THE NEW SUNDAY CALL ME ISHMAEL. ONLY FIFTY PEE

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EXCLUSIVE, THE SUNDAY SUN'S JOURNALISTS, FIRST PICTURES.

Two of the Sunday Times's reporters enjoying an evening stroll around their landing before tucking-in for a good (14 hour) night's sleep.

 skymadeupnewsandfilth employees are encouraged to deal responsibly with their own shit. Instead iof making it up about other people.

Sun workers relax and build relationships with the men trying to rehabilitate them.

No-one is beyond hope, said Principal Officer Hamish McBrute,   of the prison service.  But these cunts come close.

 STILL AT LARGE.

 Two of the Mr Bigs of organised madeupnewsandfilth,  Mr Kelvin McFilth and Mr Piers Moron.  These people are a disgrace to humanity and should be behind bars, said everyone with even half a brain. And Lady Helen Mills McCartney.

IN THE DIMESTORES AND BUS STATIONS.

Mr SimonThieving-Shit, the financial terrorist in charge of the state-owned Royal Bank of Scotland, has announced, today, that less is more, a loss is actually a gain and that the most unprincipled and incompetent of his colleagues deserve to be rewarded above and beyond their already fabulous salaries.  It isn't easy, said the bloated haemorrhoid, to make so great a loss so swiftly -  I am not making this up, honest, not invent - and it is a mark of the talent I have assembled around me that we have lost so much in so short a time  and this is why we must have taxpayer-funded bonuses totalling four hundred fucking million pounds.Or seven hundred million.  It's not fair to pin me down on these numbers.  Whatever the sum is, it's not enough.

HESTER: NO SUCCESS LIKE FAILURE.

EVEN MY PARENTS THINK I'M A CUNT, BUT NEVER MIND, 

TALLY-HO, THE HOUNDS CAN SMELL TAXPAYERS' MONEY.

In the house of commons, Mr George Osbum, the Collision Govament's pretend chancellor of the exchequer squeaked irritably that it was time to stop bashing the bankers, it was talking the country down and anyway there were still far too many cripples and cancer patients who needed a good kicking, as anyone who reads the Daily Filth will confirm.

On the BBC,  Mr Robert Peston,

 the son of some Labour peer, doing an extended  work experience placement with the corporation said, Well, whine, whine, whine, as I said last week, whine, whine, uh uh uh uh uh ,  ah ah ah ha ah , um um um um um, as I say on my website,  wwwiknowfuckall.com. 

"RBS is much less likely to bankrupt all of us than it was" said the useless prat, "but no one can be confident that it will ever be able to repay us”  Which, of course, the dogs in the  street could tell you and you don't have to pay them thousands of pounds a week.

 In the sinking flagship programme. Newsshite, the spaced-out dunderhead, Paul   Mason  

Yeah, the Human League, I fucking loved them.

  said, Who me, don't fucking ask me, I haven't a fucking clue, wandered in here from Blue Peter, me, and nobody's noticed, yet.

In this  first Soaraway  Shit on Sunday,   a bigger, shittier, sleazier form of the much missed MadeupNewsOfTheWorld, former prime minister Tony Blair on why war is really peace and why poverty is the new wealth, only not for him. Nor Imelda.

HEARTS AND MINDS

TOP GENERAL ACTS TO STAMP OUT RELIGIOUS FIRE.

Brigadier General Hiram T Motherfucker the Third, Commander  of Nato ( ie US ) forces in Afghanistan said today that Good God Almighty he was pissing ground glass over the news that some of his gang-raping, crewcut, psychobastard mommasboys,  or US elite special forces to give them their stage name,  had burnt the fuck our of a pile of holy Quu''rans,or however the Fucking Jeseus you spell that shit, why cain't these raghead cocksuckers read  a proper fucking Bible, like decent fucking Christians, enquired the General testily, what is all this shit, these beardy cunts  throwing thenselves down on the ground five times a fuckling day, we never done none of this shit in West Point,  God bless me, Jesus, and pass the napalm that I might smite thy nigger enemies and roast their heathen black asses, that's as much scripture  as any decent Godfearin' warrior motherrfucker needs to know.  Anyway,added  Old Uncle Tom, as he is fondly known by his troops, I can only apologise to our Afghani subjects, I mean hosts, for this most terrible event and I do hereby solemnly promise to them that if anybody in future sets fire to any of that holy shit my orders are that they are, to the last man, piss on them  books immediately and put the flames out before giving them back to the folks what read them.  Winning hearts and minds,  that's what Uncle Sam is good at.

