THE OBITUARY PAGE

Up all night, leaning on the windowsill, I once watched His Grace The Lord Hatterjee on an Open University programme about boxing, the pros and cons; Spitgob, three sheets to the wind, was banging on, perhaps - who knows the mind of a Lord -  in erotic reverie, about how too very bad it was, seeing “young men beating themselves insensitive (sic)." Most of the time I agree with Roy, about that, at least.  A shame, though, that he never sorted out that filthy business of spraying spit everywhere, I mean, how hard can it be -  a bit of surgery or dentistry or just self-discipline, you’d think that someone who wanted to run the country would be able to deal with a little problem like that;  like Gordon Snot and his filthy habits,

 Now just you watch out young man or I shall set my mother on you.

 Hattersley’s  refusal to deal with  his spit betrayed an arrogance widespread in politicians; in common wth their uniform ugliness,  they share a belief that what they are saying is of such importance that it doesn’t matter if contemporaneously they are eating snot, scratching their balls or spitting all over people.  Fuck ‘em, all of ‘em, filthy, thieving, pimping, lying, murderous, shiteating cocksuckers.

But the boxing.  I agree with Hatters, until, that is, I see some whining little turd like wotsisname, Murray, and the facial agonies he displays if his tennis ball goes out – like his Lordship, Murray is a notoriously petulant Momma’s Boy –

 and he wants to burst into tearful tantrums, ties himself up in knots,  and then I think, This ain’t sport, this is fucking showbiz, for pansies and nitwits, it's like Riverdance.  Boxing, that’s the only proper sport for a man.  Go on, punch his fucking lights out. Kill him.

I know that jockeys can get thrown off their mounts, and that they – mainly tax-evading Irish tinkers and pushy Italian midgets with big, big mouths -

An angry, mimiature wop jockey, Detorri; who gives a fuck, shortarse.

suffer a long, dark night of the soul if they are not allowed to whip the poor beasts down to the bone: I know, too, that Motocross riders and Formula One glamourboys can crash and burn and that the Poppy-flaunting Premiership GangRapists can, when the occasion demands, dive to the ground in the penalty area with spectacular shrieks and grimaces of imagined injury and foul play. It's the modern game, say the pundits, a professional foul;  a what?  Do fuck off.

 Mr Wayne Potato attempts primitive communication with his team-mates.
Why don't we all fuck the same tart, together like, all at the same time?
Teambuilding, that's what that is.
And if she complains we can set the lawyers on her.

But despite all the pain  that professional sportspersons suffer, searching the North Sea for fish fingers  on a trawlerboat, working on a building site or going down a fucking mine remain the most dangerous occupations, alongside, that is,  working for Uncle Sam in Afghanistan. And then relying on charity for your maimed, invalid  lifelong support, stress on the second syllable, inVALid;  well, come on, really now, if they were valid citizens,  or valued, like, say, Neil Kinnock, there wouldn't need to be an annual - these days all-year-round -  begging festival, just to get them back on their feet, those as still   has feet, that is, see Ishmael passim.


Now Look. Members of the armed forces are all in this together, too.
Just like the rest of you.

I read that CallHimDave's chums in the hallowed, wealth creating circles of Bizness hope to cop three hundred billion in reconstruction fees, three hundred billion, after the rest of us paid a half a billion to destroy Libya,  objectively, to protect the citizens, well, the puppet citizens anyway. I suppose a billion or two  of that profit for NewLegs4Tommy'd be out of the question, fat fucking chance, Georgie boy's chums at  Vodafone won't even pay the tax they owe in the first place. Six billion they got away with.

MORE HOW TO SPEAK COALITION
by Mr George Osborne.

Let's be clear, this govament was elected to deal with the defecit.

Mr Nick Robinson, the govament's political editor

If you say so, Chancellor.
And could I just present you with this present as a token of my esteem?

That's more like it.  I hope it's solid gold;
currency's fucking worthless.

  And anyway, the directors'  boards'll  all be packed full of retired British politicians, probably even Gay Dr Fox, all needing to fill their boots.  No, charity's the thing, obviously, not taxation.  A job for that insufferable cunt,  Wogan, below.

Or His Serene Highness, Prince Gormless,

he's a bit of a poppy-waver, and a part-time pilot, when he's not too busy on holiday, which, like his father,  is most of the time.

Or any of the shameless fucking parasites,  they all love talking about Tommy, just as long as it doesn't cost them anything. What I struggle with is how Tommy allows himself to get roped into all this shit, why doesn't he just mutiny until he gets a guarantee of proper lifetime care if injured on duty?  What the fuck is the matter with him? Doesn't he know how much we pay Peter Mandelstein and Tony Blair, for the rest of their pampered lives? The lure of Celebrity, in many cases, I suspect, obscures what should be a simple decision to go on strike. Or maybe shoot a few of their senior officers.

By the right, quick Karaoke.
The Soldiers, number five in the topten,
singing to raise money for wounded soldiers.
How very Napoleonic Warsish.

  Not as though Ahmed in Kabul is actually, as Field Marshal Gordon Snot warned us, a hair's breadth from  hosing-down Wolverhampton High Street with a load of Kalshnikovs.  And why should he bother, when we send him out plenty of fresh teenage children to eviscerate?  The natural consequence of all this forces showbiz shit  is for people to say, Well Company Sergenat Major, if you can raise a half a million quid just by making a record, then you don't need my fifty pee for a Poppy.....And while you're at it, do you think you could just raise your own wages, you know, as I said, while you're at it.
But I came to talk about boxing and the myth of celebrity.

Two large, extremely fit athletes, fit to the nth. degree,  knocking fuck out of  and hoping to stop each other's  senses and vital organs is a sporting encounter of a whole other order, both incomprehensibly stupid and eye-wateringly courageous.

Who you callin' nigger, nigger?

I've  never seen one, except on the box, which isn't really seeing it at all, knowwarramean'Arry. I don't know if I could watch one, a heavyweight one, at any rate, but it might be somewhere in my hundred things to consume before dying.

