you know how these things happen,  you notice something once and then it's everywhere, these tautolgisms are all around, in the air and on the ground.  The reason why Prince Gormless is marrying Miss Totty;  the reason why Osama bin Wotsit was killed;  the reason why the Coalition has come together not in the interests of its members - fuck no -  but in the national interest;  the reason why AyVee is shit and the reason why it is cool to kill Gadaffi's grandchildren, collateralise the wee nignogs,  as Air Vice Marshall Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap would regretfully bluster it away, the cunt. The reason why these children were killed by us is because unfortunately these things happen in war, even though we are not at war.

And I nearly found  myself advancing, here,  the reasonwhy there has been a dearth of commentary in these quarters -  the wee policeman, though, an eternal sentinel, some chiding hybrid of Miss Boulter and Mr Hill, threw me down my internal  stairs, bless him.

The reason  is that, after a fashion, we dried up; we lonesome, insomniacal obsessives shouldn't take holidays, for if we do they throw us off our stride, completely. It didn't help that the ten days were spent without passport to cyberspace, its instantaneousness of everything. I have been driving around the UK for a longtime, now, been up and down her highways as far as my eye could see and I have always been able to finish up exactly where I wanted to be, you look at a map,  you just watch the signs,  there's millions of them,  or you can always pull-over and ask someone - you might find someone who can visualise things and give you concise, useful direction - but if you can read you can find your way, Oh, all around the country.  We've been doing it for millennia. But if GlobaCorp has its way we shall all soon short-circuit what, over aeons, became hard-wired, countless little electrical antennae attuned to who knows what electro-magnetic global grid,  what we haltingly call a sense of direction.  It's like that thing we see, sometimes, at the supermarket checkout,  the thing which reads the barcodes malfunctions and throws-up some fantastical, impossible price and so estranged is she by technology from simple mental arithmetic that the girl on the till cannot conceive of  the fact that this meagre basket of baked beans and tuna and white bread  simply cannot amount to over a hundred pounds, if the technology says it is so, then, by God, or onmybabbyslife, it is so.  The electronic calculator, the barcode reader,  the satnav,  living gloriously in the work 'til you drop future, we willingly permit them to burgle our brains, ransacking them of our wits.  Hey, babe, are you going to the Feelies tonight?

So this multi-lingual, trans-continental satellite navigation system, in the Robo-Citroen, was, for my purposes,  absolutely redundant and probably, like the mobile phone, a nasty harbinger of GlobaCorp Control Systems.  No, for me,  that manifestation of information technology is as welcome as warm snot on a doorknob.  Google, though, is my rod and my staff;  my help cometh even from Microsoft Windows, who made Heaven and Earth, I will lift up mine eyes unto Firefox Three;  the search engine is my Shepherd, I shall not want, surely Goodness and Mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in cyberspace forever - which, of course, shall we all - as it happened in the beginning, is happening now and shall ever be happening.  Fucked without the Internet, I was.

Ducking into netcafes and libraries for half an hour here and there, strangers keyboarding furiously, hemming me in   at my shoulders, no access to my Picasa library of freaks and knobheads, blog and email passwords forgotten, it was shit and so I gave up, until I could be at home, always so good to be back home again.  Meantime,  I read William Burroughs and shopped in one of those larcenous shitholes which rejoice in the name of Antiques Centre - sharp-faced, greedy harridans lying without restraint, Yes, it is Victorian,  the fender,  it only looks so shiny because we use a special process to clean it up, yes and the brand new screws and the brand new  washers, they are part of the special process.  It was grim sport, venturing among the unGodly and reminded us of how we cherish our relative isolation here in Scotland, the best part of England.

And talking of which, another reasonwhy  there have been a few weeks of relative absenteeism, is the largesse with your money of First Minister Salmond and the Tribesmen.  A day after returning home,  a big parcel arrived from the Scottish govament, as they insist on calling it.  So big it was, that it came on a pallet, a new, energy efficient  central heating system; a big, fuck-off, external  combi boiler,  eight radiators, a new two thousand litre fuel tank and all the knobs and pipes and detectors and alarms and programmers;  the lads were a week installing it, carpets up, floorboards up, walls drilled with brightly coloured Makita drills, pipes bent and forced through walls thirty-two inches thick,  bookcases emptied, furniture dismantled, hotwater cylinders removed, dust and shit and packaging everywhere, manic plumbers and engineers and sparkses determinedly pressing-on, to the next installation and the next.  The cost was getting on for nine grand, my contribution was  about eight hundred and, since they offered,  I took a loan for it, interest free, repayable over about eight years.  It is, of course, this sort of thing, and the scrapping of prescription charges,  as much as a righteous loathing of the MacToiletmen, which has seen Salmond, in his own mind, at least, crowned Emperor. 

