EVENSONG.Paul Simon then and now; time it was and what a time it was.

HOW LONG CAN THIS CAMERON SHIT CONTINUE?

The Filth-O-Graph is reporting that the Duke's family friend, the nonce, Epstein, was permitted to land his GulfStreamNonceJet at  RAF Marham,  the sooner, one imagines, for them to enjoy the weekend together at the Queen's - that is to say our  estate at Sandringham, presumably a host of servants - public sector employees - would have been on hand in order that the Duke could see his friend entertained right royally, so to speak. Air Vice Marshal Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap insisted  that the landing, among frontline Tornado squadrons was not at all unusual, was, in fact, a wizard show. It happens all the time, said Marshal Golighty-Jockstrap, how many times? Fucked if I know, old boy, but I am sure it must have. What, rename the base RAF Nonceham ?  I should co-co.

Princess Sarah Freeloader,

Hangover? No, just been up all night with a couple of pretend sheiks, Okay, yah?

former Mrs Duke, said what a terrible misunderstanding it had all been, her begging money off of the nonce and the Duke making free with HM Armed Forces premises like that in return.  And as for introducing little Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie to a man who  might well groom them to be his sex slaves, well,  people simply had to understand  that she was under an incredible amout of strain, freeloading her way around the world, selling introductions to their Dad to dodgy geezers from Mr Murdoch's newspapers.  I wish people would understand that I only do these things for the money, complained the greedy, idle slut, if only the Queen had given me  a few tens of millions I wouldn't have to hang out with paedophiles. Or Andrew.

In Downing Street, Mr CallHimWinston, our next great war leader,

said that the only way to reduce the defecit and win the next election was to declare war on some wogs, somewhere. It is simply the only thing to do.  By my unfailing support for His Royal Highness, a bent, thieving playboy,  my support for the bungling fucking useless arse burglar, Hague and my stuffing the cabinet with retarded mutants like Duncan fucking Smith and his free-pensions-for-all-nonsense I have revealed myself to be even more useless than Mr Snot and my hero, Cardinal Blair. Three failed leaders in the same cabinet, Hague, IDS and myself - four if you count the halfwit, braindead  dogshooter, Clegg, didya fucking see him, yesterday, apprenticeships, in loft insulation, fuck me, Jesus, must take all of half an hour to get good at that, even I could do it - 'sawonder the Brits, too,  aren't storming the barracks and  waging war on their unelected govament. And that's not to mention Mr Coulson, Mr Laws, the forests, the disappearing aircraft carriers, inflation, unemployment, the bankers and the cost of petrol and Christ only knows what else. Fuck me, they must all be stupid.

Ian Duncan-Gargolye.

Yes, everyone can have a big pension.

Not as big as mine, though, obviously.

In fact I should probably say that everyone might have a big pension.

When? Fucked if I know. Ask the Chancellor.

 

Mr William Gay Gargoyle.

Yes, Mr Deputy Speaker, Iyam, if you will permit me,

ay very capable foreign seckatry.

And that's why everyone is laughing at me.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE SUNDAY ARSEBRIDGER, DUKE OF YORK MUST WALK TO NONCING PARTIES

In a Buckingham Palace crackdown on expenditure on petrol, His Most Serene Highness Prince Andrew has been told he must now walk everywhere, the greedy, idle bastard.

By the left, quick march.

  The way things are going in the Middle East, with the Muzzies,  said Queen Brenda,  the price of petrol could soon reach ten shillings a gallon,  the least one can do is insist that one's second son walks to these under-age sex engagements which he regularly performs on behalf of the whole nation.

Queen Brenda at work.

 

Fuck me, one's govament is a bunch of shit-eating nutters.

Commenting on the Duke of  Cock's association with a jailed nonce, the foreign seckatry, Mr William Fag said, Oh, it hardly matters, most people are gay these days, although I, obviously, am not; one need only look at my voting record on gay issues to realise that.  But I  am sure that Prince Andrew is doing an excellent job on behalf of the country. Just like me. As I have so, ah, clearly, ah, demonstrated abroad, in the, ah, matter of the, ah, small and perfectly understandable confusion  surrounding the role of the, ah, splendid gentlemen from the SAS, which is not my fault, even though it, ah, is.