Like many of my astonishingly stupid peace and love generation I had my early, well,  teen and twenty,  opinions formed, not, as I believed, by some angelic,  anarchic fraternity writing an underground press -  all those people are millionaires now, or billionaires, or living out in LA, - not by sitar-plucking androgynes, nor by radical priests and psychiatrists but  by all the usual shitmongers,  the same rabid opportunists as have been cutpursing and catchpennying since Mediaeval times, buy my Plague pies, pilgrim,  God's Blood, they're most satisfying, and only a farthing, three for an a’penny, every little ‘elps.

The vague beat-protest-hippy pseudo movement of the fabled 'sixties fragmented, of course, into all sorts of disputatious and counter-productive splinter movements -  I can come back to why they were counter productive, if, that is,   a glance at the current, massive, EU coups d’etats, Western wars of economic occupation and energy crises and Earthcrimes are insufficiently demonstrative of the comprehensive failure of My my my m-my my  generation, baby. Three times my generation voted for Bloody Thieving Tony and Imelda Blair. It was probably the sight of him carrying a Fender Strat into Downing Street wot done it.

Pete Nose, incidentally, librettist, composer, editor, drug addict,  child pornography researcher and leader of the Oo, is up on his ancient hind legs again, berating this or that aspect of new technology for it’s failure to continue adequately  rewarding he and countless other jumped-up layabouts for their artistic achievements, as though what the world needs is an infinite sucession of posturing egomaniacs like himself,  artistically worthless and obscenely overpaid; this wanker' Townshend'd be a little more bearable if he'd actually said to Old Bill, No, fuck off with your caution for kiddie porn, charge me - 

Right, Pete, human morality and social justice.


there was Black Power and Gay Power, WomenPower and GreenPower, all swiftly and seamlessly absorbed into mainstream commerce, enriching all concerned,   New Publishing, NewMusic, NewCinema; worse, coarser than the old, but just as profitable. Steven Fry, the new Oscar Wilde,  Alan Sugar the new PT Barnum, only vile and cruel,  nasty and vicious, a barrowboy gob without restraint,  finally found his metier, not that he'd know what a metier is, getting paid for bullying people;  Steve Odd  Jobs the new Henry Ford;  I, like most people in the world, have  never had an iThing in my life, fuck me, Jesus, however do I manage, here, in consumer purgatory?

If you watch daytime teevee, and it is, trust me,  an education - for one thing,  the war channels will lead you to  the conclusion that the German nation should have been permanently dismantled after the Nazi Terror, even the good Germans, which ninety nine per cent of them of course were, just a few of them doing all that industrial scale atrocity shit, Liebschen.  And given  their extensive criminal record, why don't we just take all their money off them now, and spread it around among ourselves?  Eh, what would Frau Trousers think of that scheissen?

I mean, we could just steal all their shit off them, build another wall around all of them,
and sell them food at extortionate rates, maybe experiment on their children a bit.

But anyway, if you do watch daytime teevee, about every eight minutes you’ll see an old greyhaired gentleman

And you get a free biro, just for signing away a portion of you pisspoor pension.

trying to frighten his fellow elderly citizens into buying a worthless, funeral expenses insurance policy.  He’s a multi-multi-millionaire, having spent a whole lifetime sucking, in one medium or another,  on Celebrity’s cock. His fellow Northerner, the late Sir Jimmy Nightmare, at least raised some money for charity, and the still extant Sir Bruce Fawsyth, although having spent his early career grovelling at the feet of Sammy Davies junior and others can at least sing a dance. A bit. But our man's schtick, on which he built a four-decade career consisted of variations on a theme of:   Mr Bob Hope, I think I have covered, for our delighted viewers, most of the ways in which you are wonderful but I wonder, would you kindly tell us,  in your own words, about some of the other ways in which you are outstandingly magnificent;  Ms Angie Dickinson, you must have had some famous suitors, tell us about them,  Mr Billy Connolly, tell us one of your extremely funny jokes, one about, what is it you call them, Bobbies, Jobbies? And Mr Cassius Clay or Mr Mohamed Ali,

 as I believe you now call yourself and nothing wrong with that, perhaps you’d recite one of your very clever, if I may say so, poems.

The Michael Parkinson Show, along with the A Life In The Day feature, in the back of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement, these were the dawn of celebrity culture,  of the charting of fame, per se; these were the somewhat shocking days when showbiz Gods stepped down from screen and stage and shared their wonderful lives with us,  American stars, coyly baring their arses for Parky's energetic tongue; Cleo Laine, writing, or having ghost-written, in the ST, a page of snooty, self-serving drivel about life in the Laine-Dankworth household -  I remember that the vastly over-rated  chanteuse had trouble with staff, couldn't get them, it seems. And was struggling with jazz renderings of Shakespeare's sonnets.  It was heady stuff, how celebrity lived,  a long way from OK and Hello magazines, but it was their precursor;  I think the ST editor was future Murdoch lickspittle, Andy Jock Neil, who certainly hasn't lost his fascination with shallow celebrity.

Parky's journalistic raison d'etre fecal was that he was from Up North, and in some imaginary childhood of deprivation his woeful, jambutty and rickets British way of life had been transformed by Hollywood stars, larger than life, in some flickering Odeon or Gaumont and By 'Eck, now that he had a chance to lick them arses nowt'd stop him.

How we watched from the other side of the screen as Yul Brynner, for instance,  boasted of his innumerable achievements, his mastery of languages, of dance, of athletics, of the guitar, of remorseless self-promotion;  we thought this was true grit, unaware that like dinner plates on sticks in an ailing Variety act, we were being fervently spun by the infotainment industry.  Others soon followed, chat-showing, Des O'Connor, Swinging London's Simon Dee, Terry Wogan,   eventually the format reinvented itself in the form of poor, mad,  loony witch, Caroline Ahearn,

Mrs Merton her nightmare baggage, Coronation Street on bad brown acid,  and then  that awful motormouthing lawyer, Clive Davis, what a cunt.



