MURDER MOST FOUL.

I have a couple of hand-held circular saws but they usually remain  in their cases; if I can't bring the timber to the table saws I will use a hand saw or one of those multi-tools; circular saws have always given me the heebie-jeebies and if sometimes I have no option but to use one I inhale deeply from my personal flask of Infinite Paranoiac Possibilities, make a terrified supplicant's offering to the Accursed Universe and proceed, using every safeguard known to man.


 These things can kick and jerk and although they have a deadman's-thumb safety cut-out they could nevertheless, in an instant, rip through the flesh of your thigh, embedding in the bone, blinding you with your own body tissue and blood.

A lifetime  ago, when hotels taught their employees skills other than saying Enjoy! I learned what they called larder skills and to this day, although I never do, I can bone-out an uncooked chicken or duck or turkey or leg of lamb in seconds, I can bone-out a sirloin or a rump leaving virtually no flesh on the glistening bone and I can skin and fillet the ugliest bastard fish in the sea, leaving just a cartoon skeleton of tail, backbone, ribs and head; that I can still do these jobs more skilfully than all the tellycooks put-together is just another signpost on Ruin's Highway. It is just a matter of having  a good, sharp knife, a mental image of the creature's skeleton and lots of practice. And of concentrating, instead of playing to the camera.

If it fell to me, therefore, to dismember a human body I would have a head start on most murderers. Although I would have less appetite for butchering a human than I do, these days, for butchering any other creature, I could swiftly and neatly remove legs at the knee and hip, arms at the elbow and shoulder and the head at the fifth or sixth cervical vertebrae, blackbinbag the whole lot up  and dump it somewhere an early-morning dog-walker would find it and notify, skymadeupnewsandfilth, Crimewatch and  the police.

Murder and subsequent  dismemberment are by no means uncommon but it is hard to ascribe it to anyone who is not deranged, dwelling outside all commonly accepted boundaries of conduct and taste. I understand that cadaver dissection  is now relatively rare even among medical students, virtual presentations now being preferred, yet the taste for it lingers, still, amongst some; maybe some killers just kill for the opportunity of literally butchering their victims. I dunno.

Ask me to perform the same task with a circular saw and I would just hand myself in to the cops, and yet that is what this chap did, 

Nathan Mathhews killed and dismembered his step-sister, 

Becky Watts, 16,
killed her  and then dismembered  her with a Black and Decker. 


Leaving aside the fountains of gale-force-ten blood and flesh  and  bone which would strike him, the saw teeth would be locking-up on thighs,  kneecaps and shoulders because this guy could barely read and write, much less wield a high-speed power tool with the necessary surgical precision, and his workplace must've

looked like  what the Mediaevals called a Shambles, a right bloody Shambles.

Maybe it was this imagined gruesome aesthetic which moved the court so, for, passing sentence, 

Mr Justice Never In All My Days On The Bench 
said that never in all his days on the bench had he tried a case so heinously wicked, sadistic, cruel, vile and lots of other reproachful words and he would be failing in his duty to the public if he didn't pass the maximum sentence possible, 
and then some. 

He then sentenced matey as the man now in the dock, as the man be would be after ten years' time, as the man he would be after twenty years' time, as the man he would be after thirty years time, and as if that wasn't long enough for the convicted man to remember  and reflect upon what a cunt he was, the judge gave him another three years, just as an aide memoire, so to speak. After having passed a minimum term to be served of thirty-three years, Mr Justice Slag 

a veteran of the Hutton Inquiry.
left the bench with tears in his eyes.

There is no question that this was a dreadful murder - although  aren't they all dreadful, there's no nice murders, are there -   but  the manner of the disposal of the body seems to me only of passing, morbid interest, best, in the interests of mental health,  forgotten  about, not a subject on which the Court should dwell. 

Matthews said that  the killing was something which went horribly wrong - he had only meant to teach his victim a lesson, for having disrespected  a party to the step-menage, his own Dad, I think,  and it is true that these step-relationships can quite naturally, though jealousy and hormonal storms,  become poisonous and  potentially destructive  -   the Crown, however,  argued that he was a sexual pervert, drawn to petite young girls and their  chastisement, or at least to the video-taped respresentation of such, which is not quite the same thing;

  
Matthews, was,  it  claimed, motivated by lust and depravity, rather than by step-filial resentment.



  It is a complex tragedy all too common, seems to happen almost weekly: 
somebody snatches a  teenager and kills her, 
savaging both her family and his own and becoming, himself, a migrant burden, an unwelcome guest, shuffling handcuffed from prison to loonybin, an occasionally resurrected tabloid beast,  regurgitated and chewed over on slow news days;

Carrion at work.

his incarcerated life, however harsh and comfortless, too comfortable by half; he becomes the main course in a regular, national banquet of hate, thrown by Virtue's handmaidens, people like Rebekah Brooks and the walking shitheap that is Kelvin McKenzie;

Yeah, cut their goolies off and kick 'em to death;
it's what Britain needs, public executions, Phwoar!
And teenage tits, younger the better, but legal, mind, always legal. Thirty seconds after they turn sixteen, they're fair game.

   worst of all, he remains forever defined - and which of us could bear this? - by the worst thing he ever did.  No matter what agonies of remorse he suffers, no matter how he longs for warmth he will be forever in the cold, he has been sentenced to perpetual, lonely Despair
In his thirst for vicarious Vengeance, Judge Dread does service to none, but flays all those around him - the bereaved family, made unique by his words, will now never recover; the offender's family, well, nobody ever spares a thought for their sorrow; the offender is damned, denied the possibility of remorse, repentance and rehabilitation, denied the opportunity of making apology.  The only beneficiaries of His Honour's hysterical adjudication are skymadeupnewsandfilth and their viewers and readers.
This is tabloid justice. It is a savagely squalid response to a savagely squalid  crime, committed within God knows what sort of grubby, modern, toxic domestic arrangements.