I know that I should have said, Hang about, this is a Barnett Formula freebie too far, no, thank you, Sir, I will stick with my existing CH system, and my Rayburn and my coal fires,  I fucking hate radiators anyway, they leak, it's a nasty heat and they occupy walls in a way which restricts the deployment of furniture;  actually, I don't mind being a bit cold,  even though it's not a good  idea to be shivering when one has the former fag and former baconsandwich arteries, grinding and contracting, Mr Death's artificers morbidly modifying my life support piping.  And there was a time when I would have said, No, don't want it, let somebody else have it - diffident and painfully self denying, we Zen-Presbyerian-Marxists - but as Mr Doctor John the Night Tripper remarked, If I Don't Do It, Somebody Else Will.  I am sure that the UPM, Mr CallHimDave, would go into one - I don't pay my taxes for Mr Ishmael to walk around his house bollock naked in the middle of Winter, no, like most decent people I pay my taxes to fire half-million pound Cruise missiles at wogs in Libya,  that's what taxpaying ststesmen like me and Mr Sarkozy the Dwarf and Signor Berlusconi the Pimp pay our taxes for, if we have to pay any that is, which seems most unfair if we do.  

Seemed silly, not to take it, when it was offered, and anyway we retained the old, warm-air system, trunked through the house with more hardware than B & Q's got, easy on the  sinuses and hard on the damp.  Grinning grins all day long  of blithe acceptance and understanding at the workmen as they sought vainly to explain one aspect or another of combi-boiler technology and then,when they had gone, squatting in some unfamilar place at some unfamiliar surface, maybe with a telly or a washing machine on in the background made blogging impossible. The young can do this stuff, I see them laptopping away in the most unlikely places, maybe travellers, like mr jgm2 or mr yaic do it perforce, and manage without a mouse, but I can't, I need to sit down in quiet, at my own desk,  without hindrance.  Just a personal ritual, not just a ritual, the establishment of a productive environment, always been thus.  I remember, in the 'eighties, hearing Ruin's  children condescendingly explain to me that having Radio One on helped them with their homework, no, really, you have an attitude problem, Ishmael, that's your trouble. The days when we might properly - in everyone's interest - correct or even rebuke the young are long gone, now, washed away in a floodtide of over-protective consumer sentimentality;  luvemtobitsmykids, although, of course, such is self-love, mere, worthless, watered-down love.

So there it is, disorientated to the Nth. degree,  abroad, adrift, banished from cyberspace, marooned among heathen Godless motherfuckers and then, returning  home  to the unexpected, unsheduled  doings of Chaos.  But it's nearly over.  The lads just need to return and make the boiler work .  The sparks wired the  whole thing the wrong way 'round. Other than that, other than it not working at all, it's working fine. I am expecting them anytime from last Friday onwards but of course by now they will be on another job, destroying someone else's hard-won equilibrium, my malinstallation and its remedy erased from their minds.

The people in charge, when the space shuttles went to toast, they knew about it all, the O rings, the missing tiles,  there wasn't any need for all that shit to happen; maybe, like my plumber-engineers, they were just too busy being clever, maybe getting on with something else, the next mission, that they completely missed the point of their endeavour. There will be some jargon phrase for this phenomenon, some geekspeak, meant to mollify, exculpate and neutralise, something from the same shitty  lexicon as collateral damage   It can't be this way everywhere, can it? A monkey wrench up their arses, or a slide rule,  that's the remedy.

Back, anyway, to Decency's barricades and as  la belle haughty, Lennox,  insists, poppily, it's good to be back home again

NATO TO SHELL SCOTLAND YARD. SECURITY FORCES MUST STOP KILLING CITIZENS.

The marching yellow columns  of daffodils are all but  keeling over,  here in the North,  but the tulips surprise and delight still,  the whitebeam are in silver leaf,  the willow, the ash and the alder almost curtain the sea views  and the rosa rugosa is  on horticultural amphetamine. It is a sight which every year charms,  which every year - so far -  retains its immunity to events.