The essence remained the same, though, promotion of the latest book or record or film, in exchange, generally,  for a wee bit of banal chitchat.  There is also, of course, a gaggle of  presenters, skilled in the cheap black art of goading the inept, of further damaging the damaged, Jerry Springer was the leader of the pack, followed by the sanctimonious, simpering Trisha, dangerous if employed as Community Psychiatric Nurse, apocalyptic on National TeeVee and then  there's the  monstrous Jeremy Kyle - regular readers will know that we are opposed to capital and corporal punishment, but I could suspend my judgement to watch this man beaten to death, over, say seventy-two  hours;  hard not to think that he's an agent of skymadeupnewsandfilth, engaged  in the ruination and capitulation  to ShitCorp of the entire nation.  The States has studiosfull of chatarses, notably our own Mr Piers Moron, who manages, nevertheless, to get in deep with the stars every week or so, here, in Blighty, a true moron for our times.

Back then, though, we thought all that stinky, watery shit,  the celebrity chat, was truly revelatory, well, I did, anyway, as it splattered around the toiletbowl of my consciousness. And I remember watching Mohamed Ali on Parky.  A great man, I thought, bold, witty  and intelligent.  When he described the white man as his enemy, I almost cheered, that's how dumb I was.  Wasn't he a draft dodger, too? And the way he danced around in the ring, that was magic, that was, for a negro to do all that.  That was showing them.

And that, I am ashamed to say, has, remained, more or less, my opinion of the young Cassius  Clay.  At least it was, until Joe Frazier died and I became, belatedly,  refreshed by the truth of the matter.

Aside from training,  gabshiteing and the occasional fight, Cassius Clay Mohamed Ali  never did a day's proper work in his life, he was groomed for the Olympics and after winning there he just moved from one huge paycheck to another,  there was a hiatus, of course, when he was stripped of his license to fight after declining Uncle Sam's invitation to IndoChina, where he could have  joined in the killing of  three million, roasted some gook children, thrown some suspects out of Huey helicopters and fucked up the forests for decades to come, defending Freedom at home and abroad;
Frazier, on the other hand, was nigger trash from Carolina, who started working in the fields at the age of seven, never had an education and took up fighting in Philadelphia in order to feed himself. He didn't go to 'Nam because he was  then a father, but always said that if called on by his country he would've. As he evaded the Draft, Ali was cute enough, and by this time being micromanaged and scripted by the Nation of Islam's capo, Elijah Mohamed, to get himself declared a conscientious objector, without having to flee, as did so many, to a  cold Canada. Elijah Mohamed wrote  the winning phraseology, No VietCong never called me a Nigger; Why should I go halfway around the world and kill other brown folks, which resonated globally and as war popularity waned, endeared Ali to the Peace Movement. The records and testimonies of those present indicate that, rather than a free spirit who had just found Allah, Ali was, body and soul, Elijah Mohamed's bitch. But  ironically, it was Frazier who prevailed upon Tricky Dicky, then president, successfully petitioning him to restore Ali's fighting license, and Frazier who had bunged Ali substantial sums, as his income dried-up.

Fit to fight again, Ali faced Frazier  three times, in each fixture sharpening the taunts which, once amusing,  were now hateful.  Despite Frazier's quiet, fraternal  support in his dark hours, Ali, in his fashion, insisted on calling him an Uncle Tom. He was not a cosy liberal by any means, a Republican and unfashionable among the cognoscenti, but Frazier was by no means an Uncle Tom. Enraged by Ali's cheap taunts, in their first match, at Madison Square garden Frazier, in what became known as the Fight of the Century,  nearly dismembered the favourite, the wisecracking jive-ass, showy Black muslem.  Afterwards Ali, despite his thorough beating at Frazier's hands  screamed fix! The ref and judges were white and had sided with the Uncle Tom. The press, of course, rolled with their gobby darling and a swift rematch saw Ali beating  a then lacklustre Frazier. The ref and judges, this time, according to Ali, were still his enemy but had managed to deliver the correct decision, despite being whites.

Their final fight was the mythical Thrilla in Manilla, in October 1975. Ali, the hypocrite,  pious and sanctimonious about marriage publicly, had jumped at the opportunity to take his new mistress out of the States, away from his wife.  But at home his wife was watching teevee coverage of the event as Ali and his bint were received with What a beautiful wife you have, Mr Ali,  by President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife, Cherie.
 

President Tony and Imelda Marcos,
corrupt, greedy dictators and unlikely boxing promoters.

The rightful Mrs Ali was on the first  jet out to Manilla and gave the Champ a swift rub-down with a thick copy of the Holy Koran.


Ali's fun, this time, which nearly killed him  - and may well have caused the illnesses from which he has suffered for decades - was to rhyme Gorilla with Manilla, dressing in a Gorilla suit and repeatedly slapping a Gorilla doll, as though Frazier was a Gorilla, a uniquely black-on-black insult. Ali, pampered, spoiled,  theatrical,  over-confident,  forever thinking that he was clever, woefully understimated the blitzkrieg he was storing up for himself inside the muscled rage of former field nigger, Frazier.

Ali took the first few rounds but thereafter Frazier punished him without mercy;  the ref, a Japanese, also halted Ali's customary dirty trick of holding opponents by the back of the neck and the ensuing rounds are breathtaking,  the amount of punishment absorbed by both fighters is beyond imagining, Frazier, for instance, pummelling Ali's hips, in order to raise massive, immobilising haematomas, stop his fucking dancing around, thumping him time after time in the heart, the liver nad the kidneys, to cause swelling and internal bleeding.  But by the fourteenth round Frazier's right eye was nearly closed by Ali's repeated left hooks, he was almost blind, anyway, in the left eye and his trainer, fearful that he would be killed, and much against Joe's own wishes, threw in the towel unaware that Ali was unable or unwilling to come out for the last round, having told his corner team that he felt he was dead;  a few premature seconds had cost Frazier the fight which he would otherwise surely and deservedly and justly won. As Ali was declared the winner, he collapsed on the floor and lay there immobile for minutes, Frazier, meantime, dancing angrily around the ring and vivacious at the ensuing press conference was every inch the winner. Only he wasn't.