 

 US SPECIAL FORCES AT CHURCH PARADE.

Elsewhere in the troubled country the puppet emperor, Mr Khazi, a well-known pimp, bandit and drug dealer, said, This is a terrible affront to the dignity of my people and I cannot turn a blind eye to it. Unless another billion dollars is placed in my Swiss bank account, toute suite. 

HOW MUCH? YOU'RE SHITTIN' ME, MOTHERFUCKER.
I CAN'T DO IT FOR LESS THAN A BILLION.

 Without this happening I cannot guarantee the heroin trade which is so useful to us all, especially my partners in the Central Intelligence. Agency.

EVENSONG, STATE OF THE UNION.Nanci Griffith - Hard Times Come Again No More

WOTSONTELLY. ROYAL JELLY. IT WAS SIXTY YEARS AGO, TODAY.

This is the Six o Clock Arselicking  with Huw Welshman, look you, isn't it, and like the rest of the country we here at the BBC are celebrating Her Majesty's sixty years on the toilet, I mean throne, isn't it, what am I thinking about? And we go over now to Buckingham Palace and our Royal Correspondent, Nicholas Knobcheese. Nick, what can you tell us?

cut to tired old man in front of palace

Yes, thank you, Huw, and that's right, here, as everywhere in her realm, people are celebrating Her Majesty's sxity years on the throne. Except not in Highgrove, obviously. It was, as Mr Ishmael says in the headline, sixty years ago, today, that Her Majesty's father, His Majesty, passed away, some say from the burden of office thrust on him by his brother and that American slapper, while others say it was down to too many Capstan Full Strength, smoked from a gold Cartier, diamond-encrusted cigarette holder, as befits one born so highly above us mere mortals. Whichever, Huw, it was a terrible tragedy, the Old King dying, truly terrible but on the other hand it was a miracle, a fairy tale miracle, which saw the beautiful young princess assume the duties of Europe's oldest and best loved monarchy, a duty which she has never, in these sixty years, shirked for one single moment. And for which the entire nation is today falling to its knees and giving thanks. Whilst other nations'a have had unemployment and wars and hunger and corruption in high places here, in good old England, we have known only peace, health and prosperity, the stability and contentment offered only by the wise monarch truly serving the needs of her subjects......

Whaddaout all that shit with the young Spencer girl, them treating her like a brood mare

 

and him,

 

Prince Jugears, virtually on his wedding night, riding the arse off that smoky old bagagge, Camilla,

GOD SAVE THE NEXT KING AND QUEEN OF ENGLAND

and her the wife of one of his so-called brother officers? A bit near the despot mark that, woodenchasay, Nick, a bit mediaeval????

Well, honi soit qui mal y pense, Huw

You what?? This is the six o clock news, here, Nick, not fucking Mastermind, honi what ????.

It means, in a rough translation, Huw, death in a Paris tunnel to those who would fuck with the Firm..

Well, I must admit, Nick that both me and the viewers will be lost there. But what about that other fucking idle bastard gabshite, Andrew, the one who hangs out with Jetset nonces and hand-cutting, head-chopping, wimmin-stoning Ayrabs....what about him, what's he good for.

Well His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, is the Queen's favourite son........

What, you are fucking joking, aren't you, that bastard, the one who goes around the world slagging off the govament and the press and the people, generally, worse than his fucking Dad. that one.....

Yes, Huw, but no worse than his brother, the heir to the throne....

Well, Nick, I do see what you mean, he is a right arsehole, isn't he, Charlie, good for fuck all, can't even squeeze his own toothpaste, the worthless fucking tosser. And is it true that when silly fuckers in the public send him presents he's no sooner unwrapped 'em thatn he's sending some flunkey down to CashConverters with 'em and trousering the money and doesn't even pay no fucking tax on it, the cheeky cunt, is that right???

Huw, viewers will know that because of the very great service they render the nation that highly placed royals - not that there are any low royals and if there are then it's down to the aforementioned Solution Parisienne  - Her Majesty has seen fit to set her hard-working family outside the normal legal requirements of we, her loyal arselicking subjects......

So, he does what he wants, them, this knobhead......

Yes, Huw, very much so, apart from sitting, himself, with his doxy, on the Grear Throne of State, that must await events, perhaps the death of his father, the gobby Greek fucker, will prompt an abdication. But who knows, Huw, who, in this world of cut-out cardboard princes and dukes, all togged-up in Ruritanian uniforms, bristling with medals awarded by Granny, who knows what may happen. I for one, as a seasoned observer of these things simply hope that Her Majesty goes on for another sixty years. And another, after that.

