MORE TONY, SOMETIMES SATAN COMES AS A MAN OF PEACE.

THE ENEMY WITHIN.

In the appraoch to the illegal invasion of Iraq, NewLabour propaganda echoed Mad dog Thatcher’s description of ordinary people as the “enemy within”, describing the threatened firefighters strike as a threat to national security at a time when the country was on the eve of murderously blitzing the Iraqi population.

The firefighters, for charging into burning buildings, sought a wage of thirty grand, less than half that of the crooks troughing in Westminster, a fraction of those worthies' bloated, total takings.

Both parties, typically, condemned the firefighters' demands.

Today, in Edinburgh, thirty-five year old enemy within, Ewan Williamson, killed on duty, was seen off by comrades from all over the world.

Tony Blair, twenty million pounds richer, is still setting the world on fire.

ROCK 'N' ROLL STUDIES NUMBERS 12 & 35, SEX AND DRUGS AND ROCK ' N' ROLL

FUCK OFF GOOGLE

Be nice, remember nice things. Famous birthdays and shit. Anniversaries. Or don't bother. We''ll remember them for you and remind you, in a nice, funny, quirky, nerdy, cartoony sort of way, like Disney but for clever grown-ups, like you. Who don't know their arse from a hole in the ground. We will remember it all for you, everything, while you just carry on, having a nice Google time.

Your very own life, brought to you by Google.

I'VE GOT SOME REAL ESTATE, HERE IN MY BAG.

NO MASCARA SHORTAGE

From skymadeupnewsandfilth's Black Death correspondent,
Jayne Tits.



MR ANDY "BUBBLES" BURNHAM, MP.

There is no need to worry, said the Plague Secretary today.

The UK is well placed to have a good plague, if we aren't seeing millions of deaths among the economically non-productive (formerly, hard-working families, the old, disabled and vulnerable) by Christmas, plans are well in advance to both deliberately infect people and withhold life-saving treatment. The prime minister will, hiding in the toilet, masturbating fenziedly and biting his nails until they bleed, demonstrate his strength in a crisis and prove to the nation that it is only by returning a NewLabour government that we will stop killing you. It is the right thing for the country.

Mr Bubbles continued by adding that he had plenty of mascara, more than enough to see him through any number of Crisis, What Crisis television appearances with his fellow-cosmeticists, beauticicans and slap-artistes, Messieurs Paxoman, BoultoLard and les Freres Dimbleby, the nation's favourite Chairmen.

I urge all cabinet ministers to apply their make-up carefully, the Death Secretary concluded; in Plague times like these the prime minister needs to see a pretty face or two, it's only natural.

AFTER THE BALL IS OVER

But the bottles are done, we've killed each one And the table's full and overflowed....

Well, save for there being some wog children still alive and unmaimed in Gaza, Guido von Fawkes's life's mission is all but accomplished, anti-politics is triumphant, all the expenses dirt is right out there, for all to see, some members criminal, some, dancing on a razor's edge, nit-picking their guilt; a lot of them - as the IT paedophiles knowingly smirk - barely legal; all vile and venal, but we showed them. What a binge it's been, lads, who was the one with the duck pond, the oak beams, the gardener, hasn't it all been great? Such scalps have we taken .......... a shame that, like Mr Hain's, they have all grown back.

And just see the kicking we gave them, they won't get over that in a hurry.
Except that they will. They are already over it. Hasn't the prime minister, stuttering Uncle Snot, put in place.....sol-you-shuns....trans-pair-ency.......hasn't the revolting Bullingdon Boy stage-managed the retirement of a few old codgers and look, fuck me, the shadow cabinet are giving up their main jobs, working for the vile bugger Murdoch. But not 'til Christmas, when ministerial salaries and bribes are in sight. No-nonsense Dave. Just the kind of Old Etonian gangmaster we want running the country. Lets all row together. Some of us have even promised to think about paying back the money which we claimed, as a very genuine mistake, if only for a dismissive moment or two.

And look, Question Time and Any Questions and Newsnight and Today are a-swarm with ordinary, decent people, hardly a politician to be seen, such a clear-out there has been.

And those bankers, look how we sorted them. Not standing any of their nonsense. Gave them all the money there is, and even some that there isn't. And we managed to allow ourselves a couple of generations in which to pay ourselves back. It was essential, all are agreed, from the depths of their financial and economics wisdom, that the system had to be protected. Oh, fuck me, old chap, couldn't have the banks fail, I mean, if the rich lose their position we're all fucked aren't we. You know, Guido's right, trickle-up, that's the thing, the taxes of the poor simply have to flow upwards to the rich, who, of course shouldn't pay any taxes, or else we simply wouldn't attract the right sort of organised global criminal to London.

Some will lose their seats and be forced, poor lambs, to exploit, like Blind Boy Blunkett, the horrible bastard, contacts made whilst in our pay, not all will be former health secretaries and like the ghastly Hewitt and the gobby thug, Milburn, appointed immediately, post-sacking, by PharmaCorp to help it more efficiently milk the NHS but none will know the chill family-rending finality of a shut steel works or carplant, their lives and dignity, once bouyed-up by phony assurances from a stuttering, closet pansy nutter, now buggered by some smarmy shit in a suit, their plight grist only to Mandy's EuroMill; such are the triumphs of the bloggers' revolution of 2009, the poor being told Open Wide, We Are Just Going To Shit In Your Mouths. Again. The Wogs told We Must Napalm Your Playgrounds For Your Own Good; the Army told We Honour Your Sacrifice, Look, We Read Your Names Out, before Moving-on to Important Shit With The Tossers Opposite.