The bad blood rightly continued for decades. And as Ali slid into Parkinson's disease and a role in the States as,

well, I don't know what, some sort of avuncular, wheezing has-been, Frazier continued to train fighters in his gym


and at every opportunity reminded folks that
You see that man, 
Ali,


 you see what's wrong with him, I did that to him,
don't float like no fuckin' butterfly no more.

I don't know if there was some fearful, last minute rapprochement between two of the best fighters in boxing  history. But I do hope not.

WOTSONTELLY, EROICA, BBC4, ON THE iTHING.

Listen to me and feel God bowing the strings of your heart.

I've stood by his piano in Vienna, read a few biographies, I know a few of  his symphonies inside out, a lot of his piano music, some late string quartets, the violin concerto in D minor, I know them fairly well and I'm familiar with lots of his other stuff, too. I probably know more Beethoven than   the average person, but then the average person has less than two legs; anyway, I know nowhere near enough.

It's a funny thing but the older I grow, the sadder I become at how much of my time I've wasted listening to popular music, how very little I know of shithot incandescent greatness.  I'd burn fifty years worth of  rock and blues and folk and jazz to power up a few bars of Beethoven's Sixth symphony, or his Fifth, or his Ninth, preferably on a booming Deutsche Grammaphon LP by Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philarmonic.  

I started listening to what we call classical music in my early twenties, at the prompting of a kindly, older friend and although I've learned and loved a great deal of it I have nevertheless favoured twentieth century UK/US popular music. Too late, now, too old to redress the balance.  And I only recently discovered early music, Byrd, Pallestrina, Monteverdi, no chance of becoming remotely familiar with any of that.  

In the Hitler war my Dad made some money and my elder brother and sister both had piano lessons  but the money had gone by the time my turn came.  I've been able to auto-didact, teach myself a lot of stuff, but the piano isn't among it. And on top of family poverty denying me music lessons, at King Edwards, in the second form, I could choose between German and Music, and my Dad insisted that I do fucking German, a foul, guttural and complicated language, spoken by copraphiliacs in discreet  spectacles and smart shoes; to this day I know maybe a dozen words of German;  if I'd learned composition, harmony, musical appreciation, my life would have been wholly different.  I don't blame him, my Dad.  Most people do what they think is best for their kids. Even if it's shit. As it often is.

There's nothing wrong with popular music but as Ludwig remarks in this strange little film-cum-concert, difficult is good, the greatest compliment you can pay an artist is to say his work is difficult;  I Wanna Hold Your Hand is great stuff and so is Sultans of Swing, but neither are difficult,  they're both just singalongs for the Me generation.

The Eroica Symphony was completed as this old house of mine was rebuilt, in 1804;  none then here, of course, would have heard it; not for another hundred years would people be able to reproduce music at home, in their drawing rooms, their parlours, their kitchens;  and now music retrieval and reproduction are barely a breath away from being accessed via surgical implant.

The film purports to show the genesis of the Third Symphony and recreates the first public performance, a rehearsal, in front of his patron, his patron's family and servants and deploys  a proper orchestra playing those shitty old  18th. century instruments; the audience is   a handful of people, including the then Maestro, Herr Haydn and a widowed noblewoman who will not, cannot, for reasons of court etiquette, marry the composer, despite their mutual passion, Beethoven, a commoner, is verboten;  all  the audience talk through the performance - some of them disparagingly and contemptuously - and wander in and out of the orchestra, which is, like the composer,  nothing more than the servant of the rich, no awe, no reverence, no fucking respect..  Beethoven, at this stage was not widely considered to be great. By this account,  and according to  the words spoken by Haydn and by both master and servant, this piece, written to celebrate Napoleon's supposed egalitarianisme, transformed forever the nature of the symphony, putting, for the first time,  the composer's emotional maelstrom at the centre and throughout the composition. Everything is changed, now, grumbled a wearily moribund Haydn. Don't know if Haydn lived to hear Beethoven's Grosse Fugue, opus 130 but that is properly upsetting stuff, beside which the Third is a walk in the park.  But Haydn was correct, Beethoven, by inserting himself  so boldly, overturned the idea of artist as jobsworth servant of patron, making him or her, instead and properly, the servant of Art.

The production is really a filmed period concert with some dramatised inserts, but it's beautifully filmed and played especially tyhe First movement,  and is - in the nature of the relationship between artist and patron - revealing and heartrending.  The film closes with Beethoven's student informing him  that the egalitarian Boney has just, in Paris, had himself crowned Emperor, thus depriving himself of Beethoven's dedication of the symphony a Bonaparte, not, of course, that the wee fella would have given  un fuck de l'avion.

It's an old film now, this,  but if you haven't seen it, as well as being musically magnificent, it will provide a salutory illustration, a reminder,   of the now irritating  ubiquity  of all forms of music and of course of the devaluation attendant  upon  that questionable consumer blessing; part of the legacy of the late, odd, Jobs man.

Buy my shit. It'll make you feel clever.
But not as clever as me.

PRIVATE EYE KNIGHTED FOR SERVICES TO THE ESTABLISHMENT

Have you got money for me?

 Sir Ian Pissflap, OBN.

 The unfunniest man in Britain was today knighted for his services to the Establishment. Licensed fool, bore, public school Torybastard, BBC gravytrainer, mock historian and all round wanker, Ian Pissflap, was today made a knight commander of the order of the Brown Nose, Tongue and Chin for his unfailing devotion to himself and to the ruling class. Knighting the worthless little turd, Queen Brenda said Arise, Sir Ian,  Oh, one is mistook, you are already standing up, hard to tell there for a minute, still, one meets all sorts in one's line of work.