I don't know if the late Mr Ian Tomlinson saw much of  Spring's magic but there are parks and gardens in abundance in London and anyway, every year, just like you and I, he would have felt, Ah, just a tee-shirt, today,  that's nice.  He was ill and older than he once was, no reason for him to be used as sport by some sadistic mutant, togged-up in the State's bully clothes;  poor, inconsequential people like us,  who would steal our Springs from us?

I would.

Watching the phoneclips of the assault on Mr Tomlinson I was struck by the failure of the offender's colleagues to arrest him immediately;  he was surrounded by constables, all pledged to uphold the Queen's Peace,  they all saw him do it; whichever pig is snorting around on the top floor of Scotland Yard must have seen him do it;  the DPP must have seen him do it,

State terrorism stooge, Keir Shameless.

skymadeupnewsandfilth saw him do it;    The great ToryLiberalHypocrite Coalition all saw him do it,  Ed Milliband saw him do it, MI5 saw him do it;  the Chiefs of the Defence Staff saw him do it;  the editor of the Filth-O-Graph saw him do it; Prince fucking Gormless saw him do it;  in fact, anyone who is not blind saw him do it; why hasn't this thug been arrested?

Had Mr Tomlinson been engaged in any sort of bad behaviour  then a case might have been made for PC Cunt acting under duress, provocation, but the poor bastard was just walking down the street, and this example of London's finest had already flung several other people to the ground, unchallenged by his mates, freaks in uniform, pissing on democracy, their dicks lovingly held by MediaMinster.  This bloke was a homeless acloholic, why shouldn't the police kill him, doing us all a favour.

Estimates of deaths in UK state custody vary, one a week, one a fortnight, three hundred and fifty over the last ten years, no copper  has ever been convicted, indeed, recently, one sergeant thug, happily throwing a woman around his custody suite, had his brief custodial sentence o'erturned by a sympathetic judge. Increasinglt we see examples of outright criminal police brutality on our streets, as we march, whistling, back to the 'thirties, gangster profits privatised , gangster losses nationalised.  And all in power turn a blind eye, one bad apple-ing. Never mind that, they pontificate, Look over here, at Libya, where the state is attacking its citizens,  here is a chance for the nation to rehabilitate its degenerate foreign seckatry, to elevate its wretched unelected prime minister  to the level of statesman.  And if Mr Tomlinson sees no more Springs, well, that's a price worth paying for having a police force which is rightly the envy of the world.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room
About the woodland I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Unless, of course, Mr Piggy has other plans for your life.

NORMAL SERVICE

The holiday cottage has wifi, said  mrs ishmael, so you'll be ok, only it hasn't, it has the idea of wifi.  The owners are aware of he concept of wifi, it's just that it doesn't work and the Yorkshire libraries' broadband  is more  like slenderband.  Had really hoped to cybercelebrate the nuptials, especially since the Met's Commander Christine Dyke has warned us that "people have three hundred and sixty four other days in which to protest,  so we will take appropriate action against people seeking to spoil the celebration" - honest, not invent, step this way for Ruritania, or Bolshevik Russia.  Nest stop Leek in Staffs, from where we might be able discuss the Benefits cheats big fat gipsy wedding. Oh ,happy day.

WOTSONTELLY. BBC ARENA, GEORGE MARTIN, BEATLES STILL FOR SALE

YELLOW SUBMARINE. YES, DEFINITELY STRINGS, A FULL ORCHESTRA.
YEAH, GEORGE, THAT'S WHAT I THINK, TOO.
'COS IT, LIKE, HAS A LORRA MEANING, THAT SONG.

No doubt the tellydroids would urge us that a timely reappraisal of George Martin, Sir George of Beatlemania, is timely, and that Monday night's hymn of praise to him is a timely reappraisal, the fifth Beatle, he was, you know, and a great human being, aye, tell it to Pete Best.

With Martin's help, The Beatles destroyed rock'n'roll; that some poor numbskulls believe that recording cymbals backwards is a stroke of genius - how the fuck would anyone know, anyway, backwards or forwards, a cymbal is just a cymbal? - just shows the power of what we now call the Industry and its stooges, all across skymadeupnewsandfilth - Rolling Stone, Q Magazine, Radio One, all engaged in mutual masturbation with succeeding kings of the studio.