The Make Andy Walk campaign was started after Coalition of Doom ministers decided that this week's wheeze would be them telling us how we must be "weaned off" oil, and be damn quick about it.  We must be weaned off oil just as we must be weaned off the idea that taxation is to pay for public services when, as everyone knows, it should be given to the rich. Another example of snooty idiocy, the idea is that we are all at fault for buying cars and heating our homes, naughty consumers. The deranged  transport seckatry, Mr Philip Handjob, below,

Transport seckatry, Mr Phil Handjob,MP,
working on his strategy

insists that by Wednesday, or 2035 at the latest, there will be a three-pin plug socket located every hundred yards along the motorway, enabling electric car drivers to charge-up their crappy vehicles every few minutes.  Other measures would include people filling their central heating oil tanks with broken, energy-saving light bulbs and everyone wearing a tiny windmill-hat on their heads as they go about their daily business of being poor and unemployed and in many cases homeless.  They wouldn't actually generate any electricity but they would be a signal of our commitment to a green,  sustainable, Tory future.  It's not a panacea, said Handjob,  jerkily,  there is no panacea.  But if I want to remain a  wanker, I mean a minister,  I have to be seen to be doing something.  Apart from tossing myself off, that is. Even if it's bollocks. Which it is.  I wanted to put up the speed limit. And now they want me to ban petrol cars altogether. Anyway,  he continued, spasming and wild-eyed, the three pounds fifty that we had ringfenced  for care of the elderly must now be diverted to the boardrooms of the oil industry in order to help them in their time of stratospheric profits.

Shitbrain energy supremo Mr Chris Who completely lost his marbles in  a speech last week. Mr Who warned that China was pouring money into developing a low-carbon economy while Britain lagged behind. "China will build 24 nuclear power stations in the time it takes us to build one. By 2020, their nuclear capacity will have increased tenfold," he said. "They will lay 16,000km of high-speed rail track in the time it takes us to go from London to Birmingham." (editor's note. it currently takes a couple of hours to go from Brum to London, not that anybody'd want to. What's this numpty on about? And what the fuck is he doing in govament?) Friends of the hapless Energy Minister said that since he had left his wife, Vicky,

Mr & Mrs Who-dat-dyke-in-de-marital-bed,
extolling the values of family life..

and moved-in with a lesbian he had not been the same. Ugly? She has a face like a hatful of arseholes, said one, if she was a dog you'd shave her arse and train her to walk backwards. And many of us think she's doing him. Up the You-Know-What. He is a liberal democrat, after all.

CHRIS WHO, MP,  WITH HIS DOG, MS CARINA TRIMINGHAM-PUSSY.

Roaring, bent double at his own wit, good friend of the Duke of Cock, Mr Billy Connolly, a comedic entertainer, too large in the national mind -  rather like the horrifyingly dull Mr John Cleese  - to fail, said the whole oil thing was eggstroooooaaaardanry - his only adjective - and he wouid be happy to travel the world of oil at someone else's expense, on his cissy motortrike, sharing his witty, scatalogical insights with stupid audiences, patronising indigenous peoples, plunking inexpertly on his banjo and avoiding the company of his monsterwife, Mrs Pamela  Gobenson-Connolly.



Friends of the royal family, the Connolly-Gobs.

  Och, I used to dine wi' Prince Andy, or His Highness, as I was allowed tae call him, many's a night me and the Mrs and him and Her Royal Highness, Porky, would while awa' the hours,  them being stupid an' me being outrageously funny over the canapes. Y'ken, just because I was a welders' tea-boy disnae mean I cannae hobnob wi' all they slags in the royal famnily. And isn't it time they gi' me the knighthood which, as a truly iconoclastic, rebellious social commentator, I so richly deserve, But no, honestly, if people cannae afford tae heat their homes or put petrol in their cars they should just all  stop whining, develop some wee jokes about about turds and move to California, like me. Did I mention that I was abused as a wee lad?



Parky, fellator to the stars.

Hello, I'm Michael Parkinson and I've earned a fortune brown-nosing almost every tuppence-halfpenny celebrity you could think of and I have some marvellous memories. But if you are old and poor and worried about your central heating bills  or putting petrol in the Nissan Micra, maybe you should think that  you could  freeze to death within a year or two as part of the govament's exciting new strategy to wean you off oil. If so, you should join my Guaranteed Over Fiftys' Plan and be assured that a tiny sum, good for fuck all, really,  may be made available to your loved ones after you die, - a fraction, no doubt, of what you've paid-in, else why would we do it ? -  it might help them buy a packet of firelighters or a even a  hot water bottle. And don't forget, there's a free biro, just for making an enquiry. Oh yes, His Highness, the Duke of York, he was never actually on one of my memorable  TeeVee shows but we have met socially, as one does, in my trade -  sucked more cock than a Westminster Special Adviser, me -  and I must say that he is a truly wonderful human being, gifted and sensitive, and would have had a great career in Hollywood, had he so chosen.

The office of Lord Snooty, the unelected prime minister, has insisted that Prince Andrew, idle buffoon, layabout and friend of child molesters, must continue to represent the govament abroad. Seems about right.

COUNTRY EVENSONG. Gillian Welch and David Rawlings "Wayside'

SAS CAPTURED. ANOTHER COALITION TRIUMPH.

SERGEANT ROSS GOES TO WAR.

AND  GETS ARRESTED.

 It's a man's life, in the regiment, knoworramean, me an the lads just adopt a proper,
manly approach, like, to being arrested by a buncha nig-nogs in rusty Toyotas.