Satirist?  Hislop? My royal arse.

And they tell one that you are hilariously funny, on the television, at pulling a funny face. And saying Not after everything.  Just to let one’s audience know one was being ironic, or sarcastic. Or stupid. Isn’t that  a faux-ironic  device which the dimmer young people used a little while ago?  That Not business?   But even they’ve given it up. Even my grandson, Prince Gormless  has given it up, now that he's married to Wotsername, the party planner, and his  half brother, the drunken Nazi  thug, one knows he can barely speak at all, unless it's some made-up bollocks about his mates in Afghan, who'd probably punch his bastard lights out if they saw him swigging eighty pound a throw cocktails, at my expense, I mean theirs, everybody's, but even Harry Shitbrains, a stuttering redfaced moron,  he doesn't say that Not shit.  Like you do. Moved orn, one believes they say. Only not you. Still, cutting edge of satire. And the Beeb pays you for it.  That other chap, Merton, is he gay, d'you know?  We queens have an eye for this sort of thing and he certainly seems to be fishing from the other bank.  One really must say, Sir Pissflap, that what with the limp magazine which has never changed anything worth fuck all,  the tedious railway programmes and that Have I Got Stale News For You, you really do demonstrate the advantages of a good education, how the public school and Oxbridge really do make a man excel. Not.  A-ha-ha-ha. One’s little joke.

And Yes, one understands you do edit a magazine, sort of,  which has been publishing the same old jokes for fifty years. Mr Auberon Waugh and Mr Peter Cook and Mr Richard Ingrams and Mr Paul Foot.  Yes, nearly all of them dead. Just as well, really, one imagines. Don’t know what they’d make of you doing your funnyface trick every week on the telly. And cleverly saying Not after everything.  No, no splitarses, of course not, not at your mighty organ, wouldn’t be the same would it, having women around, apart from Matron.

And one understands that you and those rotten greasy smarmy pimping child molesting slags in the parliament, you give each other awards? Quite so.  And that you have jolly nice dinners together, in rather louche establishments, how very daring. And that one of them moved a vote of thanks to you for your sterling work over five decades  -  well, not just you, but Ingrams and so on, whom, one understands you have completely ignored in this fifty year bash - in keeping things just exactly as they have always been, never having, as young mr stanislav would say, called a cunt a cunt.  Yes, of course, one quite understands, you have to work within the law;  although you should try telling that to Mr Blair or Mr Brown or Mr Cameron  or any of the jumped-up cocksuckers, and don't for fucks sake get one started on that whimpering little shit, Wotsisname, Clegg  is it. I'd chop his fucking nodding head off if I had my way.

Well, there you are, little chap, knighted for holding the Establishment in check. Not.. So sorry. Couldn't resist. Who's next, don't tell me it's Bruce fucking Forsyth. Well, at least he can sing and dance. And be quite funny.

a reader writes.


The Eye  published a self-mocking cover to mark its fifty years in the business;  side by side 'photos of Harold Macmillan  and CallHimDave, with a caption to the effect that See, satire does work, fifty years apart and we have two Old Etonians fucking-up the country with a government of their cronies; Macmillan at least had fought  in the Great War, whereas CallHimDave has been mentioned in PR despatches, Public Relations, the last refuge of the scoundrel. Aside from that, they are one and the same, doing the same shit. It was  a rare moment of insight from Hislop, if, indeed, he had anything to do with it. For all his smugness, all his Bananaballs, all his claims to litigative heroism the Eye is as much a part of the Establishment furniture as is the Church of England 


But the Eye as public sentinel, as keeper of some sacred flame of accountabilty, of investigative journalism of whistle blowing,  is no more risible than is the idea of the BBC covering politics and current affairs. As the unelected fascists of the EuroReich make economic blitzkrieg on the Greeks the repulsive Jock Neil, on his putrid pantomime, This Week, fawned over Big Al Campbell, the man who, inter alia, made millions fucking the labour movement up the arse with a Perrier bottle, blatantly faked the cassus bellus which saw Iraq invaded,  burned,   tortured, occupied and looted and who carpetbags, yet, for the infamous Blair. Even by Neil's dismal standard of guest  this is a truly pistaking choice,   Tony McNutter, Peter Stringpenis et al are bad enough but Campbell comes from the very bottom of the cesspit. But together with an uncomfortable-around-women Michael Portillo, of skymadeupnewsandfilth, Campbell and Neil drooled over dreadful old baggage, Nancy de Lollypop, courtesan extraordinaire et antique just like, well,  just like dirty old men.  Cheers and laughter and big cheques from the BBC all round.


It's as though just as long as we, we in the know,  get a fix of sarcasm now and again it doesn't really matter that the people in charge are the very same people who fucked things up so badly, are paying one another more for continuing so to do and are, with  redoubled effort and increasing  pungency, voiding their bowels in the faces of those they piously claim to represent.  But who may not have a referendum.

Oh, for sure, the people who toil at the InTheBack section of Private Eye do, fortnightly, reveal  the leprous hand of the great and the good, as it fists the arse of Decency;  they do expose the rottenness of councillors and chief executives and honourable and right honourables; often they hymn  the breathtaking brutality of PC Plod and Chief Constable Gob presided over, serenely,  by Right Worshipful Brother,  Mr Justice Slag but, you know, if the Eye was really any good, wouldn't Hislop have committed suicide, by now, in some twee woodland, or be on the plane to Sweden ?  Isn't that what happens to proper whistleblowers?

Sir Ian and Lady Pissflaps. Scourge of the Establishment,
Shurely shome mishtake.