Some, painlessly despatched by bloggers and Brogans, will be further punished by being forced to accept severance payments in six figures, unlike their former constituents who, lives ruined by Westminster-friendly spiv-bankers, will know now, afresh and not as folk memory, the dignity of belt-tightening, of fuel poverty as the Knights and Lords of privatised EnergyCorp fuck their arses ragged; of unemployment and repossession --- Ah, it's good for the soul, built this great labour movement of ours, the movement which elevated the vile, cock-waving, pie-gulping, stupid illiterate thug-bastard Prescott to riches and nobility, I were only a steward but look at me, now; the movement which thrust on the nation the unspeakable windbagging famille Kinnock; but few, if any, will go to jail, where they belong, braying, arrogant Tory spivs; furtive, shifty Who-Me never done a days work in their lives, Labour apparatchiks, lawyers, lecturers, layabouts and ree-surchers. The worst that will happen to them is, well, nothing. Nothing will happen to them.

The caravan has moved on, the horde is Broganed-out, weary of Will Hutton simpering drunkenly his Guardianista apocalypse, useless, pissed-up prick, ranting, breathlessly, like some despairing itinerant bard of doom, some Ancient Mariner nouveau, too late for the Wedding Feast; the audience is nailed to the fucking wall with boredom by the fox-trotting nitwit, Cable, another who never actually told-us-so. A thousand voices clamour at order-order dotcom to some insect purpose known, presumably, to themselves; each, in his own mind, a one-liner-smart-ass, a Bagehot, an absurdist stanislavian; many Mussolini Incarnate; many, their finer ape instincts liberated and orchestrated by Totty Watch, truly sorry-assed women-haters, waiting to pounce on any split-arse who dares to hold an opinion; many, whining illiterately of Hard Times In Old England, really just junior members of KKK-lite; women-hating and wog-bashing, the authentic Voice of Freedom, Guido-style. The toilet wall of the Internet.


Those who thought formerly that right-wing Libertarian blogger was a long-winded way of saying Nazi can stand themselves down, for catspaw and stoolie are actually closer to the mark, as the cyberstooges jostle to be on the BBC, on Adam Boulton's skymadeupnewsandfilth's blogroll, as the outsider craves insiderness - as the revolting old fag Hattersley joined the House of Lords Free-dinners club only so's to abolish it , so the blogger dips his toes in TeeVee.....

The endless chorus of fucks and bastards resounding round the Cyberhalls of Resentment sings now not of the Smith Institute, nor of the Jewboy fixer Levy, who, we should not forget, was to be meat for Guido's grandiose private prosecution service, nor of the imminent departure of almost everyone in public life, none of whom would survive a month, once under Guido's bibulous scrutiny, and who all, remarkably, have; no, the tumult of fucks and bastards is now retargeted at Helicopters, service personnel for the use of and their lack.

A Virtual Dad's Army assembles, now, belatedly; now, after millions dead, made refugee; after the slaughter of Palestine's infants, the sustained, institutionalised torture of hapless, harmless youth, shackled, battered, sparked-up, raped to death by Uncle Sam's finest, prompted, offstage, by MI5; after the fragmentation-bombing of old people's homes, the Guernica-style deployment of British personnel and munitions, as Shock and Awe blitzed the cradle of civilisation in an orgy of BushBlair greed and bloody hypocrisy.......after all this shit-in-our-names a pantomime paper-clip counter's morality engulfs us, there are not enough helicopters, service personnel for the use of. Oh yes there are, oh no there aren't.

Helicopters, the new outrage; once it was slush funds, misuse of charitable status, misuse of secretaries bodies, misuse of seats in the Lords, misuse of expenses and Visas for the Fleet Street bicycle-slapper's nanny; once, where an unfocused cyber-rage engulfed all in oublic sector employment, the back-breaking six quid an hour arsewipers happily, stupidly, ignorantly conflated, by tub-thumping expatriates, with the thieving-bastard hundred grand a year chief executive of Merthy Tydfil Council and a thousand other mini-Ruritanias, satraps to Westminster. Now the beady eye of the professional, egotisitcal, name-checking, blog-rolling cyberwhiner fixes on this or that red-tabbed brasshat, mandarin or mouthy, indolent don; the insufferable General Jackson or the mythically, fabulously, catastrophically incompetent Bob the cunt Ainsworth, each and all the others, trumpeting their own special brand of I-Know-Bestism. If only Guido Fawkes was in charge of the Army, eh. We'd cuss them Talimen to death; shout at them from a thousand miles away, that's what we'd do, anonymously of course.

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

This writer, as a young polish plumber, spent some time, hung-out at order-order and - until the great Pizza kiddy-massacres and the smell of blood - had some admiration for Guido, for the site and for many, many of its participants, some, but too few of whom foregather here, or track my dear stanislav elsewhere. But the pornography of war is revolting, inexcuseable and Guido's fatuous, infamous, inebriate celebration of the vile cast a jaundicing light over his whole ouevre and by extension that of all those who applaud and ape his belligerent stupidity; being an Internet Expenses Monitor whilst we are allied to torturers, governed by war criminals, seems to waste a platform built, in part, on others' support, others' writing. But more important than mere ill manners is that one simply cannot even pretend to an understanding of recent, tumultuous political history without including the events of September 11th and the invasion and occupation of Iraq - Guido says in what he must take to be a withering manner that he doesn't do Nine Eleven "troofers" and that he "doesn't do" Iraq; MPs expenses, yes; World War Three, no.

I used to argue that if you let 'em away with illegal wars and torture and shit like that in the first place, then, of course, they will rob the petty cash and the war, lacking a moral impetus, will be under-resourced. Too crafty a synopsis and undermining, probably, of the daily force-feeding of new scraps of outrage, down there in Lilliput.

Questions of taste and ethics, as they must, in Guido's case be, set aside, perhaps for adjudication in future by his own children, there remains a judgement to be made as to the impact on the body politic of the blogger and his insect horde; is this, this twenty-four-seven twittering-noire is it, in short, a non-political political movement, an impeller of reform?