And as long as good Queen Brenda is in the throne all will be as it should be. The nation can enter this Joyous Year of SpivCuts, Privatisation, Unemployment and Hunger completely distracted by her Majesty's Jubilee. It is, after all, what she's for. And now back to you, Huw, in the studio.

That was Nicholas Knobcheese there for us, outside the Palace of Thieves, where the Royals spend part of their yearly six months' holiday, safe from the Press and from the benefits fraud enquiry officers, who, strangely, never go near them.

And it's over now to the roof of Buckingham Palace, where Doctor Sir Brian May, OBE and Atronomer Royal, stargazing's true WildChild, is about to celebrate Her Majesty's reign as only he can, you know, that riff, that whining tone, the only one he knows, for fucks sake. He's made a fucking fortune, playing the same thing for forty fucking years. At least Freddie Mercury could shake his arse a bit. Jimi Hendrix's Star Spangled Banner, now, look you, there was a national anthem for you, not like this tripe, isn't it.

Nevertheless, if you would all be good enough to stand for the national anthem it might do you some good, when the time comes.  We can see you, you know.  And hear you.

NEWS REVIEW. GREAT MEN LAID LOW.

CELEBS: MICHAEL PORTILLO, THE MAN IN THE KNOW.

Did I mention that I'm half-Spanish, half-Scottish, half-English and a touch Bohemian?

" I don't expect him  (Mr Chris Who)  to be charged tomorrow, the only reason the CPS is calling a  press conference is to explain why he isn't being charged." Speaking on the dreadful This Week show, last Thursday.

MR KEIR HARMER, HEAD OF THE CPS & THE COPPERS' FRIEND.

Portillo?  He's a silly old poof.
Huhne? He's one of the DogShooters, he's going down.
Lying to the police is very serious.
They're the ones supposed to be doing the lying.

It's insights like this Huhne blunder which  explain why Murdoch pays Portillo to be one of his hacks and why we pay him a grand a week to to pontificate on This Week.  And that's not to mention his reading aloud from a Victorian Railway  Guide on some other dismal show.  What, with him and his fellow-Thatcherite spiv, the repulsive Norman Tebbit, shaping the nation's  opinions, is it any wonder that we are hurtling down the toilet?   Portillo, too timid to run for Tory leader, when it might have meant somethung, might have tempered the Blair-|Brown-Mandelstein and Campbell criminality, now moistly smirking in his  frightful shirts, and that other shameless, gabshite class-traitor fuckpig, Alan cuckold Johnson, yes, and Jacqui fucking Schmidt, blowsy and bloated, promoting a nascent career in the shit-spewing  meeja, insist that the poor must take their medicine whilst the rich gorge themselves on stolen  benefits and    on hard-won rights trampled upon  and abrogated.  The very first on the end of the rope, Neil's gang of worthless arrivistes.  Did he ever mention, Neil, the disgusting old playboy,  that he was  a grammar school boy, went to Glasgow University?  Does he ever fucking stop mentioning it and does it in any way ameliorate his cruel, brutish, gutter journalism, his lifetime of pretence,  sucking poxy political cock whilst playing the hard man interrogator. Man should have a fucking BAFTA. At least Sir Michael Kneepads White can manage to speak a sentence  without tripping over his tongue and even pissed out of his mind, as he usually is, Toilets Maguire can mutter a Labour  apologia or two without reading then off cue cards.  It is a measure of Ruin's progress  that Neil is now on Beebtelly every day of the week, bar Saturday.

Newsnight distinguished itself, too.  Not by flagging-up the fact that three of the Cabinet's spivs, Law, Huhne and Fox   are as bent as can be, nor by commenting on the severity of the offence of conspiring to pervert the course of justice but by hosannahing the shitbag, Huhne's,  sterling qualities. Such as being a staunch  family man and a rotten fucking lying bastard. To his wife and to his constituents.

Mr Who, with his then-wife, Ms Vicky Woman-Scorned and, to the right, his baggage, Ms Carina Trumpington-MuffDive, a well-connected lobbyist and slapper.
-------------------------------------------

SPORT: ENGLAND ANNOUNCES NEW CAPTAIN.

I WILL WEAR THE CAPTAIN'S ARMBAND WITH PRIDE,

VOWS NICK.
JUST AS LONG AS IT'S THE SWASTIKA.