WORTHLESS PONCE TALKS TOUGH

.

Well, let me just say that some leaders send the SAS into trouble spots,  they get in quick,  they kill whoever it is, and then they get out again, quick.  That, though, is the old politics and as commander-in- chief of the most rapidly shrinking armed forces in the world I am just as committed to fucking things up abroad as I am at home.  The army, after all, is a branch of the public sector, which is, in a very real sense, the enemy within. Or, in this case, without;  not entirely sure where Libya is, but I know it's a long way away.  I mean, just imagine, the elite British  SAS, being captured by the  very people we are trying to help and  then being held in detention by a bunch of amateur, raghead Allah-be-praised monkeys, loosing-off with antique anti-aircraft weapons, like children. Only the Coalition can deliver joined-up, cost-effective foreign policy triumphs like this and I am very seriously considering the award of a Victoria Cross for the foreign seckatry, Mr William Miscarriage, I mean Hague. And  for Doctor Fox, in whom I have the greatest confidence,  the cunt.

MAKING PLANS FOR NIGEL.

MR NIGEL FOGHORN, MEP, FORMER LEADER, CURRENT LEADER, DEPUTY LEADER, TREASURER, SECRETARY AND MEMBERSHIP OF THE UNITED KINGDOM NIGEL FARRAGE PARTY.

Eh, what about that,  then, how's that for a result?  Second, that, in my book, Kirsty, is as good as first, better, actually, because you don't win anything.  Wossat? Lower my voice to a shriek? Burning-out the microphones, you say?  Must be European ones.

No, we're really on the march now and if we can come second, or even fifth in a thousand council wards I'll be set to lead the UKNF party - ie myself -  to even greater glory.  Onwards and upwards,  that's what I can offer people;  that's English, by the way, good, old-fashioned English for per ardua et astra tdi sports.

PILOT OFFICER FARRAGO OF LIES, 

AT THE SCENE OF HIS GENERAL ELECTION TRIUMPH

GIMPS PARTY HUMILIATED IN BARNSLEY

 MR NICK GIMP, MP, HM SECKATRY OF STATE FOR PERVERSION

AND DEPUTY  PRIME MINISTER OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

Are you asking me if we lost our deposit and had our foreskins  sandpapered last night? Well, of course we didn't. Are you asking me were we beaten by people whose party HQ was in a shed in their garden?  Well, of course we weren't. And if by some chance we were, I simply say that owing to us being a bunch of fucking imbeciles, jackals and shit-eating monsters people will try to write us off but I believe that all the  copraphiliacs, BDSM merchants and fucked-up transsexual lunatics in the country know that we are in there, in govament, doing our level best to make the country a fairer and more  inclusive place to live. And eat shit in.   Vote LibDem if you want your arse whipped, that's what I say. Are you asking me if Mr Cameron beats me?  Only when I need it. Did I tell you that I also slept with more than some women? Sorry must dash, important meeting about a No Fleas zone. Fleas, is it fleas, maybe it's flies, I dunno, been on holiday, yes, I geddit now, it's a no flies zone, somewhere, they don't want any flies flying over somewhere, aomething like that,  but woddever,  it'll be a very important meeting, especially if I'm there.  I agree with Nick, that's myself.  Cunt.

The LibDems' Tory candidate, Mr Dominic Nipple-Clamp Carman, 

is led away from the Barnsley count, vowing to gimp another day.

By-election results

• Dan Jarvis (Lab) 14,724
• Jane Collins (UKIP) 2,953
• James Hockney (C) 1,999
• Enis Dalton (BNP) 1,463
• Tony Devoy (Ind) 1,266
• Dominic Carman (LD) 1,012
• Kevin Riddiough (Eng Dem) 544
• Howling Laud Hope (Loony) 198
• Michael Val Davies (Ind) 60

Lab maj 11,771: Turnout 36.5%

MORE LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION.

"Rupert Murdoch is spending all this money in order to give himself less influence in the UK media than he has now."

Jeremy Hunt MP, Tory Culture Secretary  and, word-for-word, Don Foster, MP, Tory-LibDem media spokesperson.

One is left wondering, not for the first time, what dirt the filthy slag, Rupe, has on this lot, from Cameron downwards, what recorded 'phone calls, what cottagey stories, what naughty pictures.

Here's wishing him - and his worldwide batallions of McKenzies and Coulsons - an unhappy birthday and a swift but painful death

CYBER STREET WHISPERS.

Fox News' Lies Keep Them Out of Canada

By Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Reader Supported News

01 March 11

s America's middle class battles for its survival on the Wisconsin barricades - against various Koch Oil surrogates and the corporate toadies at Fox News - fans of enlightenment, democracy and justice can take comfort from a significant victory north of the Wisconsin border. Fox News will not be moving into Canada after all! The reason: Canadian regulators announced last week they would reject efforts by Canada's right-wing Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, to repeal a law that forbids lying on broadcast news.