In his way, Judge Wotsisname, coarse, unmeasured, vulgar and self-indulgent,  is as lame a jurist as Frankie Hollande is a statesman, 

Je suis le little red rooster,
too lazy to crow for day.

now that shit has happened Frankie will do things, rant and rave, close borders, bomb other innocent civilians, in other lands. That will make everything alright again.


Now that the poor child is failed, murdered and butchered, 
I will do such things......

No, mate, you won't, 
all you'll do is make things worse. 
That's what you people do,
make bad things worse.

If, after Chris Grayling and Michaels Spit, we still have a Lord Chief Justice, he should  kick this guy's arse.
Judges aren't supposed to cry when they're passing sentence, they are supposed to be above all that, detached, that's why they're judges, they are there to judge, not fucking blubber like big girls, not identify with the victim's relatives, gang-up with them against the perp.  Maybe he should be on the Jeremy Kyle Show, as a guest presenter.  I know this offence was a bit extreme but only post-mortem, there are far more cruel murders than that of  poor Becky Watts, God bless her, and the reason Judges are appointed is that  they are able to act dispassionately in the interests of justice, deterrence, public protection and rehabilitation of the offender before them, they are not there to sob their silk socks off.  They are not supposed to be in showbusiness. And even if they are, this is still no way to go on.  
I remember the only time I have ever heard young father, Lady Sir Elton John, say a few sensible words: 
talking about his performance of the dreadful Candle In The Wind at Diana's showy funeral, he said, My God, how I wanted to cry, I just so-o-o-o wanted to cry, all the way through that, I wanted to cry; I just adored Diana, we were soulmates, but I was there to sing the song, not to cry, so I sang the song, that was my job. Or words very much to that effect.  The repulsive, screeching, pampered prima donna has more about him than this wretched judge.

In the pantheon of murder Nathan Matthews is small beer,  I have met worse. Judge Fenton Atkinson, sentencing Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, after hearing truly, truly, blood-curdling,  horrifying-beyond-belief evidence of serial, sadistic, prolonged child murder, never shed a tear.   Justice Charles Mantell, similarly, must have felt his blood run cold, trying Rosemary West for serial, sadistic murders committed by her late husband, Fred, and herself;  sentencing her to life-without he displayed the Right Judge Stuff, stern but dignified.

And imagine, Nuremberg, where the judges were trying some of the worst crimes in history, proper determined murderers, torturing and murdering millions of people, imagine them, reaching for their hankies as they sentenced those bastards to death, or life imprisonment, Oh, you nasty, wicked Nazi criminal, in all my days of sitting on war crimes tribunals I have never heard of such things, I am so upset, I must go and have a big weep, in my chambers. No, dash it, I'll do it here, on the bench.  And we are going to fetch that nice Mr Pierrepoint over from England, to hang you by the neck until you are dead, you horrible man, boo-hoo-hoo. 


Publicly identifying with the victim's parents,  because he has daughters, too; speaking of his personal distress and crying on the bench,  Justice Dinglemans, QC, is a disgrace and he should be sacked. 
He'll probably be offered his own show, 
on Cruelty TeeVee.

POUNDLAND IN MOURNING

Mr Sid Farage, chief executive of Poundland, the no-frills, bargain basement, recycled political slogans company, was said today to be deeply and profoundly shiocked and saddened by the death of the company's founder and its most iconic, well, icon

As well as bringing cheap, affordable politics to the working man, he was a great patriot, probably the greatest living Englishman,  

 

after myself, that is. 

 

The greatest dead living Englishman, is what I meant to say.  

Him, not me, I'm still very much alive and kicking and drawing my expenses.

No, no, I learned everything I know about rabble-rousing from Sir Alf and I and my party owe him a debt we can never repay,

 rather like the defecit. 

Although, to be honest,  when I am prime minister, I shall make sure that the chancellor isn't a helpless and hopeless,  braying, public school junky off his head at the despatch batch,  on cocaine and fuck knows what else.  

Nothing wrong with public schools, mind, went to one m'self, 'swhere I learned my man of the people routine.  

But no, lemme be Frank with you, as the one ABCDLGBT pervert said to the other.  Alf Garnett was our spiritual founder and although many have decried him as an ironist, lampooning, to satirical purpose,  the views and beliefs of ordinary Englishmen, let me assure them that, on the contrary, SirAlf was a dedicated armchair warrior, a fine patriotic  racist Englishmen and a misogynist through and through. Like our great company, Poundland, he was one of a dying breed and we shall not look on his like again.  Not until the next UKIP conference.

The Frogs? 

What about the Frogs?

 

 Oh, yes, the slaughter amongst our Euro-cousins.

Well, they should look on the bright side, shouldn't they;

 I mean it wasn't as bad as Agincourt, was it?

EVENSONG, ACOUSTIC HEAVY METAL. Rodrigo y Gabriela on Later with Jools Holland

NEWSNIGHT IN PARIS. SHOCK AND AWE, LE SEQUEL, MES AMIS.

They're all there, again, emoting for us, Emily, Gabriel, Tim; this is BAFTA Stuff, and twice in one year,

The day Gaza came to Paris, the day we predicted, a few weeks ago. One at least of Merkel's infinitely welcome refugees 



has expressed his gratitude to Europe and I wonder if anyone will have the nerve to demand  her resignation, stupid cow.