Following the sacking of Mr John Knobhead, the FA has announced that Mr Nick Griffin has been selected to captain the England wife-beaters, gang-rapists, coke-snorters and all around arseholes team in this year's European whatever it is.  Mr Griffin was seen at training with the England squad, where he was leading a community sing-in of Niggers! Niggers! Niggers! Out! Out! Out!

I firmly believe that all white men are created equal, shouted an ebulllient Mr Griffin, apart from queers, of course. And  the Jews.

Ex-captain, Mr Knobhead, seen below, at a meeting of the Professional Footballers Association, said that he wasn't bovvered eever way, about being the captain of his national team, knoworramean,'smore important fings in life than football, innit, knoworramean. Like shagging uvver blokeses crumpet. And fighting.

The manager of Chelsea Football Club, Mr Julio Greaseball, below,

 

said that while he understood Mr Knobhead being stripped of the captaincy he deed not agree weeth eet. Eet ees all 'owyousay ze load of bollocks, ee ees not raceest, an' eeven eef 'e was, eet doesn't matter, ees football, an' we let ze neegnogs play een ze team, just ze same;  zey 'eve ze great sense of reethymn, eenit. An we all 'ave zee pees-up een ze shower after ze game. But you should see ze cocks on some of zem neegers, Madre Dios, zey are fucking 'uge.  'An all black an' shiny, like ze coppers truncheons.

In Moscow, Mr Roman Kalashnikov, the billionaire Russian criminal and owner of Chelsea FC, said,  if zis 'appen in 'Oly Mother Russia, my friend and co-accused, Comrade Putin, 'e vould make it all go away and ze FA vould find zemselfs in prison for hundred of fucking year.

 

I can haff you keeled, you know, just like zat. 

Abramovich, wealth creator.

Or international criminal as we call oligarchs around here.

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

THINGS YOU SODOM SEE, SORRY, SELDOM SEE.

Look, as the deputy unelected prime minister I'd just like to apologise, first, to the people of Britain for enacting a whole shitload of measures designed to punish them for the offences of others and which neither my own party or the party of my right honourable friend, the unelected prime minister, had even dreamed of when we put ourselves before you at the general election and you didn't put your trust in us. Especially the pensioners whom I had thought  received a very generous pension of thirty pounds a week, a fundamental stupidity on my part which, in any normal world, would see me confined to a re-education camp until I knew what day it was and whereabouts was located the hole in my public school buggered arse.  Instead I am the unelected deputy prime minister and this is the main thing.  I can tell my children about it. If they ever, when they are grown-up, can stand to be in the same room as me.  But, and it is a big but,  we had no option but to cobble together an illegitimate and some would say unholy govament consisting of some very rich people and Mr Michael Spit-Gove.  I am terribly sorry about this, as far as normal people are concerned.  But if you are asking me if I have disappointed my own tiny privileged and vengeful class, well, what do you think?

Secondly, I would like to apologise for Mr Huhne to the voters of wherever it is, and wherever it is will be a triumph of true LiberalDemocrat values, although not, obviously the ones we stood on but those which we have been forced to adopt by the unelected financial cabals of the world.  Look, let's be clear, it doesn't reallly matter, can't really matter, what we said yesterday and it is clearly unacceptable for people to try to hold us to something we said well, yesterday, when in fact it is now today.  And tomorrow, it will be today again.  I like to think I have framed a new, modern Liberal Democratic philosophy here, which could be summarised by my asking myself the question - as I do - do I mean anything I ever say? To which the answer is clearly an honest, principled, LiberalDemocratic No. The logic is inescapable.  But as for  for Mr Huhne, I would like to apologise for him saying at the last election that he was a happily married man.  In a sense he was,  just not to his wife but to himself, and to the idea that he could have my job. Instead of going to prison. And I must say at this poimnt that as a Liberal Democrat I do not believe in prison. Except for those who need to be there, like Mr Huhne.  He was, also, as is often the case in the party I am so proud to lead, in a sense, happily married to his bi-sexual media adviser and unhappily married to his - some would say -proper wife, although I would hesitate to be judgemental about this, unlike her, or is it she, who has fired a right good round of fucks into him and continues to do so.  Some women take a kinder view of things, knowing the frightful pressure which MPs are under, having to work so hard at breaking their promises, fiddling their expenses and fucking  the arses off their HagueBoys or mistresses whilst presenting themselves as scrupulously virtuous.  Mrs Oaten, for instance, when she found that her husband, Mark, our former Home Office spokesperson - tough on tarts, tough on the causes of tarts, that was his policy-in-waiting - when she found out that Mark had unfortunately been found paying young men to shit in his face she quite properly put his misfortune down to his premature hair loss, caused by him working so hard to curry favour in the press, I mean serve his constituents.  But each to his or her own.  Mrs Huhne, for her part, has invented an unlikely scenario in which she was a very long way from her husband's speeding car when she was driving it and contends that there are many witnesses to her presence, a very long way away from the car she was driving;  she insists, in fact, that it is impossible for her to have been in the car at the time and in the location that it was speeding. As if.   