Canada's Radio Act requires that "a licenser may not broadcast ... any false or misleading news." The provision has kept Fox News and right-wing talk radio out of Canada and helped make Canada a model for liberal democracy and freedom. As a result of that law, Canadians enjoy high quality news coverage, including the kind of foreign affairs and investigative journalism that flourished in this country before Ronald Reagan abolished the "Fairness Doctrine" in 1987. Political dialogue in Canada is marked by civility, modesty, honesty, collegiality, and idealism that have pretty much disappeared on the US airwaves. When Stephen Harper moved to abolish the anti-lying provision of the Radio Act, Canadians rose up to oppose him fearing that their tradition of honest non-partisan news would be replaced by the toxic, overtly partisan, biased and dishonest news coverage familiar to American citizens who listen to Fox News and talk radio. Harper's proposal was timed to facilitate the launch of a new right-wing network, "Sun TV News" which Canadians call "Fox News North."

Harper, often referred to as "George W. Bush's Mini Me," is known for having mounted a Bush-like war on government scientists, data collectors, transparency, and enlightenment in general. He is a wizard of all the familiar tools of demagoguery; false patriotism, bigotry, fear, selfishness and belligerent religiosity.

Harper's attempts to make lying legal on Canadian television are a stark admission that right-wing political ideology can only dominate national debate through dishonest propaganda. Since corporate profit-taking is not an attractive vessel for populism, a political party or broadcast network that makes itself the tool of corporate and financial elites must lie to make its agenda popular with the public. In the Unites States, Fox News and talk radio, the sock puppets of billionaires and corporate robber barons, have become the masters of propaganda and distortion on the public airwaves. Fox News' notoriously biased and dishonest coverage of the Wisconsin's protests is a prime example of the brand of news coverage Canada has smartly avoided.

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town...........cardigan news

Speaking on skymadeupnewsandfilth's newspaper review:

 Premier blogger and cringingly desperate wannabe Tory MP, Mrs Ian Cardigan, below,

Mr Ian Dale.

(On Rupert Murdoch) I think he's great. He single-handedly saved the Tories, I mean the Times;  I wish we had Fox News in this country. Oh, yes, and William Hague is definitely not gay, geddit?

WOTSONTELLY. NEWSNIGHT. CHARLES KENNEDY SOBER SHOCK.

I LOVE MY AULD HIGHLAND MAMMY.

NO, SHE DIVORCED ME BECAUSE I WAS GAY, 

NO, BECAUSE I'M A DRUNK, 

NO, BECAUSE I'M AN INTOLERABLE, OPINIONATED  SHITHEAD.

ISN'T IT YOUR FUCKING ROUND?

Nick Clegg's speech on whatever it is, Lebanon, no Libya, is it Libya, it is Libya, is very good and repays close scrutiny and I have been scrutinalising it all day, which is what you'd expect. Of one former party leader to another former party leader. No, it is very good. And it sets out all the whatyoumaycallits, all the options in the current crisis, whatever it is.  He is in the govament, in fact he's the Deputy Prime Minister, so you'd expect him to agree with them.  As I do. Not that we are not separate parties. Which we aren't. Did I mention I was the youngest ever dipsomaniac in the House? Where's Ian Hislop and Paul Merton?  Aren't they on tonight?

Do I agree with the Coalition? What, about bombing the wogs? Well, we are where we are, the Devil, as ever, is in the details and  clearly, in a very real sense, at the end of the day, the bottom line is that in an ideal world with the benefit of hindsight I have always made my position perfectly clear.  Is the BBC bar closed, or what?

waking-up as  charles kennedy is a terrible disease, if you have been affected by any of the issues in tonight's Newsnight visit www.dogshootershaveissues2.com and make contact with some other drunken, pontificating, ginger prats

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH, MORE LOVELY WAR.

NEW WARS FOR OLD.

 CAN I SPEAK POODLE? COURSE I CAN, I WENT TO ETON,
WOOF-WOOF.

 As his Big Society delusion whithers around him and his hybrid cabinet of malformed, smirking retards is seen to be  but a bunch of incompetent chancers, braying closet homosexuals, greedy,  pie-munching, vindictive fatbastards, slimy pinstripe spiv bullyboy cocksuckers and downright clodhopping nincompoops who have, in a very short space of time, fucked-up the armed forces, sent the economy backwards and demoralised the entire nation, unelected prime minister, David MustaphaWar Cameron, seeks a Thatcher Falklands moment to divert attention from his stupefying, hand-waving, shirt-sleeve, shitbrain, good for fuck all  and increasingly bad-tempered maladroitness, before pissed-off British citizens take to the streets burning the useless prat in effigy and with any luck in person, rightly blaming him for EU-led treachery, for inflation, rocketing fuel prices, unemployment, repossessions, the gerrymandering of boundaries, the rigging of the constitution, the wholly unmandated  destruction and /or privatisation of public services and the  shameless, self-interested kowtowing to the financial terrorists who got us all into this shit, all over the fucking world and not just here, under Gordon Snot's ruinous misrule. He thought, the  cheeky fucking bastard, that Prince Gormless, wandering about, shaking hands gormlessly and   getting married to this  gormless bimbo would do, would divert attention from his catastrophic depradations, but it won't, not even with all the help that skymadeupnewsandfilth can give him - in exchange, let's not forget, for him placing Rupert's spunkfaced phonetapper, Coulson, right at the heart of govament, his master's eyes and ears. The inbred, shitstupid,  overprivileged ponce, playing at prime minister, thought a wedding would do it, but, more swiftly than we would ever have thought,  he needs a war........