The Parisian interviewees, shocked and horrified, some of them bereaved, I wonder if le MediaPalaisBourbon will permit them to pause for a moment and reflect that they have experienced a couple of days of what Iraq, Afghanistan and Gaza have suffered for years; more likely, drums will be beaten, sabres rattled and tubs thumped;

 
Voulez-vous regardez mon cock, cherie, 
c'est tres socialiste?

 Le Petit Frankie, useless, cock-waving git, will blusterez-vous, in the manner of de Gaulle shouting from the London sidelines, while braver men resisted the Hermans, at frighful cost. He really is a cowardly little piece de merde, Frankie, even by the standards of French Presidents.

But gob as he may - as they all may, Cameron the nitwit,

 
Aujourd'hui, nous sommes toutes les Bosches,
I mean les Frogs.

in a state  of permanent COMAtude, cloistered with shameless money-grubbing morons like Fallon and Dopey Hammond will issue mission statements  of fawts'n'prayers, of Resolution, of Solidarity and of invincible Justice Inevitable; 

 Obama, the PuppetKing in the Land of Swindle and Fraud,


My fellow motherfuckers, as long as I'm Motherfucker-in-Chief, we just gonna keep on killing folks, until we have peace and justice. We done it with the redskins, we done it with the niggers, we can do it with the ragheads, too, bet yo' sweet whIte ass.

 will mouth his tedious litany of Patriotism and Freedom under God, while continuing to torture and murder His subjects, at will, anywhere in the world, and the grubby hausfrau, Merkel, 

 

will spout any old shit which might keep her in office, having fucked Europe and Germany both - gob as he may, le petit Frankie, the Frogs are far too sophisticated to be Dubyad, and he'll be out on his scabby derriere  quicker than you can say Marie le Pen.

Here, though, all they will do is transfer the blame for  all this shit, for their unparallelled incompetence to we, the cowed citizen-suspects, and Old Mother May, 
 
resembling more and more one of the Three Witches, 
will insist upon having my underpants as well as my belt and jacket as I make my lawful way through my local airport, travelling within my own country, as armies of fit young head-chopping Jihadists swan into Europe, unchecked.

I often think that I know how stupid are the likes of Jack Straw


The slag, Straw, lying his arse off for Coh-lin Powell, who has at least recanted.
Even people in Labour are now calling Jack Torture a vile git, wonder what took them so long.

 and Tony Blair, Michael Howard and David Cameron: they are as stupid as those who vote for them, just more guileful, more dishonest, perverse, degenerate  and amoral.  

 
But even so, it takes a stupefying lack of intelligence to imagine that there would be no consequences to the invasion and occupation of Iraq;  did they really think that a billion or so co-religionists - many of whom simply do not fear death -  would roll-over beneath the New World Order of the American Centuryists, 

filth like Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld and their lickspittle spear carriers in the NewLabourScam?

If I focus my imagination, the sudden, frightful events in Paris make my hair stand on end, the sights and the sounds and the smells of blood and shit, the shots, the screams and the sirens.  I don't need Emily Newsnight - or any of those filthy hacks - to pornographise  them for me, all earnest and compassionate and analytical, cheeky fucking bastards, but they do not distress me any more  than the sights in Gaza or Bagdhad or the truly terrifying thought of being in Obama's Gitmo, better to be blown to pieces than suffer Uncle Sam's extra-constitutional torture.

In the media aftermath of  the mysterious Twin Towers' collapse, I heard just one New York kid, maybe twenty years old, voice the unvoiceable: What have we done,  that people feel the need to do this to us?  
It was a genuine enquiry, not a whining complaint.

Unless rather more people start asking what it is that we have done, since the early 1900s, and continue to do today, then this train will only stop at the nuking of Mecca. 
And then only temporarily. 

Brought to you by the Blair Peace Foundation.

SUN EXCLUSIVE.MURDOCH NEWS:I KNOW, IT'S ONLY ROCK'N'ROLL BUT I LIKE IT

BY OUR EDITRIX-IN-CHEAP, I MEAN CHIEF, 

DAME REBEKAH FILTH, HEAD OF PROPRIETORAL  COCKSUCKING SERVICES, 
SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH.

That'll be ten grand, duckie, 
twenty if you put your old lizard tongue in my ear.

Oh, it's hard to tell, 'shard t'tell, 
when all  yo' love in vain.

Look, I'm not moaning or anythin', but first L'Wotsernam killed herself and now my ex has taken up with an old man, no, I mean a really, really old man. But never mind, the best thing is to get out there and do what the Stones do best, those  Ry Cooder riffs. 

The Sun, still Britain's grubbiest daily shitrag, can exclusively reveal that American philanthropist, humanitarian and as yet unconvicted conspirator in a host of alleged illegal privacy violations, Sir Rupert Murdoch, professor emeritus of political journalism, 96 and 5'8" has been seeing, as we call it, world famous, leggy rock chick, Ms Jerry Hall, 72, old age pensioner and 6'6" tall.

The world of celebrity nobodies is alive with excitement at the prospect of the young couple announcing their marriage before Sir Rupert dies and Ms Hall fails to inherit some of his fortune.

Another young groom, 

Mr Andy Neil of the PBC and Glasgow University,  
and the man who, many decades ago, putting journalism first, helped Sir Rupert the Ruinous and Mrs Margaret Batshit destroy Britain, turning it into a cultural, moral and ethical shithole, told the Sun he was delighted for his former master and would be honoured to be best gimp at the wedding  of the talented young couple. Andy, a significant shareholder in NewsCrap, said that at his own recent wedding the guest list had been Noel Edmunds, 

The meagrest barrel-scraping of British light entertainment.