Mr Daisy says he writes here because here is a minority place and yet it is his helicopter writing here, genuine and cogent, which is picked-up and Hosannahed by the the Great Gabshites, elsewhere. It is difficult to believe that his flowery voice would be heard among the cyber mainstream tabloid which is order-order dotcom, let alone valued. The political blogger in the main has the values of Kelvin McKenzie, the only thing which matters is circulation and whilst he is enslaved to that dictum he is enslaved also to the sytem which he claims to expose and decry, quad erat demosntrandum, as they don't say at Guido's; the wonderful blogosphere brought us, it is claimed, Obama, and may bring us, yet, Cameron, how so cool and reforming is that ?

Things are organised by Power so that those who do it's bidding are all but immune from meaningful censure or sanction; it couldn't work otherwise, organised crime. If cyber ranters could change owt, they would be shut down in an instant. The cyber arena, such as it is, in Anchorage, Turkey, Malaya and Barbados is incapable of combining, marching and overthrowing. Some, Mr Old Holborn, for instance, his hands clean of kiddyblood, bless him, organises a march or two, as if to put flesh to noisy ghostbones, but as many - more - would turn up to an Inverness Presbyterian tea dance. Diffuse, dissipated and diluted by date-line, language and race the Internet's very universality renders it impotent as an engine of political change, it's useage by those who, scandal-mongering, simply trumpet their own bigotry, ignorance and inebriation increases the sense of a potentially wondrous gift, vandalised.

None of this means that we should not try, that we should resign ourselves to some fatalistic, misanhtropic pessimism. Nor should we think that the Guidos of cyberworld short-circuit all genuine dissent, acting, as they must know they do, as Power's lightning conductor, running all to earth. Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, sang the post-plague, Black Death street urchins, some in rags and some in jags, and one in a velvet gown. we must watch that those who plead libertarianism, carry not, in their pockets and laptops, a further, leprous concoction than that which they so publicly, grandstandingly claim to despise, reveal and eschew.

But we must also steal back for ourselves the thunder of righteous indignation, the voice that is, as Saint Augustine said, of God.

Mr Swiss Bob, at The Daily Politics, has taken to chronicling the war, if such it is, as it unfolds in far Afghanistan. Using dates and timelines and statistics and maps it is one of those worthy assemblies of facts and figures which lesser, more hysterical journo-types forget or are incapable of preparing, so much easier to bluster, Queenly, in the third person, than to actually shut the fuck up and do some research, some study. Let us hear more from those who know and less from the gabshite polemicist.


We have seen unfolded for some reason in the Heritage Press a chapter-and-verse explanation of by whom and how we are misgoverned and for all the horrors revealed Power and Money move into their lengthy Summer Recess untouched, reinforced.

The Party is over, we have had our fun, exposing their wicked wee foibles, but come Autumn's cool fingers in our pockets, we and not they, must pay the piper; whichever gang of criminals sits in the armoured limos, they will make us pay for all this. Ruin will scythe his way through our just expectations and not theirs, that we are ill-organised and so easily dragooned to Money's septic cause might be due to so many, instead of organising and resisting, pissing, instead, with the siren blogger and his groupies,
in the cyberwind.

BAROQUE AND ROLL STUDIES, NUMBER 2, AN AMERICAN TUNE.

BAROQUE AND ROLL STUDIES, NUMBER 1, BEST PLAYED, TO THE GLORY OF THE LORD, LOUDLY.

HOME SECKATRY DEFENDS CRIMINALS. TORTURE IS COOL, SAYS SINGING POSTMAN, WOTSISNAME.

Mr Wotsisname,, who took over at the Home Office six weeks ago, said: "In my six weeks in this job I am so reassured and so amazed at the work that is going on on our behalf by people who do not have a voice, who are not able to express their views, who work in the most difficult and dangerous circumstances, torturing people."

"I have nothing but admiration for them. As I am in effect their voice I will defend them and defend what they do and it does worry me. I believe they work to the highest ethical and professional standards."

"If your postman steals your giro or credit card it is only because, like me, he is not paid enough for the sterling work he does on your behalf and you should all shut up and fuck off."

"Torture is the very foundation of our democracy and if our fine public servants have to torture wogs in order to get the mail through then so be it, string 'em up, that's what I say, they won't do it again; whilst I am home seckatry first class mail will be delivered the following day or else it won't be. "

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THOSE TELEGRAPH WRITERS AND THEIR TIPS TO BEAT THE RECESSION

JANET DALEY, THE UGLY AMERICAN BROAD

"QUITE SIMPLY THE POOR MUST DIE, IT IS THE ONLY POSSIBLOE SOLUTION, GRRRRR-WOOF."

SIMON HEFFER

"THE POOR SHOULD BE DRIVEN FROM THEIR HOMES WHICH QUITE FRANKLY THEY SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN ALLOWED INTO AND USELESS DAVE MUST ARRANGE TO HAVE THEM MACHINE-GUNNED. I'LL DO IT."


FILED MARSHAL MAX VON HASTINGS.

"WHAT'S THAT? SPEAK UP! HAVE THEY PUT ME IN CHARGE OF THE ARMY? NO?
BASTARDS. JUST WAIT 'TIL I GET ON QUESTION TIME, I'LL SHOW 'EM. CIAO! MUST DASH, EXPECTING A CALL."

ROCK'N'ROLL STUDIES, NUMBER NINE. DON'T CONFRONT ME WITH MY FAILURES, I HAD NOT FORGOTTEN THEM

IMELDA BLAIR MAY DIE, HOPES SOAR.

HUBBLE BUBBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE

FROM SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH'S WITCHCRAFT CORRESPONDENT
JAYNE TITS

Print EMail Discuss Share Save Comment Text:
LONDON: Imelda Blair, the wife of former British Prime Minister Cardinal Tony Blair, has contracted suspected swine flu, forcing her to cancel a string
of public engagements, a media report said today.

