Bit quiet here recently. And irritating schoolboy on Dad's computer but can't get to blocked favourite doggy-porn and horsey porn sites and sit and pull his little winkie off, so he's come in here and annoy decent anarchist with fucking dirty-word drivel and bollocks. Fucking little turd need some national service, maybe down in HM Royal Army Mysterious Suicide Regiment in Deepcote, useless little wanker learn something useful, like how to shoot own fucking head off with rifle from half a fucking mile away and then carry rifle back and place neatly at own dead feet and wipe over for fingerprints. Teach the pestilential little turd some manners, eh. Anyway, never been before but for a change go and visit Mrs Dale's Diary, next door. Can tell immediately is improperly dress in blue boilersuit. This is cardigan land. Fortunately Mrs has just made new cardy for Stanislav and is off with boilersuit, on with cardy, get nice cup of Twynings Special Stephen Fry Darjeeling and packet of Digestive biscuit, rolled-up copy of Daily Mail and is raring to go in Mrs Dale's Diary.
Fuck me, mates. is fucking dreadful place, every fucker stand to attention in best cardigan and mind their fucking manners. This Mrs Dale, is bastard lovechild of Gyles fucking Brandreth and Anne JellyBelly Widdecombe.
Big story in Mrs Dale's Diary is not insane prime minister, whole country going in fucking pawnshop, everything fucked and people bossed about by gangster politician. No, big story is Mrs Dale not get fucking cleaning job down in Westminster. Oh, quelle catastrophe, like we say in Cracow, is worst bastard thing to happen since fucking Ice Age. Mrs Dale not get cleaning job.
Take with good grace, though. On surface. Oh, best cleaner won, huge array of cleaning talent to choose from. Not mind, if at first not get cleaning job, go down job centre and find some other dirty place need cleaning. But inside is personal hurt, like broken bottle up arse.
Here in Guido world people say, Tough shit Mrs, go out on street corner and earn money like proper woman. Fuck that cleaning shit. Is for fucking Poles. But in Mrs Dale's world everybody dip biscuit in tea and go Oh, rotten show, old gal. still, their loss is our gain, you can stay here and carry on cleaning for the Daily Mail crowd. You were far too good for them anyway, dearie. One bloke says: I am so glad you are not leaving us to do our own cleaning, and can you come round and walk all over my naked body with spiky shoes, please. And bring feather duster to tickle ringpiece ? Yours in Christ, Rowan Atkinson, Archbishop of Canterbury.
Goes on for fucking hours like this, is not so much Diary as group therapy session. One bloke come in and say, Y'know Mrs Dale, once I didn't get cleaning post on which heart was fucking set, but after appearance on Trisha programme, reading Failed Your CleanerJob Apllication ? A strategy for coping by Dr Raj Persaud and few years psycho therapy and regular visit off community nutter nurse, and some fucking right heavy duty injections has nearly pulled myself back together. You can find me down the toilets, Mrs Dale, if you want to chat, or just shit maybe, Yours Mr Mark Oaten, former Toilets Party shadow cabinet cleaner. He was Stanislav favourite.
But think with this ocean of sorrow is best for plumber to sign Mrs Dale non-job condolence book and maybe send few quid. Is, after all, hundreds of folks all saying so sorry but glad you are staying here, is best have message from plumber community. But, fuck me, go to write words of fucking sympathy and is big unfriendly sign saying: Mrs Dale must, a fucking priori, approve anything you say about her cleaning. Honest, not invent, is worse than fucking BBC. This is fucking utter shit. No wonder mad old biddy not get cleaning job. Can't even do freedom of fucking speech.
No fucking point in Stanislav waste fucking time here with would-be charlady. Throw cardy in go-to-Oxfam box, pour tea in aspidistra pot, stuff dog up with biscuits and put down Daily Mail for him to shit on should he get caught short.
Park van outside on double yellow line with orange light flashing as though is national emergency and come back in disorder-disorder in nice blue boilersuit, leather jacket and hobnail fucking boot.
Hope old Mrs Dale get cleaning job in future but frankly couldn't fucking care less. Is few things slightly more important. As for Diary, as it says in great old cocaine-snorting song by President and Mrs Clinton - Never going back again.