( honest, not invent, Edmunds was the only guest, fuck me, Jesus, Noel Edmunds, your only wedding guest, somebody should write a play about it) 
who might be available to attend the Murdoch-Hall wedding if agreement could be reached as to his fee. Edmunds, the biggest arsehole in showbusiness, said that he would try not to kill any other guests during his act but reminded them that his was live entertainment, for those people who survived it, anyway, although occasionally people got killed, by cranes and so on.

Sir Brian Ferry, former  oily crooner  of glamrock band, Poxy Music,  and insufferable social climber said that he was  shattered and desolated by Jerry's further betrayal of his love. 

 First it was Mick Jagger, then it was anybody with a few quid and now it's this old git;  how can she do me this way?  Perhaps the only genuine artistic reaction to this deep, enduring, personal torment is to re-re-re-release my epic of self-absorbed tribulation, (I'm Just A) Jealous Guy, backed with my camp,  holocaustal vision, It's a Ha-a-a-a-ard, It's A Ha-a-a-a-a-ard, It's A Ha-a-a-ard, It's A Ha-a-a-a-ard  Ra-a-a-ain's A gonna Fa-a-a-all.  
Jerry, I'll never get over her.

Bandmates of Jerry's former common-law husband, famous p0nce and degenerate,  Sir Mick Jagger, gave their reactions exclusively to the Sun, or else we might have revealed some of the stuff Sir Rupert keeps in his files. About everybody. 

In an interview with the Sun's 
 
Andrew Graham-Dixon-Parker-Rembrandt-daVinci-Smith-Klein-Beecham-Arsehole,  Keith Richard said;

Oh, maaan, like, Mick? What can I say? Jerry? Wow, maaan.  Mick and Jerry? Far out. What can I say? I mean, I love the cat, yeah? I got his back, like,  you know, like it's cool with me if it's cool with him? And such a great rock chick, Jerry.  yeah, man, far out, like Mars bars at dawn, man.  
Did I?
 Oh, maaan, like, me an' Mick, we're like, comrades, man, yeah? We're like Warriors for the Blues, Warrior-Priests, man, you know? And  that's not somethin' I would ever talk about doin' with my friend's old lady.  

Even if I had.  
Once or twice. At the most. 
 You know what I mean, Andrew, man?  


Retiring? 
The Stones? 
Oh Wow, man, like, I dunno about those other cats but I'm just gonna go on, getting out there and playin' them Ry Cooder riffs until I die, man. 
Or the cat sues me.

Veteran Stones drummer,  Charlie Heroin, 


said, Jerry Hall? Was 'e that guitarist we 'ad, oo we stitched-up an' then 'e topped hisself? Nah, nah, yer right, that was Mungo Jerry.
 Nah, got no time for that slag, Jagger, nor 'is birds, me. 
'Ad to gi' 'im a slap one time. 'E was shoutin' his gob off, abaht where's me drummer this, an'where's me drummer that. Tekkin' a right fuckin' liberty, the cunt was. An' I was 'avin none a that, not from 'im. So I decked him one. An' I told 'im straight. I int your fucking drummer, cunt, you're  my fucking singer, cunt, awright? Never 'ad no more trouble wiv im since. The cunt. 
Retire? 
What? We still workin' are we? Churnin' aht them Ry Cooder numbers wot Keef stole? Cor, stone the bleedin' crows.

So, as you can see, a tidal wave of best wishes, there, for the young couple, from some of the brightest stars in the world of filth.

The Sun will be covering the event for you exclusively and our photographers will be the very first with the photos of the wedding night antics of the young couple. As the handsome groom spurts money all over his lovely wife's legs.
Order your copy now.
My husband, Charlie, has.
And don't try to sue me. I'm untouchable.
In more ways than one.

                                              luv and xxxx's from Becky.

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL, WITH HUW WELSHMAN.

This is the six o'clock news, from the PBC,  with me,

 

 Huw Welshman, yes, yes, I know, the thinking woman's Richard Burton, but I'm actually a serioues journalist, so  let's forget about my cock and get straight on with tonight's show, and first up, top o' the bill,  is the prime minister, speaking live for us, here, on the PBC, from the steps of Downing Street, lesshearwodesgottasay,  Russia, it is, I believe, or Egypt, or some other bollocky fucking shitcorner  that he hasn't gotta fucking clue about, probly never heard of until five minutes ago, look you, isn't it, fucking moron.  An' now he's posturing, Cameron, all macho, like he was Alexander the fucking Great, although, they used to say, back in the valleys, when I was a lad, like,  that he were a brown-hatter, look you, Alexander the Great........and that Tom Jones fella, isn't it, him, too.

Well, yes, thassright, and lemmebeveryclear, I am just about to chair a meeting of COMA....Wossat?   What's COMA?  Well, COMA is a group of very important people, chaired, as I said, by myself, the most important people, or person, woddever, but I'm the Boss, anyway, and it is quite simply a gathering of the finest minds anywhere in MediaMinster, especially, if I may say so, my own.   Triple First from Oxford College, you know, least that's what pater paid for. Triple? Double, was it? It was, anyway, the best that stolen could buy.

Who are they? What, the people in COMA, you mean?  Well, as I said, they, COMA, are -  or is it it -  the COMA people are, or is, the finest minds, quite simply the finest minds, well, anywhere, really; yes, and, as I said, they meet at times like this, of imaginary crisis, when we really have to make ourselves look important, so's people have confidence in us, yes, important, and capable, yes, like Sir Paddy Ashdown does, exactly that, 

Please do not feed hats to the animals.

wise and far-seeing, resolute, steady, courageous and a fucking idiot.  Yes, I know he's an utter cunt, unfit to lead a troop of boyscouts, a political coward and a wretched gabshite but he has provided great service to his party and his country, well, to himself, anyway, and Cyril Smith, and pleasured the odd seckatry, en route.  Gonna eat his hat he was, wasn't he, if I won the election?  But no matter, like all of us he is a great public servant, a fabulous husband and father and we won't look on his like again, when he eventually does die, the crazy fucking bastard.