Mrs Blair started feeling unwell at the start of the weekend and had to abandon counting her money which she does most days and is believed to have been diagnosed with suspected H1N1 virus, commonly known as greedy swine flu, on Tuesday, The Sun tabloid revealed.

Mrs Blair, who is a human rights lawyer, A-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA, had been due to pick up an honorary degree in thieving at the Liverpool Hope University in north-west England today.

As she battles the flu, Mrs Blair, the most high profile disgusting person in Britain to catch swine flu to date, has been forced to cancel a string of public engagements, including receiving an honorary degree from Liverpool's No-Hope University, the report said, adding doctors gave her a course of Tamiflu and she is now resting among her familiars in the coven.

A staff barbeque has also been dropped to ensure she doesn't pass on the virus. The British tabloid said the former premier has not picked up the bug, and the family's children are also unaffected, as they stay well clear of the horrid old bag..

However, the office of Mrs Blair suggested that people who had booked Her Honour Judge Imelda Blair-Booth for a function might still like to pay her what they had agreed as a gesture of goodwill to her bank balance, the money-grubbing, big-mouthed, free-loading, shameless slag.

"This is a private matter and we will not be making a comment, unless you are offering a substantaial fee" a spokeswoman for Mrs Blair was quoted as saying by the CNN.

With 29 deaths and a dramatic increase in the number of cases, Britain has the worst swine flu figures in Europe. According to government figures, swine flu will cause one in eight workers to stay off work this summer, potentially crippling many businesses still struggling in the wake of the recession. Which started in America.

According to a report in The Daily Telegraph, Britain's chief medical officer Liam Donaldson said that it was unusual for Swine fever to infect a proper pig, like Cherie. and maybe she had caught it having unprotected sex with her husband at Balmoral, continues pages 1,2,3,4,....17

A poll conducted by the daily stanislav revealed that a hundred per cent of people in the world were praying that the Scouse Witch would make a complete failure to recover from the plague and die in an agony equivalent to that of all the children rosted alive as a result of her husbands peace-making initiatives, but not too soon. And then roast in Hell, forever and forever.

IMELDA PICTURED RELAXING WITHOUT HER MAKE-UP

UPDATE: THE WORLDWIDE CATHOLIC CHILD ABUSE ASSOCIATION, IN AN ARTICLE PUBLISHED IN THE VATICAN NEWSPAPER, IL PAPAL NONCIE-OH, below,

SAID THAT THE SOONER THIS WITCH IS A-BURNED THE A-BETTER, SHE-A GIVE-A THE-A CHURCH-A A FUCKING BAD-A NAME-A. ME BAGSIE-A FIRST WITH THE A-FIRELIGHTERS. EAT-A SMOKE AND DIE BITCH.

HE'S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HANDS.

AS WE CELEBRATE THE MOON LANDINGS OF FORTY YEARS AGO, LET US REFLECT ON A DEBT WE ALL OWE THE MAN (?) FROM FIFE.

stanislav, it all shit is.

stanislav get letter off nutter in Aberdeen, professor of bottoms is.

Dear Mr stanislav, is best not croak from bowel cancer and no need is, Jock Tribesman government of Alex Lard committed is to Immortality for all Jocks or people living in here, only not English oil-stealing bastard who can all fuck off and die, so here is simple little test kit, is fun for all the family but only you can play. Just to follow simple instruction:

Go in shithouse, put hand in rubber glove and poo into. Can also poo into jamjar or any other similar clean but disposable container and not for fucks sake re-use because rhubarb jam is not so good made in shitjar and maybe fucking poison Vicar when come is for afternoon tea and hypocrisy How you is Mr stanislav, eh, Jesus special place has in heart for plumber, D'ye ken, the noo, and Polack, too, Our Lord was very fond of Polack bastards, Matthew 3 verse 1, Take what ye have and give unto the Pole, is the Word of God, man, How can ye doubt it. I say, Mrs stan, this jam's jolly good, meaty sort of jam, is it a Polack recipe ? I will have a wee dram wi' ye, just the one. Ah'm away over to see Angus at the fairm and get blootered wi' him.

Can also fold thickly several sheet of bogroll, only not Izal, fuck me, no, place in toilet pan, do quick-fire, no-messing-about poo and hope it floats long enough on bogroll to be rescued from drowning, poo sample is fucked, you see, if go in bogwater and have to start all over again and maybe not ready is again for few hours or even tomorrow, all depends. And anyway not every bastard can just do one poo and stop in mid-dump, is it, and would probably just bombard floating Andrex platform with kilo or two of hot poo and sink to bottom of pan and whole shit sampling process is fucked. Is no fucking wonder, is it, that NHS is fucked, people sending out fucking rubbish advice like this and probably come from desk of shit-sampling-solyoushunsRus senior manager on hundred grand and free carpark space. Most people find is best to do poo straight in hand with glove on and not fuck about, if poor bastard is and no glove has can use crisp packet, or Dorittos; if was nurse, after all, no big deal would be. Nurse! Mr McFadden in bed two shit the bed again, the dirty old bastard, just pop down and clear it up,hen, there's a good girl, only I'm having a right good gossip here. And don't waste time washing hands after, patients need to be fed lunch, chop-chop.

Toilet paper method is crap, really, requiring jump-up from bog and turn around with trousers round ankle and arsehole not wipe or nothing because no time is and no place to put used bogroll would be apart from wastepaper bin filled with old Bic razors worn out and blunt as fuck because mean fucking bastard husband use twenty times rather than just scrap after one shave and only cost ten fucking pence to start with but is every morning Oh Fuck me, can get one more shave out of this bastard, waste not fucking want not eh, and maybe in rush to rescue turd on toilet paper and keep dirty bottom with cheeks apart can fall over and crack head and drown in fucking toilet, with lungs full-up of soggy Andrex fill-up with shit, maybe with cancer in, and no point was trying to avoid bowel cancer in first place, because has drown in shit, innit, instead, anyway. And all thanks to lunatic professor in Aberdeen.