The cartoon captures, better than most, the true legacy of the Blair Brown Campbell years. Catch you at the wrong moment could make even a plumber weep. Well done.
Despite current nightmare of tyranny and rottenness, Happy Christmas to Guido and friends.
ps If plumbing emergency happen over Christmas, view of plumbing community is: tough shit. No, is bad joke. Just shout out for StanislavPlumbCheap4U. Proper plumber is always on duty. Double time, mind.
a man from stoke said...
You say hello, I say goodbye 4.26
AS an admirer of his efforts I am sure Stanislav would appreciate your approbation. But I am also sure that if stanislav had wanted it on CIF he would have put it there. They're quite clever chaps these plumbers. Grubby, of course, and you can't trust them near your women, dicks like donkeys I understand, but they have some initiative.
To the best of my knowledge Stanislav only posts here and infrequently with one or two of the other regular GF posters. I don't think he wants to rub cyber-shoulders with the Guardian. It would not be his way of plumbing.
A close study of his oeuvre would reveal that he excoriates the self-serving, pseudo-liberal bien pensants, like White and Hoggart and Toynbee who have hijacked a once-great liberal newspaper and used it to keep the poor in their, dependent, supplicants' place. Rusbridger ? The man's a cunt, is, if memory serves me well, Stan's typically succinct and florid estimation of the Guardian's Editor. Stanislav believes, further, as I recall, that people like young Brian Emu of the Liberal Democrats' youth wing also write in places like the Guardian and you will not be surprised to know that he thinks Mr Emu is to music what Mr Rolf Harris is to painting; that is to say, he should not be in any way encouraged.
It is presumptuous of me to contradict you but I think the young plumber would prefer that people were directed to order-order, which is a whole other barrel of monkeys and not to an organ so supportive of, indeed instrumental in bringing about, the present, criminal regime.
Speaking in my capacity as professor emeritus of Stanislavian Anarcho-plumbing Political Studies at the former Polytechnic of Stoke, now University of the Potteries, situated at 1-3 The Portakabins. Under the M6, Stoke, Staffs., I am confident that I do not misrepresent Mr Stanislav's position, vis a vis the Mainstream Press.
Others may disagree of course. For the time being disagreement is still possible.
Goodbye, Mr Hello and Happy Christmas
Mrs Dale reply to Stanislavatory humour.
You simply must come to Mrs Dales house anytime you like - have slippers and kit-kats ready. We do have free-speech, Mrs Dale says, "Do have another Hobnob!" as she flicks a duster about. Enabling my commenters to remark ad nauseum, with plentiful ho-humming, that Hobnobs are the very spawn of the devil, but will partake if one must.
Gosh you make Guido's House of Debauchery and Promiscuity sound very austere and not unlike having sordid sexual relations with a vast number of partners on a casual basis. It verily sounds nebulously idylic in a Chav sort of way.
In conclusion Mr Stanislav, sirrah*, please call in soon and bring that nice Guido too, we are sampling jams tomorrow, ...and I may even let you swear a bit, but not out load, so as not to offend any Laideez.
* Sirrah is a great metal band from Opole.
Sanislav - I hope you haven't been posting comments on Mrs Dale's Diary - she has a very nervous disposition. The word on Maidstone High Street is that the folk in the big house didn't offer her the cleaning job because they didn't think she'd be up to the heavy lifting that Ms Widdecombe used to do. They decided that a little light dusting before lunch was the summit of her ambition, and they could do that for themselves.
sad and and defeated labour insider, gossip on Labour Home says that earlier rumour about 17 labour MPs whispering in the closet is posted by tory troll...
Also, for those of you following the london mayoral contest, Ken's own blog site has hardly any comments. Is it best to ignore him or perhaps Stanislav would like to lavish his not inconsiderable talents upon the aforesaid newt?
stanislav, plumber, open over christmas said...
Stanislav never go In London, is full of fucking foeigner. Would his Excellency and First Citizen Livingstone permit comment from critic, or is Information Age fascist, like disappointed Mrs Dale - not get cleaner job in Maidstone and world come to fucking end - and do infamous "moderating."
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