But no, COMA are and is a very serious organisation. Names?  You want names?  Well there's Dancing Queen, Tracey May, 

a leading authority on trampy footwear for the older lady;
 there's Micky Fallon.......... 

These are the nuclear launch codes, in this case. 
 I can kill anyone I feel like.

 Fucking insane, isn't it, you couldn't invent a  spluttering, belligerent, stupid,  red-faced Fallon in a satire, yet this crooked, blowhard redneck fuckpig is in charge of our defence.  I am glad that I live a very long way from London and this raving lunatic.

.......who - or is it whom - whom before he was  a minister, mainly sat on the board of one of the CrueltyCare Homes Corporations, while moonlighting as a Tory MP and embroidering his expenses, yes, like most of us,   yes, that's right, it was one of those businesses where old people have to, quite rightly in my opinion, sell their homes and give the money to American companies who then pay minimum-waged, Central European bisexual amazons to torture the same old people to death; yes, quite, globalisation, Micky Fallon's all for that, only not with the niggers and the arabs, who he, quite properly in my view, wants to nuke.   

And there's also Phil Dope,

 

 the foreign seckatry who must have done something other than fuck about looking unpardonably stupid all over the world. Although I can't quite recall what it was.  

Yes, and then there'll be some Ruperts, too. 

Brigadiers General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap.  

What?  Battles? 
 Which battles have they fought?
 What? In COMA? Over the table? 
Oh, no, I  seewhatyamean, battles, like in wars, right? 
Well, they haven't won any battles.  That's not what the army is about, not these days, no way. Oh, acourse, squaddies do go and get their limbs blown off for no reason but lessbefair, they do afterwards get to  rub shoulders, if they still have  any shoulders, with Prince Harry Hooligan, 

 

whom, God be praised, hasn't yet been injured, despite his glorious heroism in taking on the Talimen in hand-to-hand combat, as he often does, and that seems to keep them happy, yes, I know, crazy fuckers,  I know what I'd say - What,  swap me arms and legs for a meeting with a drunken arsehole Ruritanian parasite, you must be raving mad.  
Dunno if you've ever noticed but Harry can't keep his legs or his feet still, always jiggling them about, like a spazzo, who, by the way, this govament is determined to help, spazzos and nutters, those people who dribble and wet themselves,  I had one myself, y'know, but he died, and that's why I love the NHS, more importantly, why I can be trusted to sell it off at a very favourable discount to our friends on Wall Street;  maybe it's because he's inbred, Prince Harry,  a bit of a chimp, although some say he's not, actually, far from it, barely related to Queen Brenda at all, in fact, not at all; or maybe it's just that his head's all fucked-up, over the way his father and his granny treated his mother, maybe he's just a fucking psycho;  he is ginger, after all. Didya see him with Obama, with that fucking scruffy beard,  looked like a homeless soldier, which, I suppose, is what he is, crashing in our palaces and wearing our clothes, getting pissed and waving his cock around, shame really, but maybe that's why all the limbless people love him, he's more fucked-up than they are.

Yes, they gotta be mental, themselves, to hang around with this wally. Or working class.  
But no, they might not win any wars, the Ruperts, or fight in any battles but, you know, as William Shakespeare said - they also serve who stand and hand around the biscuits -  and it's nice to have chaps in COMA who are wearing uniform and medals and have sort-of proper jobs.

So that's some of the people on COMA, the finest minds, wrestling with ways to keep us all safer. Yes, by setting us against each other, for instance,  in which the newspapers have played a quite sterling role - is it stirling or sterling, fucked if I know, no, don't bother asking Junky George, 

the chancellor, he hasn't a fucking clue what sterling is or does - in which all my friends in the press have played a blinder, setting healthy people against sick people, northern people against southern people, fat people against thin people, old people against young people, everybody at everybody else's throat and nobody at mine.  By filming our every move and by reading our letters and listening to our conversations.  And most notably by blaming low-paid workers for being low paid workers.  These are the sorts of hugely valuable strategies which emerge from  COMA meetings. Wossat? Sharm al Sheikh?  Never hear of him. 'S'e a terrorist? Mrs May, the obedience seckatry, she'll have the measure of him.  Soon have him deported, back to Wogland, where he can be, quite properly in my view, tortured up his wog arse until he makes-up secrets about whatever it is he hasn't done. Too good for  them, these Sharm el Sheikh chappies, the molten lead enema, far too good for 'em.

I have to dash, anyway, have to meet a gentleman from Egypt, expect he wants to sell Mrs Cameron some cotton sheets for the bed. 

Prime meenister Camaroon, you wan' dirty picture, of my sister? An' her dog?

Poor chap's quite barmy, thinks he's in charge of Egypt, when even I know that that's Mr Obama's job.

Still, he wants to hang nine hundred of his critics, so we really must make him welcome.

Well, viewers, 

there we must interrupt the prime minister's nonsense, like  Watch With Mother, isn't it, pure fucking fairy stories, the man couldn't find the hole in his own arse, never mind find Egypt and bomb it, but we are hearing that former Labour Torture Seckatry, Dave Bananas

 is speaking about the refugee-migrant crisis on Lesbos, never been there, meself, but it's a strange sort of name for a place, isn't it, look you, more carpet-munching than olive squeezing, I shouldn't wonder, from the sound of it.  Maybe that prat, wotsisname, the fish and chip bloke, Rick Stein, that's it, maybe Ricky'll fuck off down there with a film crew, for us.  