Sir Andrew Nonce, BBC's Mr Playboy. Jesus fucking Christ



. Nighty-night. I'm off to Annabels with some wanton teenager;  that's how funny I am.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE CHURCH TIMES . ENTIRE CHURCH OF ENGLAND RESIGNS

If it please my noble Lords, I would like to say, Fuck all this shit,  evictions and fucking protests, fuck all that, and fuck all that render unto Caesar bollocks, I didn't work my arse off getting to be a Bishop just so's I could get involved in all this shit, bailliffs and fucking nutters living in tents like fucking Ay-rabs, here in fucking London. I'm off. Yeah, me, too. And me. Count me in.  Onward Christian Soldiers, that's the thing, onwards to the job centre. Anything's better'n all this shit. Many are cold but few are frozen.

(from Tory benches) That's what you think Ladyman, just wait until Austerity winter happens along.

In a shock statement  the Association of GayBisexualNecrophiliacLesbianTransgenderBestialCopraphiliacClergypersons  - aka the Church of England - announced, yesterday, that it was resigning en masse, many of its members forming a new church, the Church of the the Queer Jesus. A splinter group of  Anglo-Catholics was said to be contemplating joining the Holy Church of Saint Anne Pizza Widdecombe the Tangoing Virgin. whilst the Bishop of London, The Not Very Reverend At All Bishop Richard Shitters.

Kiss my ring, commie bastard.

 His Most Unpleasantness Richard Shitters, Gabshite Bishop of London.

stoutly averred that he would be staying at the wheel of the stinking ship, sorry sinking and had assumed command in the absence of his notional spiritual leader, Archbishop Beard.

Bishop Chartres and Colonel von Fawkes, back right,  famous catholic Nazi, share a moment of  ecumenical right-wingery.

It should have been me, y'know, whined the horrid bastard from behind his snuffler's beard, I should have been Archbishop of Canterbury, not that fucking druid git, spewing out all his silly old hippy sociology shit, fucking dipstick

Archbishop Rowan Beard of Canterbury and MiddleEarth

Bishop Shitters said that he was seeking help from the wider Anglican communion and had recruited from South Africa the Exceptionally Reverend and Learned Doctor Eugene Kaffirbasher

Look, I'm telling  you,  there is no place in Heaven for blecks.
Heaven is for decent hardworking white people.

and some of his congregation of Bruderbonders for Christ in order to clear the protesters from the bank's steps, sorry, the Cathedral's steps, although it is hard to tell the difference.  We suspect there are blecks there, causing all the trouble, shoot a few blecks and that should sort it out. It's always the fecking blecks, thet fecking little bleckkaffirbastard, Desmond fucking Tutu and his fecking Peace end Reconciliation shit, shoiuld have hanged the fecking gobby nigger when we hed the fecking chance, never mind making him an archbishop.  Who ever heard of a nigger archbishop?  Witch doctors, thet's what they do. Margaret Thatcher, thet's who you should fecking have, she's sort these fecking kaffir  terrorists out, soon get them off the fecking steps of Saint fecking Pauls. I mean, I ask you, how can a fecking nigger be a fecking Christian?  In the great Efrican Book of Common Murder, I mean Prayer, you never see no mention of praying for fucking blecks, do you. Anyway, me and my pilgrim brethren here will just join together and sing that great Efrican hymn, All Things White End Beautiful and then we'll get the kettle prods on these fuckers, that'll make the bastards jump for Jesus all right.

In the house of commons, former vicar, Mr Chris Underpants MP, seen here modelling for his FuckBook entry and a prominent member of the GBLTNCB said that as a former gay vicar he had every sympathy with his former colleagues.  You know it's very hard, leading a double life, as I can vouchsafe unto ye.  On the one hand, my brother and sister priests have to maintain that they are on the side of the downtrodden,  the sick and the poor, whilst, really,  they  all have to suck the cheesy knob of Mammon whilst he's shitting in everyone's faces - you know, they are a multi-national company, themselves, after all, second biggest brand in their field.  It's a bit like me. I mean, presenting myself in the house as a serious politician whilst posting pictures of myself in my Y-fronts on gay dating sites.  Sill, as it says in the Gospel of, I believe it's Mattew, verily I say unto ye, it is easier for an camel to pass through the eye of an needle than for an rich man  to be sent unto prison for massive, widespread, ruinous fraud.  Or even to have his collar felt by an law enforcement officer. But we must remember the motto which guides this illustrious chamber and unites friend and foe alike: to those who hath shall be given and from those who hath not shall be taken away. Amen and blessed are the cheesemakers

HALLOWEEN CAPTION COMPETITION

STILL AT LIBERTY, TONY AND IMELDA

EVENSONG, Prejudice by Tim Minchin

Bill Bailey, eat your heart out.

THE SIX O'CLOCK NEWS BULLETIN: WRONG PEOPLE KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN; CREEPY OLD POOF DEAD

NOW LOOK, WHO'S IN CHARGE AROUND HERE?
NOT YOU, MR UNELECTED PRIME MINISTER,
THAT'S FOR SURE.

 It goes to show that we have them on the run, the fuzzy-wuzzies, said Brigadier General Rupert  Golightly-Jockstrap of the Queen's Own NancyBoys  Regiment, and that's why they're killing so many of us.  Responding to the death of Western personnel in a Kabul suicide bomb attack, the Brigadier said it was always unfortunate when the wrong people got killed, much better when it's Afghani or Pakistani citizens, tragic though that is, and we do try very hard not to kill them, although, as that great Afghanistan  warrior, General CallHimFlashman has said, you can't make a war omelette without breaking a few eggs, or children's legs, just as long as they're nigger children, living on benefits. Responding in the UK to those events, the unelected Prime Minister said Now Look, lets be clear,  ordinary normal people would be quite happy to see suicide bombers fined twenty five pounds a week, and not the derisory fiver, as at present.  No, he continued,  jaw set truculently, arch traitor Sir Doctor Liam Fox is not being fined £25 a week or even five pounds a week for his crimes but instead would be given £17, 000 in benefits, a load of wellpaid sinecures and a seat in the Lords, in order that he keep the fuck quiet and not make my job more difficult, not that it is difficult . I do believe in giving people a second chance, only not poor people, of course,  who are poor by their own choice,  their own fault.  Dr Sir Liam has paid a significant price - ie nothing - for not doing anything wrong, apart from treason, fraud and false accounting and it is only right and proper that he be rewarded by the taxpayer with a lifetime of luxury and keeping quiet about what he knows about me. Not that there is anything to be ashamed of, and if there is it is a private matter.