Don't embarrassed be, every bastard has to do this but is best just to keep door close in case of passing Liberal Democrat might feel hungry and come in

and say Oi, stan, can do dump on my face, is no problem will just lie down here because of pressure of work and constituent bastard whining about 'bus fucking stop and hip replacement and give you fifty quid, alright hundred, alright but two-fifty is tops and better be good shit, hot and fresh and big and steamy and smelly and not shrivel-up, miserable little turd, like from Treasury Bench lesbian comes out, fuck me, is one sourfaced, constipated looking, miserable fucking bastard that Angela Eagle, and need good rogering off decent bloke if would do her a favour, only not stanislav, and good colour, too, brown, and not black. Or fucking yellow.

For shit-sampling to be success must take in bog, also, ballpoint pen and cardboard stick and packet of testing envelope. When fresh poo has got in hand take cardboard stick, provided, and get little smear of poo on end, is not much, just a bit and squash onto testing area of little envelope, and then take different bit of poo, from different part of hand-held turd, onkly not with sweetcorn, and squash onto the other testing strip and stick down that section of envelope, only not for fucks sake by licking edge otherwise get hospital acquire infection without even going near hospital, then write date on with pen. Will be hard because right hand is full of turd and must very best do with left hand, if has shelf in shithouse/bathroom/ahn sweet is best put envelope on shelf and clutch with edge of left hand and write as best as can, taking great care to hold other hand, with poo on, some distance away but not up in air just in case can fall off on fucking head. Once date is on envelope can now dispose of turd from hand and best is to just shake off, over bowl and hope that turd fall off when hand is directly over bowl and not onto carpet, not that fucking carpet should have in shithouse but is ahn sweet so ok is, or worse fucking still into glass with teethbreeshes in which most people keep generally close to toilet on account of how everybody now all oral hygiene conscious is but moron just the same and clean teeth in nice warm germy ahn sweet bathroom full of shitbugs and airborne sanitary towel germ and blockage of warm spit and gumblood and scraps of food in fucking vanity unit sink Ubend which no bastard ever empty until bathroom flooded is and need fucking plumber and never even pour-down some Dettol or Tesco value equivalent product which can't tell the difference from and is only half of fucking price, not even that, is just decades of spat-out rubbish go down hole and fucking fester and monstrous, invisible little army of germs come storming up pipe and parachute in fucking mouth and down to Doctorbastard is with case of DirtyBastarditis Poisoning, Oh, fuck me, Doctorbastard, Irritable Bowel Syndrome has got and need three month off from work is, best make six until fullpay runs out and Doctorbastard should say Fuck off dirty bastard and clean fucking house up and never mind Glade Air Freshen Up, get Jeyes Fluid and pour all over filthy fucking gaff and try turning off heat and open fucking windows but of course is in meaningful relationship dialogue with patient and got no balls has and instead of do proper doctoring refer every bastard to nutter in Aberdeen and do shit test is having to, as above. But is not just one time, balance turd in hand and write left-handed on envelope on top of cistern or on comfortable design feature shelf in airless, windowless ahn fucking sweet germ factory but is three bastard times has this fucking nonsense to do, and would soon be expert and job could get in circus, juggling turds and writing left-handed, with trouser down round ankle and unwiped arse if was any fucking circus left apart from fucking government and house of fucking common and Royal fucking bastard Family of para-fucking-site like Charles, Prince of fucking Wales, and cardboard cut-out Duke and fucking Duchess of this that and fucking other with fucking hundredweight or Euro fucking equivalent of scrap iron costume medals and fucking sashes and fucking ribbons as though useless shower of fucking inbred German ruffians and ponce and pimp just stepped out has from Gilbert and fucking Sullivan Comic fucking Opera set in Ruri-fucking-tania and expect stanislav to bow and fucking scrape at useless fucking idle slags, good for fuck all and up against wall should go. Is fucking twenty fucking first fucking century, innit, can drop fragmentation bomb right on Paki school playground from Washington DC and yet still bowing and fucking scraping is like was New Mediaevalists and stanislav garden party should go to and stand like cunt and useless fairy bastard prince says Oh, and you are a plumber, how very thrilling that must be for you, but not for me, fuck no, carry on, there's a good chap. stanislav bet fortune that Prince of fucking Wales poo stuff procedure doesn't have to do, get royal footman, keeper of the royal shithouse and get him to do it all,

I SAY, WIPE ONE'S ARSE FOR ONE,
THERE'S A GOOD CHAP.

Yes, Your Royal Highness, just poo right here in my hand, if you will be so gracious, oh, Fuck me, Sir, isn't that a magnifent Royal turd, Your Highness is so clever and my goodness, Sire, such an aroma, I'm getting Saxe Coburg and I'm getting Battenberg and if I'm not mistaken I'm getting a hint of Coldstream Guard, Sire, but that'll be from last night, Your Worship.

Would rather fucking have cancer and die than do all this shit, catching poo in hand and jumping up and down in shithouse like demented person with anal fixation, or Herman the German. Herman has special little tray in his toilet so's can examine each and every turd, make sure it is fit for Thousand Year Reich, mad fucking bastard, no wonder all German bint is dyke. Every morning Herman says Ach du Lieber Gott, Mein Frau, look at the size of dis bastard, is like from dambusters, nein, big bastard is, nothing wrong is mit Gunter's bowel, Ja? Can have close examination, bitte, ov your movements' mein Liebschen, Oh, Ja, is pretty little ones, nein? Dirty, filthy bastard is Herman.