What the Beatles and their corporate masters did was consumerise disturbed teenage hormones, male and female and coincidentally rob much of my generation of what critical faculties they may have developed. Rowing with them, sad old men, over at The Guardian one can almost smell, through cyberspace, the inhaled heart attack medicine of silly old farts, duped and confused into thinking their silly teenages were part of a movement, aghast and outraged that not everybody thinks Strawberry Fields Forever sublime,

There is no question that much of the early Beatles repertoire is enchanting, magical, timeless music but if we look at the decades of tripe, progrock and concept albums, double and triple - mr mongoose can fill in the gaps, name the guilty - ushered in by the sorry druggy doggerel, the overblown bombast of Sergeant Pepper we see their real, corrosive impact on popular culture; I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in, to stop my mind from wonderin', where it will go, Jesus wept, what a load of old shite. Among many intolerably pretentious gabshites The Electric Light Orchestra, those prancing dummies, are down to Martin.

Guardian commenters misattribute, well, everything, really but specificallyNoel Coward, putting his words in the noisesome mouth of railways enthusiast and KylieMeister, Mr Pete "Pete" Waterman. It was Noel Coward, said that thing, about No one ever lost money underestimating the taste of the British Public, the sayings of StationMaster Waterman are, like his music, rather less acerbic but Noel was right. Millions, including, probably, these sad old gits above, pondered the meaning of Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite, even though there wasn't any and flocked, later, to learn the latest aphorisms of bullyboy, wife-beating, smackhead Lennon, pontificating from inside a bag or a bed, on peace and love, the horrible bastard.

One can imagine, four squabbling Scousers, stoned out of their gourds, one in the corner, thumbs-upping, singing a music hall tune, one chain-smoking himself to HareKrishna death, the dopey one at the back, trying to count his fingers and the vicious, angry peacenik with the stupid glasses - Hey George, you're the maestro, I wanna have a sound like, you know, like penguins, man, eating cornflakes, while riding motor bikes, only, like, they have to be ridin' 'em underwater..... you know, 'cos I'm a genius, Yoko says so, and like, she's an artist, she don't look back. No, problem, boys, what key do you want it in????? Er, like wossakey then, George, you takin' the piss?

Chuck Berry produced the definitive rock'nroll music. And even though he took our childhoods to jail with him, Phil Spector wrote the insane, joyous book on rock'n'roll production - then he asked me to be his bride, always be right by his side, I felt so happy I almost cried, and then he shot me. Holly, Spector, Berry and a host of US black groups, they informed the genius years of the Beatles, Martin helped them wank themselves dry, a novelty record producer, too pleased with himself to say No. Bob Dylan, the miserable, croaking, sourfaced old git, lacking the input of a trickster like Martin, still produces the occasional triumph, the occsional number one album; McCartney, meantime, fronts his own tribute band, Hey-Judeing his life away.

Time, of course, will tell, who has fell but all these people, investing so much of themselves in the frothy, lightweight and meaningless entertainment of their youth, making genius of over-indulgence seem to have the critical faculties of a lamp post; Please, Please Me, I Wanna Hold Your Hand, Thank You Girl, Things We Said Today, I'm Looking Through You, Eight Days A Week, these were truly great examples of popular song, if they want to hear harpsichord, they should listen to Handel, If they want to hear string quartets they might try Beethoven, but if they wanna hear some of that rock and roll music they should avoid Martin's dreary Sergeant Pepper like the plague. Thinking outside the box, Aye, right. That Beatlemania still dominates the lives of so many sheds some light on how it is that CallHimDave can so effortlessly march us back, whistling, to the 'thirties.

The rockumentary was as bad as one might have guessed in advance. McCartney and Martin reminiscing on their joint, inspired greatness, the mutant, Starkey, grinning, with Sir George at his percussive triumphs, although never onscreen in the company of Fab Sir Paul

As to the historical/social commentary aspect of this dreadful piece of fanshit, the most significant event of the early 'sixties was not the release of Love Me Do - as so many insist - or anything else but the introduction, in 1961, by Health Minister, Enoch Powell, of the contraceptive pill, that, now, was truly transformational. That was proper Baby You Can Drive My Car stuff.