Well, blimey, sometimes, y'know, I think I have the best job in the world. Y'know, for me, this is what it's all about. I got all these fish'n'chip shops, I'm on the telly, paid a fortune for  talking absolute bollocks and now the PBC've sent me here to the beautiful island of Lesbos and I'm not kidding you, the waters're just full of refugees, you can literally grab 'em out of the water with your bare hands, dig a pit in the sand and roast 'em quickly  with some local rosemary and garlic, and oh, that Lesbos garlic, for all my gift with words, I simply cannot descriptify it. But no, for me this is what it's all about, roasting  other creatures  alive and eating them with a glass of local vino; it simply doesn't get any better than this.

See what I mean, viewers, that prat's a fucking superstar, picks a handful of weeds, shoves 'em up a lobster's arse, roasts the poor thing alive, gets pissed, talks fucking nonsense and you pay him a fortune.  Public schoolboy, Stein the Fish, the fucking bastards're everywhere, that ugly, double-barrleled hairy git, Saviour of the Fish, Hugh something, he's one, too 

But BananaMan, you remember him , he 's the brother of that other knobhead, Ed Banana, 

The Cain and Abel of Snotty's Labour party

Am I my brother's banana?

who wanted to be prime minister but drove people away from Labour in fucking trainloads.  Just to hear his fucked-up voice, that mr ishmael said, condescending to Ordinary People, was enough to make a decent, socialist-leaning comrade join fucking UKIP and wear Poundland trousers.  A right fucking pair of nincompoops, look you, but that David was the worst by a long way, isn't it. As Gordon Snot's foreigh seckatry, he tried to squash the British courts, tried to stop them looking at information which his proper boss, President Hillary Trousers,  wanted kept secret.  Just the usual stuff - gay, MI5 headbangers joining-in with Uncle Sam's psychobastards in torturing the arse off of  anybody they felt like.  The courts, however, told the pig where to put his banana and the case lumbers on, I do believe.  Anyway, when his kid brother beat him for the leadership of Labour, Dave fucked-off to some lavishly-paid sinecure in America, some CIA-run phoney rescue agency, into which he will have been eased by Mrs Trousers or her official husband, Spunky Bill, there to do their bidding.  And now, as the refugee crisis intensifies, BananaMan has come out with all guns firing against Europe and Britain, his homeland, blaming the crisis, not on Uncle Sam and Secretary of State Trouserses activities but on the EU, the cheeky fucking bastard.  Quite why we allow the prick on the BBC I'm fucked if I know, he's a fucking traitor, isn't he, who gives a fuck what he says?

This was the Guardian, a while ago.

Hillary Clinton has taken the special relationship to a new level with a gushing appraisal of David Miliband, who the US secretary of state described as "vibrant, vital, attractive and smart".

The extravagant compliments were delivered in an interview with Vogue magazine, which put journalistic objectivity to one side to describe Britain's foreign secretary as "tall and dashing". The interviewer added for good measure: "I got a crush over the phone in about five seconds partly because of his accent."

But he was outdone by Clinton, who responded: "Well, if you saw him it would be a big crush. I mean, he is so vibrant, vital, attractive, smart. He's really a good guy. And he's so young!"

Vogue describes Miliband as smitten too, but in a more buttoned-up way: "She applies intellect but also psychology to the dossiers that she's studying," he said of Clinton. "She's delightful to deal with one on one. She's someone who laughs and can tease, and she's got perspective as well."

"....can laugh and tease,"

right, Dave; 

she's a fucking bug-eyed  monster, mate, 

mad as a fucking hatter;

a threat to world safety.

Just fucking look at her.  

"vibrant, vital, attractive and smart"

somebody needs to coin a term for this perversion, mr verge; it's fag haggery in reverse. Hills the Grumpy Embittered Dyke as Cilla Black, Miliband as Paul O'Grady.  Make a decent man puke, whatever you call it.

Anyway, as head of the CIA's International Rescue, Dave Bananas has been to Lesbos to have his picture taken.

This is all the fault of a very bad man, called Gordon Snot, and his very bad political party, called the Labour party, of which I am not and never have been a member.  Much less leader.

 

Britain really should be ashamed of itself. I am so glad I am an American. And very close to the woman who will soon be President of the United States. And who will probably give me an important job in her administration.  Not that I don't have an important role, in International Rescue. What does International Rescue do? Well, I would have thought that was obvious. It rescues people internationally. No, not in this case, because these people are only in the shit because of European adventurism in the Middle East. Nothing to do with the CIA, I mean, who could blame the United States  for any of this chaos; it is all down to the European Union. And especially Britain.  Especially my former brother. What?  UK Foreign Seckatry in Charge of Torture Arrangements? Me? I think you must be confusing me with my former brother, he did all those things.  And if you persist with these claims about me being a British traitor, doing America's dirty work, then and now, you might find yourself in a jet aircraft,  in some discomfort, as legalised by former President George Dubya Chimp, whose own father is now calling him a worthless cunt.

  

Bush 41, as he is known for his place as the 41st US president, is now 91 years old and has few kind words for the top figures in his son's presidential administration

'The reaction (to September 11), what to do about the Middle East. Just iron-ass. His seeming knuckling under to the real hard-charging guys who want to fight about everything, use force to get our way in the Middle East.'