I heard some old boy, down the doctorbastard's today, what a great life he'd had, missed the wars, at both ends of his life. We forget that, don't we, about Blair, that Iraq, as well as being in itself  illegal, fraudulent, larcenous and atrocious, formally  ended the nearly sixty-year peace. Oh, there's not the slaughter of our troops that we have seen previously and we're not blitzed at home but coffins return almost daily and we live, increasingly, with wartime restrictions on our freedoms; the cops, bouyed-up with anti-terror bollocks, tooled-up with automatic weapons and sniperscopes and tasers and body armour and emergency powers  piss  even more vigourously in our faces, any challenge to their  fascist brutishness construed as Sympathy for the Jihadi Devil;  the ghastly Mark Carlisle, Q fucking C, adjudicating over which freedoms we may retain; you can't board an internal flight without hearing Ihr Papieren Bitte, no, you can't take this, no, you can't take that, we can confiscate everything you know, and shove our hands up your arse,  we're security, regiments of bastard little corporal jobsworths, stalking the land, like a nightmare Dads Army.  Blair, the warbringer, eternal war is the price of eternal peace, trust me, I'm a pretty, straight guy. And  when I talk to God, I know He understands, He says stick by Me and I'll be your guiding hand, but don't ask Me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to.  The old boy was right, at the doctor's. Welcome, friends to the  Hundred Years War Revisited,  peace a precious memory.  How could we let that happen, a flimsy fiction, cut and pasted, cobbled together by a depressive dipsomaniac and Hosannahed by a bent legislature and here we are, down the road, to prolonged martial ecstasy, a weekly orgasm at Wootton Wotsit, ancient, moribund  former servicemen in blazers and berets, tattooed wives and girlfriends in stilletos and bare legs and sunglasses, ejaculating garage flowers over passing hearses; a furtive, guilty inquest now and again, a celebrity-hungry widow or mother, hyping their loss incrementally with every transitory  cliched headline, every mascara-smudged interview, as though soldiers are not, nowadays, supposed to die, as though bomb disposal in a war zone can be managerialised into a safe occupation. Oh, he was tired, she wails, he shouldn't have been tired, war shouldn't entail fatigue and exhaustion and shortage and emergency and confusion. And then everybody would come home safe. Apart from the wogs, OK for them to be dead in a ditch, flies buzzing around their eyes;  they don't have wives and families, do they. It is a relentless, unstoppable slow-march, this, trampling on such heroism as there can be in these shitty wars, all involved betraying the  mythologised  compact with the military,  those whose duty was once to mourn and remember, now gobbing into a microphone from morn til night,  those who were once comrades, now  merely colleagues. Blair and Imelda cheapened everything, whored his office as none before, unsurprising that in his resurrection of groundless war he has also devalued both widow and warrior.

..........and in the form of Gaddafi and Sons, he can have one. Gaddafi has mustard gas, WMD, and he may use it on his people, squeaks Hannibal Cameron. We must stop him we must not tolerate this regime using military forces against its own people, he blusters, suddenly concerned at the doings of despots; his party the friend of apartheid, his party, his heroine, the friend of the monster,  Pinochet, both eminent butchers of tens of thousands of their own people. Mubarak, friend to Tory and Labour alike, ran Egypt like an open prison; the Saudi bastard fuckpigs, joined at the hip to the Bush family and frequent hosts to our own Royal wasters run theirs like a mediaeval  torture chamber, how soon will the reformers, Clegg and Cameron, arm their dissidents, declare no-fly zones, seize the assets of Prince bin CokeHead, insist that stoning wimmen to death is not the way a proper Big Society should carry-on?

The story of CallHimDave's new-wars-for-old comes from the Filth-O-Graph, written and read by the stupidest rednecks outside of Alabama, so God knows what relationship it bears to reality, how much of it is wishing and hoping.  It is, nevertheless, entirely believeable that Cameron would cheerlead NATO into doing Uncle Sam's will, that he can see himself, like Whiskey Maggie, as a Winstonesque wartime leader, relishes the prospect of standing on the steps of his Downing Street squat, mouthing Rejoice!