But have good idea, can just follow dog, Buster,

on evening dump walk, or morning, or afternoon dump walk and poke little stick in BusterPoo and send off to mad professor, all stuck down in triple envelope. Mind, is good job living in country now and not suburbia, Buster was sick one time, well not just one time but this time VetBastardUlike but not very much said Oi, stan, here is tinfoil tray and just follow Buster around street and when is in mid-stream and leg cocked just shove tray underneath and get sample for me and get sent in laboratory and that'll be twenty nine pounds, please and tray was just piece of junk like faggot and peas come in from Spar CheapShop4Uis but stan and Mrs try to be good citizen and do like told by professional thieving bastard and take dog, Buster, out round streets armed with tinfoil tray. Buster over shoulder was looking like his people has turned into deranged dog-murdering bastard perverts and sitting down and refuse to budge and po-faced Presbyterian bastard neighbours in Inverness

is all peep from curtain and go Oh fucking dear, so it is, lookit what they're doin tae yon puir wee dawg, JesusMaryandJoseph, d'ye think we should call the Jock RSPCA or the polis, lookit, they're chasing him again and the bloke's trying to get underneath the wee man's howsyerfaithers, so he is, Oh my goodness, I heard about they Polish men but Ah didnae ken they was intae this shit, and in broad fucking daylight, when is the guvinment going tae do something aboot they damn foreign devils coming over here; d'ye ken ye cannae get a book in English doon the library, they're all fucking Polish, excuse my language, but how do they read all that shit all full up with zeds and vees and doubleyoous and queues and cees, fuck me, that's a desperate lingo, d'ye suppose it affects their teeth, or the way they breathe, no wonder they cry so much, but in the name a Gawd that's no reason for them sexually molesting the puir wee dawg, look he's doin' it again, the noo, out there in broad daylight, and the Inverness shops, they're all filled up with beetroot and cabbage in vinegar and vodka, and chocolate-covered rice crispies; Aw fer Gawd's sake, Angus, they've got the puir wee divil and they're squeezing him, so they are, intae a frozen food container and his puir wee bit a tinkle's coming oot and yon man, in the overalls, he's jumpin' up and doon in delight, so he is, and so stanislav not have very happy memories of chasing dog, Buster, for a urine sample and nearly get run out from town on tar and fucking feather off sour old Jock fishingwife, would no point have been saying Look, Mrs in dog own interest is and not for fucking fun am chasing bloke round street and try and catch piss in tub for analysing,like lunatic with head stuck up dog arse, what you think, stainslav crazy bastard is ? No fucking point, but now is in country living and no bastard neighbour has, because if neighbour saw stanislav poking about in dog shit and putting in envelope and drop in village postbox, shotguns would be out. Anyway will try to sort things out, compulsory not is to do poo nonsense, and just as fucking well. Maybe can email professor and say shit in the post is, honest.

AMERICAN DOG LOVERS SPREADING DEMOCRACY

ps, we are on their side, special relationship.
Send pizzas.

ROCK 'N' ROLL STUDIES, NUMBER 7, A LITTLE LIGHT MUSIC, CAPTAIN BEEFHEART AND HIS MAGIC BAND

"Combining elements of free jazz, blues and rock, Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band produced what is commonly regarded by critics and fans as one of rock's few truly original bodies of work.

Don Van Vliet (aka Captain Beefheart) retired from the music industry after 1982's Ice Cream For Crow album to concentrate on his primary love - paint."

FROM CAPTAIN BEEFHEART'S RADAR STATION, a cyber fanzine.

DESERT ISLAND STANISLAV, JULY 4th, 2008, PRESIDENT CODGER McCAIN

Such a shame that President Codger McCain never was and instead we have this dreary, sermonising, I-speak-your-moral-weight-machine, Obama, flying his ghastly, Jackson-Five family all around the world - one expects the wee darlings to burst into song-and-dance - hemmed-in by right-wing Zionist nutters, on the Campaign Trail that Never Ends, platitudinous, know-it-all, smug and boring, My Country 'tis of Thee, the telegenic Ugly American, heading Uncle Sam's global Preachathon, as if anybody gives a fuck whether fat yanks can continue to eat half a cow at one air-conditioned sitting and blow each other's stupid fucking heads off with bargain-price assault weapons. Codger McCain, with his mad plastic wife and his faux-gunslinger heroism was at least someone you could laugh at; Obama, like our own, dear Mr Snot, thinks humour is something that comes out of the autoprompt, something speech-writers do. Sucking the joy, the life out of every occasion and reprocessing it as some shitty, flavourless, I-Know-Best capitalist despotism, Obama is not funny.

Anyway, a year ago stanislav said...

FROM CBS, NBC, CNN, ABC. BBC and SKYMADEUPNEWSAND FILTH.

STATE OF THE LIMEY NATION ADDRESS

BY PRESIDENT CODGER McCAIN

"Mah Fellow Motherfuckers

President Codger McCain here tonight to shoot the fat a little, chew the breeze, right here, fronta the fire with m'dog, Obama, just like my illustrious predecessor in this great office, president whoosis, used to do, y'all know who I mean, the little fat fuck who took over when the other one croaked, the one in the hat, the one who nuked the Nips to Hell and back, slimy little yellow bastards, President Codger McCain'd a bombed every last fucking one of them grunting little monkeys, and their fucking Emperor Horseshit, right back to their rice-munching, head-chopping fucking ancestors, glassed the whole fucking place right over.