It is of course now a matter for the jury and the amount of pressure which can be brought to bear upon it by Mr Huhne's money.  I mean his legal team.  But all of us in politics have an interest in seeing him getting away with blue murder.  Just as long as he doesn't afterwards expect to come back into govament, with decent people, like myself and Mr Laws.

I would also like to apologise to his constituents for him not resigning his seat immediately upon being charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and being a rotten lying bastard piece of shit. But LibDem MPs are made of sterner stuff than that. It is in our DNA.  Just look at our roll call of heroic figures.  There was Mr Jeremy Thorpe;  why should he have resigned just because he went with rent boys when it was seriously illegal, conspired to have them killed and shot their dogs.  Didn't stop him doing a great job for all concerned.  And he did get away with it. There was Mr Straight Simon Hughes,  the closet poof, elected on a queer-bashing platform.  He got away with it, too.  And there was my predecessor, Charlie Kennedy, the Dipso, whose drink problem we all denied until he had no option but to publicly  and as a matter of great principle, admit it himself, five minutes  before his former assistant did so .  And only all of us, every last one of us,  lied to the electorate about him being a fit and proper person to be prime minister, even though he couldn't, most of the time, stand up unaided.  We are the party of truth, you see, only not about ourselves.  And that, I suggest, is the sort of party you want in govament.  Remember, if you want to kick the cripples, freeze the old, raise banker pensions and bonuses, cover the land with useless, shit-generating windmills and stuff the frontbenches with  alcoholic, degenerate, shiteating, moneygrubbing, child-molesting, cross-dressing, hypocritical, fraudulent, money-laundering, toilet-creeping extorionists then vote Liberal Democrat.  Or Tory. Or Labour. Or SNP. Or Plaid Cymru. Or the Ulster Undertakers' Party.

Many of us will recall a time  when a whisper of  character, never mind behaviour such as Huhne's would have initiated a swift exit from the cabinet.  I think I'm right in saying that.  There were, long ago, stories about Boothby and the Kray Twins about Boothby and Harold McMillan's wife; about queer Labour MP Tom Driberg, about Ghandi and Mountbatten's wife and doubtless many others.  But I believe there was a line over which none could cross with impunity;  Huhne and, by association, his colleagues, have crossed it.

My young friend, stanislav the plumber, used to argue that the NewLabour govament was the most dangerous organised crime family in the country. That this shower of public school spivs sees Huhne's partial downfall only in terms of political advantage or disadvantage, sees it only selfishly and that MediaMinster, too,  sees it only in similar, gamesters terms recognises formally the corruption, illegality and  utter worthlessness of the present parliamentary system, Thieves, philanderers, perverts, slags, pimps and ponces, all of them;  Huhne is just one of them, dragged out into the sunshine;  maybe, like snot expectorated in the gutter, he will shrivel  up and be washed away, down the drain. But the body politic remains, diseased and rotting, it's only cure, its only deliverance a massive, lethal dose of Upagainstthewallmotherfuckerism.

SCOTLAND. BEST PART OF ENGLAND. SHERIDAN GAGGED.

SHERIDAN MUST SUCK HIS OWN DICK FOR SIX MONTHS, RULES SCOTTISH PRISON SERVICE.

Scottish firebrand politician, Tearful Tommy Sheridan, is to be released on parole after serving one third of the  three-year sentence, imposed  upon him for his principled fight against  the evils of capitalism in all its forms, apart from in  the sex clubs, brothels and drug dens of the North Western England.   The only catch in the early release deal is  that Sheridan must shut his gob for six months, in public, at least,  and not go banging-on about the injustices of his life, his position and the failure of Mr CallHimDave to be held to account over l'affaire Coulson - or, Tommy, one might add, sotto voce, anything else.