It may, of course, simply be tub-thumping, the fuckwit Cameron, even in the absence of an opposition has little else to boast about and shouting at the wogs is the second last refuge of the scoundrel. It may, on the other hand, come to pass that HMS UK, too skint to fund wheelchairs for the sick, can afford to  launch another multi-billion pound misadventure,  extend GlobaCorp's war on the working class - for that's what it would be - to North Africa;  there's a good boy, David, jump up and beg. And if you're very good, we'll give you a medal, for being a piece of shit, sorry, for prime ministerial bravery

YO! BLAIR, WAY TO GO.

FOR SERVICES RENDERED 

IN THE WAR AGAINST EVILTUDE.

AND FOR MAKING US ALL RICHER'N MOST FOLKS'D BELIEVE.

OSCAR FOR GERRY ADAMS

ADAMS SWEEPS BOARD,  BEST KILLER, BEST TORTURER, 

BEST SUPPORTING BOMBER.

 

Famous for his roles as torturer, arsonist, child killer, bomber and mass murderer, Gerry gave a moving speech on receiving his award from the people of Louth.

It's all about the little people, so it is, and I wouldn't be here without them, so I wouldn't, grinned the man who starred in the deaths of three thousand people and the maimings of tens of thousands.  There's just so many of them, so there is, there's them wee lads in Warrington, and all them people in the Birmingham pubs, aye, and there's that wee woman I buried alive, not far from here, and your man, Captain Nairac, I starred opposite him in Torture of an Officer, directed by my good friend, Marty Kneecaps, he really brings out the best in me, Marty, you shoulda heard yon bastard scream, as we sliced him to pieces;  it was a great piece of performance art, even though it was real, so it was.  I am just so grateful, so I am, to the people of Ireland for finally recognising the work I have been doing all these years and I promise to dedicate myself to keeping my noncing brother safe from prosecution by giving him a starring role in the ongoing marvel that is Sinn  Fein, and where nobody can touch him. A final word of appreciation to our dear friend and fellow Man of God, the right reverend Tony Blair of Libya, without whom this great award wouldn't have been possible, so it wouldn't.  And I would have been in jail where I belong, so I do.

In London, the pretend Chancellor, Mr George Osblow, said that Mr Adams' honour was all the more reason that money stolen from Bristish taxpayers should be funnelled to  financial terrorists, aka the Irish Banks.  Ireand is a great friend of ours, having bombed us unfailingly for nearly  forty years and supported Mr O'Hitler in the last war; we must, therefore,  support their bankers just as  staunchly as we support our own;  eight billion pounds, after all,  in the scheme of things, is fuck all.

DARING SAS RESCUE IN LIBYA

Sgt Ross Wimp, I mean Kemp, 2nd battalion, 

Queen's Own NancyBoys Regt, (The Gay EastEnders)

Sergeant Ross, a recovering spousal abuse victim, led a daring attack on the costume department of skymadeupnewsandfilth, resulting in him being able to nancy-about on camera like a proper he-man, which he isn't, fuck no, not by a long way. 'Swot ya do, innit, if yer from the EastEnd, like my character is, apples an' pears, apples an' pears.  They wuz like family, them geezers out there, in the oil camps, woddever, end-of, 'ang abaht, whachoolookinat,  and so we hadda geddem out, like, geddit saw-tid. Nah, dunmenchunit, all in a day's work, fer a NancyBoy soldier.

That bizness, wiv Rebekka, my ex, right slag she was an' no mistake, knocked seven kindsa TomTit outa me, she did, busted me 'Ampsteads right up, mince pies was black an blue for weeks after an' fuck me, me 'Enry 'Alls  was aching like a bastard.  I tell ya, I was off down the ole Frog an Toad right sharpish, back into the regiment, where a man can be  'isself, dress-up like an 'ero and 'ang about wiv 'is mates, playin' soldiers.

Next week Ross stars in another  gritty cockumentary, in which he goes head to cock, I mean head, with some of America's toughest gangsters/prisoners/cops/female impersonators. And watch out for Ross's starring role in Take It Like A Man, The Raoul Moat Story, coming soon to a skymadeupnewsandfilth channel near you.

if you  are a gay man with muscles and  a shiny, bald head and have been affected by any of the issues in this piece, contact www.gedditsawtid.com and talk to other, like-minded closet fairies.

'QUAKE TORN KIWIS TELL CAMERON AND HAGUE: FUCK OFF, LOSERS.

In New Zealand, fears were raised that senior British politicians might become involved in attempts ro rescue trapped earthquake victims and make matters much worse.  Kia Ora, mates, it's bad enough down here without those fuckers trying to lend a hand, said Mr Bruce Cobber, the Kiwis' HeadMan Minister.

Mr Cobber in his ceremonial body-recovering  from earthquake robes.

Christ, made a right gurgler of the place, it has, the 'quake, everything fucking falling down but we'll manage without any help from that fella, Cameron; Jesus, just look at him, Middle East going up like a beachside barbie and he's there trying to sell them firelighters. Man's a prat, couldn't win if he started the night before, musta got his degree out of a CornFlakes Box.