All got way too many teeth, ever notice that, mah fellow motherfuckers, how them slopes all got a few too many teeth ? No, I guess not but it's the kinda thing a Commander in Chief needs to know about before he has some sonsa fuckin' bitches blown into next fuckin' week. It's frankly unfuckingAmerican, number a teeth them little bastards got. No wonder they can't talk right, like decent white Christian folks. Eat with fuckin' twigs, they do, probably can't get a knife and fork past all them fuckin' teeth. Obama! get yer fuckin' nose outa that woman's ass, I told ya before, next time I'll take you out on the White House lawn and blow yer Goddamned head off; got m'gun, right here in my pants, next to my catheter. Sorry about that folks, now, where in the Hell was I ?

Yeah right. Foreign policy stuff. No easy way to say this, what with the special relationship and everything, but the Limey President, he's an honest ta fucking Jesus shit-fer-brains fruitcake, a twenty-four fuckin' carat psycho and I am not, mah fellow motherfuckers, bullshittin' yer asses, man's madder'n a grizzly with his dick caught in a trap, running around all over the woods, biting hisself. Been over there in London England myself, met him right up close and I have to tell y'all that that's one mad Limey. And his breath, sonofa fuckin bitch, it smells like the fucking aircon went off down at the morgue, go in a room with the Limey President's like sticking yer head up Satan's asshole. He leaves the meeting every five minutes to go an jerk himself off, y'know, no I'm not shitting ya, comes back in squirming and stuttering, his lower jaw jerking up and down like a fiddler's fuckin' elbow; guy over there, Polack plumber, got a whole new terminology for it.

Y'know, on the tee-vee, everytime I see that Goddamned jaw manouevre, that gulping, I swear to Goda-fuckingMighty that that dude 's got somebody's fist up his Goddamn asshole; right there, on the fuckin' tee-vee, there's someone, under the fuckin' table, behind the fuckin' chair, got their Goddamned fist up the Limey President's asshole.

Goes on the tee-vee, right there plumb in the middlea the Limey Congress, sits there eatin' snot right out a his fucking nose, like a four year old. Right there on the Goddamned tee-vee. I ever see that fuckin' heathen ass-fistin', snot-eatin', jerk-off sonofabitch here in my Oval Office take him right out there on the White House lawn and blow his fuckin' head off, see what he makes a them values; got m'gun, right here in my pants, next my catheter.

Y'know, he came down offa that reservation up at the top of England Britain where they keep the drunks and mental patient folks, all the transwotsanames, the dwarves, all those kinda freaks, web-foots, six-finger, inbred, albino, ginger bastard motherfucking mutant sonsafuckinbitches; got 'em all behind a big wall up there and just throw some money over the top now and again, let 'em elect their own mutant in chief, just like regular people, only these mothers are all a million fucking years and a good few evolutionary developments offa being regular; live in fuckin' caves, mosta them, eat porridge with their fingers, worse than fuckin' Nips, seen it with my own eyes, it's like Limey Mexico, and he came down with that other pansy, the one with the freakshow wife, Jesus H fucking Christ, d'ya ever see a kisser like that ? Park a fucking Humvee in there. Imelda her name is, seems like Uncle Sam is buying her a new house every fucking goddamned fucking week, ugly bitch got more palaces than Saddam fucking Hussein.

Anyway, they all come down off the reservation and take over the Limey Communist Party. Get some oily fag cocksucker off the tee-vee, Mandelstein, or something, a walking sperm bank, sucking everybody's dick, they're all coked-up faggots in the BBC Limey media, the ones that ain't kiddy-fiddlers, and next thing you know the pansy and Imelda are in Buckingham House running the whole fucking joint, selling off seats in the Limey Senate like they was hamburgers and this joker, the one-eyed freak, is at the Limey Treasury burning all the country's fucking money in a great big bonfire.

The Limey Congress is full a dingleberries, see, never done a day's fucking work in their Goddamned communiist lives, Ree-Surchers, mostly, attorneys some of them, even fuckin' worse, and every commie sonofabitch is dancing round the money bonfire cheering their fuckin' heads off as the whole fuckin' country goes up in smoke.

Anyhow, after ten fuckin' years the pansy realises he's been rumbled and heads off to be a Cardinal for ole Pope Nazi while Imelda is gangbanging her way around the world for money, like she was Jackie fucking Onassis, banging like an Iowa shithouse door in a gale, and up steps the current guy, Gordon, off the Reservation.

And it was all shit, he says, on the street outside 10 Buckingham House, holding hands with his Bearded Lady, everything we done this past ten years, all shit, all of it, shit. I'm going in here right now and let the work of change begin, change all that shit into wine, like he was Charlton fuckin' Heston talking to the fuckin' Israelites. There's no need to elect me, he said, my daddy said I should be Limey President, and that should be enough. I'm going in here now and work night and fucking day and change everything about again. Just as soon as folks see how clever I am, they all gonna want me for Life President's what he says, but first I just gotta make sure all the money gets burnt to fuckin' soot and ashes.


Now, my fellow motherfuckers, Limeyland is one weird joint. Here in the US of A, if you if you go a thousand miles from home and go out to a swingers party, y'know, watch some other dude porkstick yer old lady, and leave yer kids all alone in the dark to be carried away by the raggle taggle gypsies-O or some other kinda bestial ethnic minority groupa worthless un American bastards, you might expect to spend some time on the County Farm, gettin' yer ass kicked but over there in Limeyland they pay off yer fuckin' mortgage for ya and open ya up a huge fuckin' bank account and put your brother in charge of it and the Limey government gives you a spokesman of your own. Get to go on the teevee every day just like a regular motherfucker, instead a gettin' fuckin' stones thrown at ya, like you should. Gerry and cilla, they call 'em, McCann. President Codger McCain'd put their Scotch asses in jail.