The elder Bush went further, saying that Cheney carved out 'his own empire' in the White House, filling it with his own trusted advisers and setting a go-it-alone mentality that the elder Bush said damaged the public perception of his son's presidency.

No, what you need to report on your bulletin, Huw,  is that a very wise and neutral observer, myself, working for the Clinton Dynasty Corporation of America ,  has proved beyond any doubt that none of this shit is America's fault. 

 Otherwise she might lose the election.  

Is that clear?

As CEO of International Rescue, 

I can still have you tortured, you know.

That was Clinton spokesman, Dave Bananas the First, there, for us, and we are happy to put the record straight.  All these refugee migrant terrorists are nothing to do with Uncle Sam, especially so in the case of Spunky Bill and Hillary Trousers. They are all the fault of the British Labour Party, only not Tony Blair, just the other ones.

You know, sometimes viewers, I could just go back to being Court Reporter for the Merthyr Tydfil Express, look you, it's just that there's no fucking money in it, see, fuck all, pennies, really.  But that did just happen, here on the PBC, we reported word-for-word, the traitorspeak of that repulsive torturing wanker, Miliband, as though it was gospel truth, like they teach in Chapel.  That bloke, Ishmael, he's right, you know, it is now the PBC mission statement: 

And Nation Shall Speak Shite Unto Nation.

Former, discredited foreign seckatry slanders own country on behalf of his new paymasters and we feed it to the viewers as news.

Oh, and I am hearing in my earpiece that we inadvertently showed a picture of Milband's fellow multiple murderer, Ian Huntley, instead of Bananaman, himself.  Easy mistake to make. 

Here's the real Hillary's BoyArselicker,  telling us all what to think, cheeky cunt.

But it's back now to the prime minister, who is making a statement on the matter of the downed Russian airliner, or bombed, depending on which cheap, hustling arsehole you believe.

Well, quite frankly, all I have to say to Mr Putin, is that as a student of history I know that we beat Russia in 1917 and again in 1944, in short, we beat them in two world wars and we can beat them again.  England is a small country, 

Prime minister, with the English Jack.

that is true, and we'll be even smaller by the time of the next election but though we are a small country we will continue to box above my mouth.  One thing we English cannot stand is a man who makes war on his own people - Mr Ian Duncan Smith excepted, of course, and Mrs May and Mr Gove and Mr Osborne - and we find his shooting down of his own aircraft completely unacceptable.  What, how do I know he planted the bomb?  

Well, I don't actually know, not in the sense of facts or evidence but it is a fairly safe bet.  I mean, a man who will murder someone on the streets of London is not to be trusted, unless, of course he is a member of the Metropolitan Police, in which case he or she is to be promoted. 

 But no, I've been in this job  for a while, now, and you get a nose for these things and my money is on the KGB planting the bomb on the Russian 'plane,

 if there was a bomb, which there must have been because planes just don't fall out of the sky unless there's a bomb....What, the British planes, falling out of the sky recently, at two British air shows? Those planes? Well, that's exactly what I mean, I should think that the enquiries, if they ever report, will report that the KGB could have planted bombs on these tragic old banger planes,  could have drugged their loony pilots  and that in these days of global terrorism

could have, mark my words,  means certainly did.   

Well, you may mock but it worked for Ali Dipso Campbell and Tony the Whore Blair. Saddam Hussein could have had Weapons of Mass wotsaname, so, clearly, he certainly did.  See? It is beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr Putin bombed his own plane and is not to be trusted in Syria which we must immediately bomb the arse out of. QED, which, if I remember correctly, translates as Thus Spake Zarathustra. Or in this case,Thus Spake Dave, has lots of meanings, does latin, which only fine minds such as my own can disown, is it disown? Dispute?  Disrupt?  Only fine minds such as my own can disrupt? What? Discern? You sure it's discern?  What the Sweet Fucking Jesus does discern mean? Not a word much used in my circle. Never hear Becky Brooks or Jerry Clarkson talking about discernishment, over cocktails in the Chipping Sodom Arms.  What, buy a fucking stick, to watch Jerry and his cringing oppos on Amulet TeeVee,  is it Amulet?  The ones who don't pay any tax, anyway.  Well, OK, none of them pay any tax.  But what would you prefer, closing-down the health service and the police and the parks and libraries and public toilets, or making very successful companies  pay any tax whatsoever on their earnings? But Jerry, anyway, doing that same dreadful old pantomime,  smashing things up and looning about, like Grandad at a disco,  over and over and over again, like the fucking Crazy Gang?  I shouldn't think too many people'd do that. 'Sone thing watching it on the PBC and the Dave Channel - hope that's nothing to do with me, by the way - quite another to actually make a conscious decision to  spend your own money, just to watch those pathetic old dames fucking about for an hour, brown-nosing fuckwit celebrities, stuttering through some poorly scripted supposedly impromptu conversation in some fucking pretend jungle somewhere. Christ,  you can watch I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out From Here Fucking Sharpish for free, if that's what you want, although I'm fucked if I know why anyone would willingly watch Clarkson or Dant and fucking Eck. And doesn't he look, advertising himself, like a pathetic old whore, walking the streets for customers, offering discounts and freebies.

No, you can do me without a johnny, 

if it'll help.

 Just as long as you do me

But no, what we want is for Mr Putin to stop playing the sympathy card,  admit that he killed his own people, take his military aircraft out of  wherever it is, Syria, isn't it,  and kindly permit me to have my war, all my predecessors have had one. 

 

And now I want one.  Christ, Tony'n'Imelda made a fucking fortune out of their time in Downing Street. Time I had some.