And his offsider, the gobby bald bloke, he's an iron hoof, ain't he. Y'know, him with a face like a bush pig's arse.  Now don't get me wrong, nothing wrong, per se, with pushin' the brown wheelbarrow, some a me best  mates is travellin' on the other bus but they don't crack on like they was married, that's enough to make a decent bloke chunder 'is guts up,  queers and normal geezers alike, 'Strewth, nobody likes people like that Hague bloke, bit of a fuckin' freak, you ask me, double dodgy. And couldn't organise worth shit. Even a simple matter, getting a plane a few hundred miles, it all goes to custard on 'im, must be crook in the head, mate. It can do that to you, stirring the muesli with the wrong spoon. I mean, y'only gottas look at him to know he's radio rental. Foreign Seckatry? 'Saboutright,  as foreign as it gets, mate.

Nah we'll manage, bro, no worries, she'll be right, without any  drongos comin' down 'ere and fuckin things up like they do in Pommyland, sellin' everything off, to Messrs Spiv & Co. Get Dave and his boys down here and the whole fuckin' gaff'll submerge undert he waves, quicker'n a fart-sniffin' cabinet minister can get his head under the duvet, knowaddamean?

Elsewhere in the Pacific,  doors were being shut in the face of incompetent, bungling Old Etonian laughing stock, Mr Flashman and his ladyman foreign seckatry. G'day mates and Christ on a fucking rope, said Aussie premier, Mrs Sheila Cobber-Bruce, below,

formerly Miss Ugly Adelaide. 1961,

ain't we got enough shit without them comin' here,  actin the goat, fulla piss and wind and all over the place like a mad woman's breakfast? Fuck me sideways, one minute the whole fucking place is on fire and the next it's under fucking water, last fucking thing we want is Cameron and his in-house backdoor bandit; couldn't fart into a botle, neither of them, if one a them bastards bought a kangaroo it wouldn't hop,  Jesus, they wouldn't last a round with a revolving door. Seen them all marching into Downin' Street this morning , all dressed up like a pox doctor's clerk,   all carryin' their red folders, like fucking prefects at a girls 'school. Dunno how you Poms put up with them, Christ, it was bad enough, before,  with that snotmunching arsehole, him with a face like a yard of tripe and a kangaroo loose in the top paddock,  but these jokers, only got one oar in the bleedin' water, they have.

EVENSONG. Richie Havens "License To Kill"

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARSEHOLE AS AY YOUNG MAN

The Miscarriage Kid is tough and strong,
the Miscarriage Kid just can't go wrong.

Well you may mock, you old Tory people but I assure you

that when you are all dead I will succeed in making the country

- and myself, the laughing cock, I mean stock of the world.

EVENSONG, RAGA WITH DOGBLOKE, Ravi Shankar with his other daughter, Anoushka Shankar, sister to Ms Norah Jones.

LIBYA: HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY REQUESTS AND REQUIRES THAT YOU ALL FEND FOR YOURSELVES. HAGUE IS SHIT, CAMERON IS SHIT, THEY'RE ALL SHIT

 CAMERON ON UNELECTED RIFF-RAFF

 LIBYA, YES, OF COURSE I KNOW WHERE IT IS

IT'S  SOMEWHERE IN WOGLAND.

Now listen to me, world, as I have some very important things to say. To be honest I couldn't, myself, win an election against a certifiable madman  but even so, we are where we are, and clearly, at the end of the day,  y'know, the bottom line is that  I am the duly not elected prime minister of what was once the United Kingdom. But we're gonna change all that, third world banana republic, here we come.  I want you to pay close attention to me. My father paid for an otherwise  perfectly genuine First for me from Oxford,  although not in history, obviously, or geography, or adding up, just as all decent not hard-working parents like mine should do for their children, only  not those who can't afford it, not being the descendants of whores and robber barons, or the best families, as we call ourselves.  And this, if I may digress, is the very crux of the education dilemma facing little Mr Gove, poor people wanting degrees like mine, wanting to go up to Oxford when they can't even afford a little ridiculous, Gad, Sir, Hellfire Club posturing, like myself and most of the Cabinet and Mr Dimbleby.  But, as I say, we are where we are, or I am, anyway, so fuck democracy, and  what I want to tell you is that all the things we have said and done up to now, we Tories and the other lot, they were all wrong.  And now that we've been found out we have to do some highly principled smooth talking, which is what we are very good at, or,  in my case quite good, not, as we've said, election-winning good  but you know, that doesnt matter any longer, or it won't by the time we've changed all the boundaries. Every thing we have all said up to now was wrong, not everything, exactly, I mean, cutting everything, especially the Navy, that was clearly right, otherwise my employer, Mr Murdoch would have shouted at me, maybe even sacked me. And the bankers, Gosh, imagine if we had taxed them properly, they'd have gone in a proper sulk, I shouldn't wonder.  But cosying-up to dictators and unelected riff-raff, that has to stop. Only not, obviously, Mr Clegg, or, for that matter, myself.