 Not usually known for its generosity of spirit,  the Scottish Prison Service inadvertently  does the nation and the aural environment a temporary and all too brief  service.  To be spared, even for six months,  the sexist, incoherent, foam-flecked, fist-waving demagoguery of Mr Tearful Tommy Sheridan is, in these hard times, a welcome blessing, one tempered only by the knowledge that  Mr Sheridan's fellow celebrity and his advocate, Mr Aamer Anwar, will,  in his uniquely outraged and tongue-tied manner,  be self-righteously filibustering his way around the TV studios, ranting about his client's purity and dedicarion to public service.  Even facing this self-serving onslaught we might find some relief in the fact that Mr Anwar may not be simultaneously engaged in  vigorously applauding the abolition of the double jeapardy legislation - one of the citizen's few protections against the over-reach of the state's criminal law.

For  the illumination of those living outside this blessed land, perhaps poncing a living off Mr Salmond's oil reserves,  we should mention that Mr Anwar

 is one of Scotland's most prominent celebrity lawyers.  Pushy, showy and woefully inarticulate, even for a Scottish lawyer. Mr Anwar, a civil rights enthusiast,   has recently been trumpeting that the abolition of the double jeapardy protection means that those whom " everybody knows to be guilty" should be convicted forthwith;  breathtaking stupidity, even from a shit-eating Sheridanite. I tell you, friends, the fifteen-minutes long BBC Scotland Newsnight features a tiny, regular cast of some of the dumbest, ugliest, stupidest and  most repellent  assholes in the country, Anwar being the unlikeley and ludicrously unsuitable default setting choice to pontificate about civil liberties, he's like the Imelda Blair of Jock jurisprudence.

Tommyists around Scotland  - sadly, poor wee crossdressing wifebeaters,  confusing opposition to their hero as endorsement of skymadeupnewsandfilth - insist that the campaign for Salmondism, I mean Independence, must hear the ranting,  tobacco-rasped  voice of Tommy, and no doubt the saintly Gail, too, if it is to mean anything at all.

Mr Sheridan and his media-legal stooges have already hijacked and torched the Left in Scotland,  that they wish now  to cavort in, make Scotland host to a bizarre and  corrosive Celebrity Big Brother Independenc Referendum  House is a self-indulgence too far.  If Mr Sheridan himself has voluntarily  agreed to the terms of his parole -  he could, acting in principle, have served the rest of his sentence - then that should be the end of the matter; principle,  for the baying Sheridanites, however,  is shouty and bullying in its noisesome evangelism and infinitely elastic in its meaning. We must look forward, therefore, dolefully, to Tommy and Aamy berating the nation about its failure to properly honour the coke-snorting prophet in its midst and demanding that the terms of his parole are an affront to human decency.  As if we didn't have enough shot to sidestep.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.
(IN A McGAY LIB SORT OF WAY)

Glamourpuss Tommy, bless, reclining in his macho sunbed,
models his tee-shirt for his avid wee fans.

Next week,  in our Gay Heroes of Scotland series: entertainer and traveller, Mr George Gallowbum tells readers: Why I should be the first Socialist Emperor of Scotland.

 

 A man  peddling Freedom in order that he might enjoy a cushy living

would better starve.....

                                                                                           from Tasty McFadden's Corruption Blues 

THE THINGS THEY SAY.

 

WHIMPERING ED MILIBAND, THE  MURDOCH-SLAYER,

"  Look, I am the guy who took on Murdoch, "  Miliband said on Friday. "  That was a decisive thing to do. I am the guy that has said the rules of capitalism as played in the last 30 years have got to change. What is the most important thing for a leader of the opposition to have? It is to establish an argument about what is wrong with the country and what needs to change. I have a very clear plan and I have set out very clear themes. "

Poor, whimpering deadbeat, what he means to say is: What is the most important  thing for a leader of the opposition to do?  His very clear plan and very clear themes obviously do not include the cultivation of grammatical consistency in his public whimperings.

When you look back at them, now,  the Labour leaders, well, since Wilson and Marcia, anyway, you see that they are all delusional nincompoops, just like this one, good for fuck all, and that any good which has emerged during their tenures has come from outside parliament, travelling inwards and not, as this  creepy, malformed  bastard suggests, outwards - it is not about "what is wrong with the country and what needs to change," it is about what is wrong in MediaMinster and who needs hanging-up from a fucking lamp post and what needs burning to the fucking ground.

EVENSONG. A VELVET OVERGROUND. Sheryl Crow & Emmylou Harris (Live) : Pale Blue Eyes

DIVIDED WE STAND.

Of course, by sending my son to a private school I am not seeking to set him apart from the riff-raff, workshy, fatherless, drugtaking,  black children in my shitpoor constituency and ally him for life to the children of rich people.  Only I am. That'll be a thousand pounds please, Andrew. And at least if they do sack me from the Front bench of Oblivion I'll be able to come back on the show every week.  Instead of that cheesy old minge, Jacqui Schmidt.  Or Alan Johnson, yes, the one whose missus was banging half the Met.  And him home seckatry.  Well, of course it's not for me to comment on colleagues making themselves look ridiculous but really.....