So it's no surprise to this old warrior that the Communist Limey press corp bought right in to that change shit, off Assman, the Scotch Limey, the idea was that this certifiable fuckin lunatic with voices in his head and hands up his ass who burnt all the fuckin' money should be put in charge of the entire sorry-assed, pussy-whipped country, without so much as an election, but just a promise that the fistin' screwball was gonna pay even closer attention to the spirit messages he received from his late old man, some kind of a Reservation Jehovah's fuckin' Witness, had his own church and everything. And that's just exactly what happened.

Anybody says, Hold on a Goddamn fucking minute, why are you burning all the money and giving the gold away and Assman just says some shit about right long-term decisions for hard-working Limey families and Bob's yer fuckin' uncle. And, my fellow motherfuckers, it is this loser's handling of the Limey money -Prudently Burning all the fuckin' Money and giving away all the gold down there in PoundLand - that caused this whole fuck-up in the subprime market here at home in the US. Messages from the fuckin' dead. That and selling Limeyland into a Communist Federation with a load of fucking European thieves, faggots, cocksuckers and opera-loving, shit-eating motherfuckers.


The whole place is fucked. Limeyland, birthpace of the Pilgrim Fathers, fucked by sodomitin' Scotch lunatics.

The Gay Truckers Association is blockading Assman right there in Buckingham House, even now, those faggots got blood in their eyes and fried egg down their vests, want free gas and all those toilets put back in the highway laybys, is what they want. The Limey Congressmen're makin' it legal for themselves to rob the store until it's fuckin' empty. Back up on the reservation his own tribesmen hate his sorry fisted guts and he daren't even go back there without a full regiment of secret service to protect his ass. Got a dwarf in charge up there, on the reservation, keeps his old lady's corpse in the attic an' drinks his own piss. The communist labour unions won't give him another nickel. The Limey cops hate him, the teachers hate him , the nurses hate him, nothing works, the economy's fucked, the weather's fucked, the roads are fucked, you can't go in a Limey hospital without catching some Goddamned filthy disease because the thieving bastard Limey doctors are all too far up their own asses to wash their fuckin' hands, the schools are fucked, the little bastards running arund stabbing each other; come Fall and all the old Limeys're set to freeze to fucking death, or starve or both, if the little bastards don't get 'em first. The police'll plug ya fulla holes soon as fucking look at you; they got cameras in everybody's fucking house, they can just hoist ya off the street and toss yer ass in the slammer and everything you care to mention is shit. If what they're doin' is against the law they just go right ahead and make up some new laws, just like that, Y'all can go and kiss my ass, Mr Voter, that's what them Limey cocksuckng Congressmen say. Assman couldn't win a fucking election in his own front room if he was the only candidate. The Leader of the Limey Republicans is a two-faced, two-bit card-sharping shit-fer-brains Momma's boy; Archbishop Canterburg, the Limey Pope, is a fucking nutcase, couldn't find the hole in his own ass, next King of LimeyLand thinks he's a fucking sanitary towel, most of the Limey Congress is under investigation for fraud, Limey currency soon won't be worth no more'n a Zimbabwe dollar, and the whole shithole is under fuckin' water most of the time.

Snotman's up to his neck in shit and every five fuckin' minutes seems like a turd as big as USS New Jersey comes steaming over the horizon. Just as well they only got a few payclerks and gravediggers hiding in the airport, out there in Eyerack. Wouldn't want the crazy fag Limey cocksucking premier giving orders to proper military.

Talkin' a which, mah fellow motherfuckers, here is my solemn promise to y'all - I find any man in my army sticking his dick up another soldiers's asshole an I'll shoot 'em both, right here on the White House lawn. Ain't fuckin' natural. No more'n that lesbian tennis they're all watching over there in Winbletown. Those dykes come in here, gruntin' and sweatin' and carpet-munchin' all over my West Wing an' I'll fuckin' shoot them, too. Take 'em right out on the White House lawn, blow their fuckin' heads off. Got m'gun, right here in my pants, right next my catheter.

You know, best part of a hundred years we been fightng the Limey's wars for 'em, equipping their pansy army so's the faggot generals and admirals and all them other Ruperts can all mince about in gold fucking braid and fancy pants writin' poetry and gettin' spanked by their Goddamned batmen and what have they done in return? Invented communism and ass-fistin, that's what. Invented right there in London, both of 'em was. Seen it with mah own eyes. London England is now run by a womanising Greek sonofabitch surrounds himself with crooked clergymen and Goddamned perverts just like the last motherfucker, the one who talks through his fucking nose, the one with the frogs and more wives'n'children than a fucking heathenbastard Mormon.

Time we sent the Seventh cavalry over there and rescue them decent Limey folks, while there still is a Limeyland, punish these fuckin' money-burnin' savages and put 'em all back on the reservation they come offa. Gonna lead the regiment mahself. Got m'gun, right here in my pants, next my catheter......She wore, she wore, she wore a yellow ribbon........

It's been real fine talking to you, mah fellow motherfuckers.

Rally round the flag, y'all, only not that blue communist one with the yellow faggot stars.


July 4, 2008 1:48 PM

SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI

THAT SOCIAL CARE DEBATE

 

I call on the member for Sheffield’s stupidest people, the Rt. Hon. Blind Boy Blunkett.


Thank you, Mr Deputy Spunker

I’d just like to remind my right honourable friend, Mr Bubbles, that many senior citizens at retirement age often have very young children that they have fathered with other men’s wives with whom they have, quite rightly, been in a bullying and predatory relationship, which is, of course, part of the cement of decent civic society which I mentioned earlier, fucking other blokes’ wives and getting their nannies special favours.

I turn now to my other concern which is that many men of retirement age have spent some time flogging their government contacts to disreputable companies, in order that they might increase the already staggering amounts of brass which they have been able to liberate from the public purse. Will the right honourable gentlemen assure this house that people such as myself, fucked-up, greedy bastards, the very personification of selfless public service, bullying and bribery, are not expected to pay for anything ?

Hear-hear, hear-hear, cheers.