EASTER MATINS AT YORKMINSTER

I was in York Minster on Easter Sunday and his grace, Archbishop John, was glad-handing the pilgrims on their way out. Acting in my capacity as a member of the counter-press, I asked him if he was sticking to his pledge of not changing his underpants until Bob Mugabe had been lynched, boiled-up and eaten, Bless you, my son, he grinned.  I couldn't smell his underpants, even though it was a hot day and he was well wrapped up in archbishop clothes, so who knows, him and his Saviour, I guess. I woudn't be at all surprised if he was wearing underpants made of cloth of gold, handsewn by some scrubbed and shrivelled Anglican nuns, especially for him, fringed with diamonds, and had been hullshitting the Faithful all along, about him and Uncle Bob and his self-denial of bodily hygiene.  I mean, being an archbishop, he wouldn't expect to be walking around York, all greasy and shitty in the down below department. He certainly didn't look as though he hadn't changed his underpants for five years.  I missed his sermon but saw, instead, right afterwards, the Choral Matins, locked behind iron gates in the  Quire;  there were only about a hundred of us, virtually outnumbered by choristers and deans and precentors and crippled, old sidesmen demanding money.  I gave them a tenner, what his late revoltingness, the phoney reverend, Ian Sypillis Paisley, used to call a silent donation, and was glad to get out of there alive.  But the music was fantastic, I had never heard any of it, psalms and anthems in settings by Victorian devouts, as it was happening in the beginning, is happening now and will carry on happening, alleleuia, amen. And there were only a couple of readings by the dean and some other dude, short and to the point - Do as God fucking tells you. That'll do until Christmas, save to reflect that a life ordered by the Church calendar obviously has its leisurely attractions, its comforts, especially when the regular rituals are performed in such a setting, glass and wood and stone, its shapers' hands long coffin dust, its restoration and repair as constant as Time.

UPM: BOOTS ON GROUND NOT BOOTS ON GROUND.

 Captain Flashman, at military training college

 By the right, quick march into Vietnam-style disaster.

Right, right, right-right-right.

Adhering to his theme of cuts not being cuts, unemployment not being unemployment, inflation not being inflation and university fees not really going up, even though they are,  the unelected prime minister, Mr David Flashman  and his slaphead chum, Mr William Miscarriage Hague,  insisted today that British troops going into Libya weren't British troops going into Libya but something else entirely - they were British Troops Going Into Libya In An Advisory Role, it wasn't a question of them being soldier-type troops, fuck no, these were just officer soldiers, so not really soldiers at all, more like troops, but not really troops, more like social worker troops, peace troops, with pistols, but not the sort of pistols used for shooting people, well, not exclusively for shooting people, anyway. Asked what else you might use pistols for, the unelected prime minister siad that pistols could be used for humanitarian purposes such as knocking-in tent pegs. Yes, yes, hammers and mallets were the proper thing but they couldn't be used for shooting Libyan conscripts, not that the British troops, who weren't troops, anyway, would be doing that shit, at least not unless they had to, in about a week's time.. Or whenever.  

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH, AY VEE CAN RAISE THE DEAD.

The late Field Marshal Lord Paddy "Paddy" Pantsdown PC,  former Leadet of the Dogshooters, former UN Supreme Excellency in  Bosnia Herzegovena and all around arsehole, emerged from his crypt, yesterday, to say that the Tories shouldn't be cunting Mr Clegg over the referendum which isn't on everybody's lips, other than when they say, as most people do, if that worthless, shiteating, pussywhipped, mommasboy cocksucker,  Clegg,  is for it, I'm against it, whatever it is.

I was only unfaithful to my wife the once; alright, it was for seventeen years, but we've got over it, especially now that I'm dead.

Emerging from his tomb in the SAS regimental cemetery, Lord Pantsdown said that he had never heard such low jibes as those which the No campaigners were making about his leader, Mr Nick Cunt.  Even in the grave, he said, his piercing blue eyes  squinting  and staring into the distance, I can hear them, those fucking Tory cunts, making personal remarks about Nick Cunt, it really is too bad for those public school wankers, like that snooty cunt Osborne,  to be making personal remarks like that. When I was leader of my party I wouldn't have stood for the brownhatter, Simon Hughes, slagging-off Peter Tatchell for being gay when the fucker was gay himself,  the cunt, even though I did.

Asked about Mr Cunt's future, should he lose the referendum, which he will, Field Marshal Ashdown fixed his piercing blue eyes at a point far in the distance and  squinting against a Sun no-one else in the Any Questions studio  could see, said,  Well, I was a soldier y'know, so I know everything, and if I were him I would resign and spend more time with my filthy Dago family, leaving the party in the safe hands of an elder statesman, an old soldier who knows the ropes and can provide a steady pair of pants, I mean hands. Anything, after all, is better than being buried six feet below ground, as I normally am.