In other news the most famous, most ghastly, creepiest closet queen in history, Sir Jimmy Arsehole, has passed away;


we, guys an' gals, must hope that in due course, Mr Satan fixes it for Jimmy. Police said there was nothing suspicious about his death, although they could not say the same about his life. No business like showbusiness.

a reader writes:  Sir Jimmy raised a great deal of money for charity, especially for the  Stoke Mandeville Spinal Injuries Unit and you should show him some respect, signed Terry Wogan, (Sir)  of the BBC and the Sunday Filth-O-Graph, a fellow charity bandit and cheery deejay, spinning platters for the people.

In response to Sir Terry's letter (above) I would just like to say that I think Jimmy Saville was a cunt. And so is Terry Wogan. And as for Dave Lee fucking Travis, Jesus, don't start me. signed, Ishmael Smith, blogger and graduate in anarcho-plumbing studies.

FLASHMAN: LET'S BE CLEAR, ST PAUL'S PROTESTS WORSE THAN THE BLITZ.

Now look.

 I think it's high time we got something clear, regarding this so-called protest at Saint Paul's which is, frankly, worse than anything we saw in the last great war when we were the junior partners to Mr Obama, or was it President Lincoln? Whatever, the fact is that I was elected to run this country,  the people elected me to privatise the health service, scrap employment rights, increase unemployment and inflation and force disabled people into jobs which, if Mr Osborne has his way, won't exist, even for the able-bodied.  Be that as it may, there's no doubting that at the ballot box the people voted for my brand of stupid, I mean caring conservatism. And you don't catch me putting up my tent  in Oxford Street when I don't get my own way. No,  I send in NATO, I find that usually works,  that and a steel bar up the arse. And I think it's time we looked very closely at these protesters. I'm all for the right to protest, just as long as people don't. ( editor's note: this is the default position of everyone in the sewer-nexus  of politics and infotainment,  the bloody, snarling Death'sHead of skymadeupnewsandfilth to whom all the aforementioned are in shitty thrall. Jon Snow, Jocky Neil, Toilets Maguire, all of them.)

And another thing, Liam Fox may have been a cunt and a traitor, running his own foreign policy, or somebody else's, but not the UK Govament's, anyway,  but at least he had the decency to resign when he had actually done nothing wrong apart from high treason,  you wouldn't catch him and his young friend, Mr Werrity,

 Happily married Mr Doctor Fox with his young boyfriend.

dossing-down in a smelly, old tent outside St Paul's, not when the taxpayer was funding five-star hotels, well, I say the taxpayer, but often it was a bunch of international gangsters, nothing wrong with that, when one is in public service one has to take bribes from all sorts of people. And let's be clear, say what you like about our distinguished Foreign Seckatry, Mr Miscarriage, he didn't let any gangsters pay for his young friend's hotel bills, he insisted that the taxpayer pay for it all.

 Happily married Mr William Miscarriage. And his young boyfriend.  One of his  young boyfriends.

  And for my money that says  a great deal about William.  Lets be clear. We are very lucky to have him in the role of Foreign Seckatry. And so is he.

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

Adam Lard of skymadeupnewsandfilth charms some people who think, quaintly, that what the citizen thinks should matter.

Welcome to  Lunchtime with Lard, with me, Adam Lard, political editor of skymadeupnewsandfilth, you know me, I'm the bloated one, married to one of Tony Blair's bints, Anji Hunter, that's Anji with a J, or is it a double J, or a double I, fucked if I know.

 

Mr & Mrs Lard.


(editor's note: Hunter was BloodyBlair's so-called gatekeepeer, in fact one of his many publicly-funded SpADS, despised by Imelda Blair for her closeness to Tone she eventually left to become, like so many in the NewLabour putsch, a highly-bribed servant of transnational thievery, in this case BP, which paid her £25OK pa.  Selling-off contacts and info acquired at the public expense,  Hunter should of course be in jail, next best thing, I suppose, is being joined together in holy deadlock with Murdoch's GB bumboy, Lardy, hysterical Adam.)

y'remember me????....I'm the one who Alastair Campbell nearly made cry, only he didn't, so there. And anyway, he's a fairy, everybody knows that.  That was the unelected prime minister babbling there, he's got very macho, these last few days, usually an indication that we are in the last of days.  But to move on, in today's Lunchtime with Lard we'll be examining objectively the position of the Church of England vis a vis the riffraff and benefits scroungers and drug addicts and illegal aliens protesting on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral, although, Heaven only knows what they're protesting about, and no pun intended there.  They should go and try protesting in the US, and see what Mr Murdoch's Mayors and Governors and policemen make of them. Anyway our reporter, Jayne Tits, is in our Saint Paul's studio for us now, Jayne, what can you tell us?

Well, yes,  Adam, that's right and I'm joined by one of the canons of the cathedral, the Most Extremely Reverend Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite. Jervaise, what do you think about all this ?

Well, of course, we support anyone's right to protest, wasn't our Lord, Himself, that is, if you,  believe  in a literal Jesus..........

His Most Exalted Reverence Canon Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite.

Sorry, Jervaise, you will have lost our viewers, there, what exactly do you mean by a literal Jesus?  

Well, Jayne, to be in communion with gay men and women and young choir persons all over the Anglican, well, communion, it doesn't mean that you have to literally believe in Jesus, or indeed God, or, in fact, anything;  man - or woman's - love for his fellow man - or her fellow woman- 

 is what this great big family is all about;  Jesus and the Resurrection is, frankly Jayne, a load of old cobblers......

But.....

But as I was saying, if Our Lord HAD existed, which is frankly laughable, he would've been a tent person, too, kicking-up fuck about whatever got on his tits......kind of like Julian Clary, only in sandals, bitching and whining about stuff.....