ON THE FEAST OF STEVEN.

The idea of victims' justice is something which civilised societies rightly abhor.  Uncle Sam, of course, with his Bible-thumping barbarism, is uncivilised, along with China,  the Indian sub-continent, parts of Africa, parts of the former USSR and countless other states, notably in the Middle East,  where the state or the theocracy casts itself as the victim of all crimes and extracts a deadly and wretched  compensation from offenders  - or those said to be offenders by proper offenders, generally men, often holy men, utter bastards, in other words.

Victims' justice belongs far in the past, along with the likes of Benjamin Netanyahu and Barack Obama, proper societies have a system of blind, impersonalised justice, detached from the offence but connected to the society in which it occurred and driven by considerations other than solely vengeance;  how else can it work? Unless we are prepared to condone one crime leading to another, probably worse; to condone a fatal escalation of inter-citizen violence as burglary leads to murder and murder leads to torture and murder, unless we want blood and limbs flowing in the streets we must consign the dispensation of justice to professionals, with whom we will often disagree. Because they are all bastards, too.

The selective abolition of the Double Jeopardy rule was one of NewLabour's darker achievements and we see that controlling impetus everywhere, now, in politics;  the Irish Referendum on Europe is a fine example of state - or pan-state -  lawlessness, you keep on voting until you give us the answer we want or, as in this case, we keep on trying you until we get a conviction, it is  one of those slippery slopes beloved of NewLab bullyboy, Jack Torture, simpering learnedly, the rotten fucking bastard, about human rights whilst extending the rights of the state over the citizen; as Foreign Seckatry Straw lied his face off to the United Nations, in order that his masters in Washington might bomb the beJasus out of innocent Iraqi children;  today, in the light of the Lawrence verdict,  this monster will be toasting himself, even more than usual. It is better that a thousand guilty go free than that one innocent  be incarcerated or executed and fuck DNA evidence and fuck scientific advance and fuck clozeya for victims' families. The ability to try and re-try is the work of the Devil which we shall all come to regret, all of us, that is, save the lawmakers and their agents, who, as we know, are far beyond the reach of the laws they visit upon the rest of us.

Another NewLabour solecism - along with the creation of Holocaust Day  - was the idea that killing some people was worse than killing other people;  that, if you killed a ginger person you should get a sterner bollocking off the likes of Coleman Treacey than you would if you just killed someone who was, say, brown haired.  And so now we have gingerly-aggravated killing, unless, of course, at the earliest opportunity you express remorse for hating ginger bastards.  Once upon a time, killing anybody was bad shit, but now if you kill some bastard because you don't like him, well, as we see, hanging's too good for you.  A black person, you see, or a gay person, is uniquely, when killed,  more dead than a non-black or non-gay person. ( I wonder, in passing, if, had Steven been killed by a Yardie and his killing effectively overlooked by the Met, would we be banging-on about it nearly twenty years later,  would it be less of a tragedy, less of an outrage?  Where does the racism really lie in this?) Now, if I was a white, straight person, I'd take serious exception to this shit because what it means is that if someone is sat at home thinking about killing someone else he is very likely to think, Fuck me, I wanna kill some bastard so bad, I wanna knife him and kick him and set fire to him, maybe not knife him, because that carries a bigger sentence, and certainly not shoot him because they'll throw the fucking book at me and it better not be a black person or a brown person or any kinda coloured gay person, or a Muslim  or Scotchperson;  the bastard'd certainly better not be studying for A levels or we'll never hear the end of it.  Who does that leave me, then,  to murder?  I'll just have to find someone who's not now and never has been a member of any minority group whatsoever, because that'd be HateCrime. And all I wanna do is murder some bastard.

Now, the individuals convicted  for the murder of BrightAlevelStudentStevenLawrence do present as pretty unpleasant and despite the botched evidence of the Met's scientific teams, the jury felt that they were guilty of a terrible deed, spontaneous, although apparently in character;  a couple of knife thrusts and a shared jubilation.  And now, for some, the state's retribution - those calling, incidentally, for a longer sentence have clearly never spent a week-end in the cells, have no concept of what fifteen years' incarceration means. I am no armchair jurist and I don't know - beyond a gut feeling of "probably" - the truth of the matter. And if I blame anybody, I blame the parents.  And, of course, their parents.  There's no shortage of people to blame.  Just as long as we don't blame our representatives in MediaMinster.