Well, that was the prime minister there, revealing how the Russian premier had ordered the bombing of his own aircraft, killing everyone aboard and stranding many idiotBrits in the desert. Some of whom,  as well as being separated in the womb  from their minds now can't get hold of their fucking   luggage, which is probably just a load of old rubbish anyway, stuff from, where is it, Primart? And cheap sunlotion from the UKIP Shop, Poundland.  Fuck me, get a load of this loony, she's so shitmad crazy she can't even string three words together.  If I was in the Foreign Office I wouldn't let her back in, look you, isn't it.

Yeah? An' my duaghta, she go' her GC-ESSEES nex week. Int no way that's gonnerappen now, is it?  I mean, I dun mind or nuffin like that. Only nobody is like communica'in' wiv us, like. Abaht our luggage. Worris that David Camaroon doin' abaht it all?

And finally, love her or hate her,  Doctor Professor Lady Sir Germaine Greer, porn model, feminist and academic finds herself, not for the first time, in a cauldron of boiling shit. A celebrity young parent, fresh from not speaking to Vladimir Putin, though he had been tricked into thinking he was, how's that for celbrity vanity, the horrid tubby little prick, attacked Professor's right to express her opinion, the repulsive little worm.

“She is living in another century, she is an attention seeker,”  said attention-seeker and baby farmer Lady Sir Elton John and his husband Lord David Parasite, an independent film-maker, who makes independent films about his sugardaddy/mummy, Lady Sir Elton.

Look, mate, yer music as you call it, is shite, and so's yer thinking, you pathetic little faggot. Just because a geezer has his meat an' potatoes hollowed-out and has a make-believe vagina constructed  out of the poor mangled, butchered flesh;  just because he gets himself some plastic titties and wears dresses, staggers about in fuck-me heels  and makes up like some old slapper;  just because he finds some batshit crazy screwball to fuck him in his phoney fanny,  or up his GaryGlitter, more like, doesn't mean he's a proper woman, does it?  I mean, how can it?  He's a geezer, right, who's had himself all fucked about with just because he thought he'd been deliberately given the wrong chromosomes; trust me, y'little fat freak, he was born a geezer and he'll fuckin' well die a geezer.  I mean, stone me, you can't have people just deciding thay can be whatever gender they wanna fucking be, can you?  It's like all those second marriages, where the poor little kiddies're told to call any old bastard their  Daddy or Granddaddy or Nana, when the fact is those fuckers're simply not related to the kids at all, thay just have step-relationships.  Same with blubbering old transwomen, they're not women, they'll never be women, they should just call themselves step-women. 'Strewth,   I couldn't give a rat's ass about who fucks whom or how or in what orifice , and Sheila, formerly Gordon, he or she can bang like a shithouse door in a gale, but it don't make him a woman.  Fuck me Jesus, wanting something doesn't make it so. 'Slike that West Country broad, lilith, says, all these fuckwits wanna do is whine about shit being fair, how it ain't fair that they were born with a cock and not a cunt and that the fucking health service, groaning at the seams, has gotta spend thousands on some sixty year old tranny lunatic so's he and his wife of forty years can now live as two women. Even though they can't, the mad bastards. What was it that Polish bloke stainislav used to say, up against the wall motherfuckers?

Nah, fuck 'em all, the lezzies and the faggots and the madbastard genderbenders.

 

Phew, bugger me, it's hard work beuing a feminist icon. Somebody fethc us me fags. And a six-pack of Carlsberg Special. Or two.

 

That was Germaine Greer there for us, talking the only sense I've heard on the entire show, I mean bulletin, isn't it.

That's it from us but don't forget that on KiddyNewsnight on PBC2,  later, you can watch RentBoy Evan in an excruciatingly humiliating interview in which the Chink Ambassador rips him a new one.

Famous for his grovelleing, is Evan, that's how he got the job. That and the leather trousers.  Lead presenter, they call him, of KiddyNews.  Fuck me, Jesus, up and down a  wet slag heap, lead presenter, that prat.

 Davies the Slave, we call him, in the valleys.

Mr Chink Ambassador,  what would you say to British viewers about your country's record on human rights?

Now, jus you rissen to me, PBC rentboy intaviewah.
Demockrasee in China iss real demockracee. 


Noh, sharrap an lissen to yo mastah.
If Chinee goh-vament shoot dog dissident iss because dog dissident iss enemy of Chinee  gohvament an deserve to  die. No? Unnerstan?


Well, your Excellency...


An if Chinee goh-vament sell livah an kidney off dead dissident to fah ugly Merican iss good bissness, Yes? Iss good bissness, Is rin-rin sichuashun. Dead dissident is dead an fah ugly American has new organs an Chinee goh-vament has welcome dollahs. Is rin-rin. Only problem iss Chinee goh-vament need dollah off relatives of dead dissident, in ordah that bullet get paid for, Yes? Is only fair.
 

Should not expeck  Chinee goh-vament to pay for execution bullet off dissident dog, eh? An so Chinee goh-vament muss claim dollah off relative. An if relative no haff dollah mus be shot an kidney an livah sold off to nex fah ugly American.  Iss true demockracee an suggest iss better than British demockracee, Yes?  You hagree, Hevan? You hagree?  You sure you  hagree? Because soon Chinee gohvament own PBC, an own your pretty ass, no?  An maybe if you no hagree with Chinee goh-vament your husbah or partnah get visit from Chinee security, looking for dollah for your bullet. Unnerstan now, who is boss off demockracee?  Chinee goh-vament own your chancellor, own your country, own you, Hevan, own your ass.  
 
Now, you haff any more question on so-call humah right? 


Thank you very much your Excellency, for clearing that up, and thank you for your time. And your wisdom. And I look forward to being of service to you in the future