Like one per cent of the population owning, or having stolen, nearly everything ???

Oh no, I doubt that, it's a well-known fact that our Board of Trustees is made up of, well, the one per cent who own everything..., if they say Shit, Your Reverences, we say What Colour? You know, the Corporation of the City of London is just like, well, just like the Kray Twins, really, just better tailored.... crooks, racketeers, moneylenders and pimps.....

And you mean they own Saint Paul's????

Well, yes, actually they do...

And that's why......

Yes, that's why neither they nor we want this riffraff hanging around here, trying to draw parallels between Christianity and quite frankly, lets be clear, what can only be called Anarchy, Anarchy in the UK.

That was his most exalted gay reverence Jervaise Amyl-Nitrite, there, preaching from the gospel of Sodom & Gomorrah, here, at St Paul's and now back to you in the studio, Adam.

Thanks Jayne, that was Jayne Tits there for us. Stay tuned because after the break Kay Burley

Kay Burley of skymadeupnewsandfilth

will be asking if Victor Tubak, the immigrant sex killer should have his balls cut off and fed to him, why it is that the old fairy with blue hair is able to claim compensation from newspapers which quite fairly wrongly accused him of killing landscape architect, Jo Yeates and why people in this country actually have far too many rights for their own good. Don't go away.


(editor's note, regular readers might conclude that  our view of the Church of Rome is that it is little more than a fabulously successful global crime corporation, trading in fear, superstition and guilt and that its staff, nuns, priests and noncing monsignors,  are either by sins of commission or omission a repulsive, degenerate and  amoral   criminal community,  engaged  historically in all manner of nefarious genocidal, racist and exploitative  and extortionate  activities  and notably in the persistent  sexual assault of infants and children and in the blackmailing and terrorising of their parents, in which the current Capo, Benjy the Nazi, has particularly distinguished his rotten self  and that we consider the Anglican Church to be a rapacious landlord, an investor in dubious companies and nations, a  historically warmly complicit arm of the state in all its wrongdoings  at home and abroad and recently not so much a  faith at all as a powerful proselytiser of  homosexuality, contrary to its own doctrines and teachings hitherto, and they would be correct.  The idea that a spontaneous global movement opposed to the status quo maledictus will find any common cause among the hypocrites, bandits, torturers and Godlessheathenbastardfrockwearingchildbuggeringcocksuckingmotherfuckingsonsafuckingbitches of Religions Inc. is preposterous, may God rot their fucking black hearts and roast their wicked poxy arses in Hell, forever and forever, Amen.)

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. CLARKSON DROPS RICH MAN'S INJUNCTION

 A disconsolate Clarkson, pictured comfort eating, the horrible fucking bastard.

Popular loudmouth fatso, Mr Jeremy Clarkson, today abandoned his legal attempts to keep secret his love life, I mean sex life. It's no good, moaned the worthless, over-exposed, over-paid, over-rated lump of shit, you might think that I'd been having affairs with all sorts of unlikely loony bints, like my producer and my first wife and my second wife, the dwarfy one;  you might think that I ran about between lovers so fast that my hair caught fire, that no sooner had I done a handbrake turn on Jemima Wotsername,  that I'd be burning  some rubber  with my ex-wife before  screeching home sideways to my current wife and children and faffing about with her column-mounted gear paddles, pausing only to let little Richie Hammond lick my tailpipe for me.  But you'd be wrong.

No, the truth is that I've only ever had one love, myself;  I simply cannot help it, I adore myself.  I am the man I most want to touch, to see, to be with.   David Cameron, James Murdoch.... they're alright, but they're just mates, when you're rich, like me, you need rich mates, nothing like getting together with other rich guys and mocking the poor - you know, those morons who stand around in my studio, applauding cars they'll not even get to sit in, much less drive, never mind own - but it's not the same as love I feel for myself;  I am the Hispano-Suiza, the E-Type, the GT40 of men, just look at my lines, 

and hear my throaty roar.  And the injunction, well that was just a way to keep that knowledge private.  But you know, there comes a time in your life that you have to face up to the fact that you're just an empty-headed exhibitionist, flogging a dead horse of boyish,  faux rebellion to an audience of equally empty headed boymen - and the odd silly tart.  Uncompromising and fiercely opinionated, they call me, those that don't call me a fat, spoiled, indolent, bullying, racist fuckpig.  But they're all wrong. I'm just a helpless, old-fashioned narcissist. 

I've done the injunction thing, now, kept me in the gossip pages for ages, which is the main thing, nobody reads my column in the Times anymore, or anything else in it, for that matter, and TopGear just goes from bad to worse, it's like the Wacky Races, only not funny. Next week Hammond and me and that other cunt are going to drive our cars to the top of Mt., Everest , set fire to them and throw them off. And I'll be in the studio talking to Ronnie Wood and some other nonces about how brilliant they are. And I am.  Oh, and I'll probably be saying something  ballsachingly funny about  Birmingham.  It's what I do.And it's why people love me. Only not as much as I do.

a reader writes: I'd just liike to say that whatever Mr Smith says, Jeremy Clarkson has given me a great deal of pleasure over the years, it's all good, clean fun, what he and the boys do, and it earns the BBC a lot of money, I can tell you. So let's have a bit less of the sarcastic moaning Mr Smith and instead, a word of praise or two for a fine British institution, 

signed, Shirley Clarkson, (Mrs)

MORE HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

  President Dwarf, Prime Minister Ali Baba and Prime Minister CallHimDave

We are proud of the role Britain played in helping the lions of Libya reach peace, democracy and the rule of law.  

trans: And if this little fucker doesn't do what he's told, Sarko,  he, too,  can have a steel bar up his arse and a bullet in the head, mon ami. 

Oui, d'accord, CallezVousDave.

 

Is 'ow we say, in la Belle France, liberte, fraternite et le sodome brutale  et metallique.

Lions, eh? Jesus fucking wept.