But I do know that criminal trials are not, or should not be held to burnish, belatedly, the reputation of a palpably corrupt police force, to vindicate the drunken, amoral splutterings of the wretched, anti-democrat Paul Dacre of the Daily FilthMail, nor should they be held to bring clozeya to Mrs Lawrence, people who speak in such terminology betray not their compassion but their imbecility. Mrs Lawrence is a true vexation to the spirit, for one can be sure that before her personal loss she discounted all the police wickedness visited upon other, less "bright" black boys;  her son, doing A levels,  wasn't he actually gonna be an architect, almost a proper white  man.  Nothing that happens, in or out of  the criminal justice system will bring clozeya to Mrs Lawrence. Nothing except Forgiveness. But she is clearly an unforgiving woman and her wretchedness will yet sell many more newspapers as anniversaries roll around and - in the distant future -  parole applications are heard.  I am doing a life sentence she will howl;  yes,  she is and only she can free herself; although we know that Grief's celebrity-noire is a tenacious monkey on the back of the unwary -  once there saddled by skymadeupnewsandfilth, he is hard to unseat.  Here Mrs Old Lady, here's a coupla hundred quid, tell us, tell our readers, how much you hate Ian Brady and Myra Hindley for killing your son;  thanks, love, seeya next year.

But the trial wasn't about Mrs Lawrence - but don't tell her that -  it was about an act of random, racially inspired murder, like the one of an Indian student, just committed in Manchester - undeterred, you see, by the great efforts made by our masters, hatred stalks us, still;  and who knows when others of similar mind to the Lawrence killers may strike again, maybe in solidarity with their jailed comrades.

Mr Justice Coleman Cuckold Treacey is a man made mean by his disappointments and we may be sure that he has dished out as much prison as he could, consistent with the career implications of a high profile case such as this and few will complain that he was over-harsh although, as we see, some are of the view that hanging's too good for 'em, life should mean life and so on.  There may be room for another court to give them an extra year or two - even though Treacey's doses of porridge are just a minimum, the Parole Board and Home Seckatries are well-attuned to the public mood in such cases and these two should not hold their breath, awaiting release on the dates specified by the Court,  they could well spend their lives in prison.

The institutionalised villains of the piece of course are feasting, too,  along with the drunken bum, Dacre, along  with every half-witted race relations activist  and with every veneer-scratched Guardian-reading fascist in the land.

DAC Clarissa Gob was good, nice mixture of smug satisfaction and regret that it had taken so long for her mob to do the decent thing;  Clarissa, it was, who masterminded the emptying of a magazine into the head of poor young JeanCharles de Menendes, before he was swiftly slandered by Sir now Lord Ian Blair,  then  Commissioner of the Filth;  unlike the unfortunates sentenced yesterday,    Clarissa was immediately promoted, it's how they do things in the police.  And all,  the entire revolting Gabshites Chorus,  have been singing the praises - although  they didn't  at the time - of the MacPherson Report, as though the images of women being dragged around the cells by their hair, batoned in the face by psychobastard coppers-without-numbers and of Ian Tomlinson being killed, right  before the eyes of the   world and his killer being cynically protected by the entire law enforcement system had been apparitions, visible only to the sceptical, the naysayers. visible only to those who say that all lawyers are scum, all politicians are shit-eating hypocrites,  all journalists are filth and  - l'axiom des toutes axiomes - all coppers are bastards.  That some cops have been dragooned into prosecuting their spiritual homies does not alter the fact that those who, at the time, protected the killers, will have been, what's that phrase, in FilthSpeak, allowed to retire early, on health grounds

The feasting,  therefore,  friends, the Feast of Stephen, is of thin gruel, bread and circuses, a good, self-righteous, tub-thumping, self-writing  New Year's story to gladden the hearts  and divert the attentions of the braindead.

The final word should go to the Met's chief sociopath, wotsisname, Baden Powell, Hogan Powell, who knows,  so rotten is the barrel from which their bosses  emerge that even the most blatantly criminal organisation in the country can't seem to keep hold of one of them for more than five minutes.

COMMISSIONER HAGEN-DAZ

Those involved in the killing of young wotsisname, the black lad, they shouldn't sleep easily in their beds.  Those involved  over the past decade in the killings of three hundred and fifty people in their custody - ie us - we can sleep as soundly as we like.

Always remember,  there is only a thin but excessively well-armed blue line protecting you from  an outbreak of complete Decency.