British citiens being protected, well, let me take my coat off to answer that one.

The first thing is that just because we have no aircraft carriers and few planes and have sacked all the pilots, anyway, it doesn't mean we can't protect Britons abroad, even though we can't.  The Big Society, that's the thing, volunteer regiments of sacked dinner ladies, they'll sort it out. The main thing for you all to remember is that Mr William Hague is Foreign Seckatry, and that he has great experience in these things; it is just, after all, a bloody, heavily-armed revolution,  heading to civil war, just  like speaking to an after-dinner gathering of drunken Rotarians, at which, as we all know,  he excelled.

On top of that, Mr Hague was, and may quite soon be again, a director of Messrs JCB, the bulldozer and earthmoving people, from which prestigious post he moonlighted as an MP.  There is a lot of sand in whereveritis and sand needs earth- or sand-moving equipment, all the more prescient of Mr Hague to take all that money from JCB when he should have been serving his constituents. All in all British citizens abroad need not worry about their safety as nor will Mr Hague. And, finally, I would just ask British people in Libya to recall how very protective Mr Hague was, recently,  of the privacy of his wife's womb, which he all but opened up  with a speculum for public inspection, when people suggested he was sleeping with a pretty young man half his age. Which, perfectly normally, he was. No, I feel that under me and Mr Clegg's  and Mr Hague's steady hands British citizens abroad are as safe as their jobs and services and expectations and rights are at home. Which is not at all safe, although that is exactly what me and Mr Clegg came into politics to do.  Bismillah, as we statesmen say, it is the will of Barclays.

SUGARBABES. LADIES SING THE BLUES. Bonnie Raitt & Norah Jones~Tennessee Waltz

LIBYA. WHAT'S BEEN DID AND WHAT'S BEEN HID?

"For us, he is a personal family friend. I first met him around four years ago at Number 10. Since then I've met him several times in Libya where he stays with my father. He has come to Libya many, many times."













Thus spake Saif al wotsit Gaddafi, the Colonel's jumped-up thieving bastard son, of his friend Tony Blair;  is "personal family friend " the same thing as being on the dictator's  bloody payroll?  Might Tony and Imelda now spend even more time airborne, suffering the international criminal's well-known Fear of Landing?

 
 Got any free stuff? Her Honour Judge Booth-Blair.
Cheerleader for the Iraq Invasion and rich men's groupie.

The best that can be said for the former first couple of Cool Britannia is that pimping for Gaddafi is not quite as bad as pimping for Dubya. Not much of a ringing, historical endorsement.

And where is Mandy, cocksucker-architect of NewLabour and close friend of Saif al wotsit al wotsit, tiger-keeper, playboy and more recently ranting demagogue.


                                                      Both have holidayed together, once with the ghastly Mr George Osbum and Saif describes Mandy as " a killer of a man." Shooting  animals together - how very NewLabour -  at a weekend do,  thrown by famous humatarian, Baron von Rothschild von Cunt, the two are said to have discussed  the fate of  fitted-up Libyan, Mr al Megrahi, although Mandy's spokesperson insists airily that the conversation only lasted a few sentences.


 And what about royal cretin number two, Andy, aka Duke of York, a regular visitor to Saif?  The useless gobby fuckpig of a prince has entertained Gaddafi junior more than once, in Buckingham Palace. Probably in the national interest.






And finally, for now, what about this gang? Salmond, to be sure, can count on directorships with a grateful Donald Trump, to whom he has gifted a Scottish site of special scientific interest and an even more grateful Brian Souter of Stagecoach Travel, to whom he has delegated Scottish transport policy;  does he really need a bung, also,  from Gaddafi, not, of course that he is now likely to get one ?




Straw is a bumptious, worthless lying turd, so far up his own arse that neither daylight nor truth can illuminate his dark doings, torture and infanticide, lying, with his cock out, before the entire United Nations, Jesus, how do they sleep, these people? Justice minister McKaskill is or was or will be again a member of the law firm instrumental in quoshing all interest in the Hollie Greig Establishment PaedoRing, Socttish lawyers the scum of the Earth. What really went on here, with Mr al Megrahi;  would one believe a word that any of these people said about their various dealings with Libya, with GlobaCorp, even with each other?

As events unfold it gets harder and harder to peddle the old line that politicians have to deal with nasty people and it becomes clearer that, especially with our recent and current crop, politicans are the nasty people.

The Blair confection has been melting now for some time, the mayhem in Libya has resurrected images and positions which can but embarrass him further. But he did not act alone, nor in a particularly partisan way, Blair never, in any event. served party, just Greed.  As Ruin slithers away from it's servant, Gaddafi, we must follow its slime trail; it may yet lead to the Hague, and an imprisonment, at least, of the Vanities.