Barrowboy philosopher, diamond geezer and business-cocksucker-at-large of the Daily Trannygraph, Jeff What a Norf and Souf Randall was on Newswank last night, talking like a cunt. Stanislav not mock language difficulty but this cockney-sparrow arsehole really is a fucking linguistic nazi, scowling and fucking muttering through his teeth, all summinks and dropped aitches as though his fucking crudity somehow validates his fucking stupidity; tossing figures around like a very inferior -and that's going some- Alan cuntface Sugar, Murdoch tart Randall looked like somebody who should've been hanged at Nuremberg. A shit piece -what else- about some minor adjustments to the job-creation scheme for Oxbridge nancyboys and girls that is the BBC. The Today programme only costs five mill and Newsnight only costs eight mill, thundered von Randall. Thirteen million pounds too fucking much, thought Stanislav, choking on his beetroot on toast.
Earlier in the "package" Lord fucking Neill of Wapping was seen scurrying into Schloss Beeb bleating that he might not still have a job. Worthless fucking Scotch scab. Might have to flog some of his millions of Murdoch shares, or his chateau in France if the license payer is relieved of supporting his young woman habit, ghastly old smirking degenerate. Fuck them all off on their arses. Especially drunken money-grubbing Uncle Tom Diane Fucking Abbot and simpering I-agree-with- everyone-else arseburglar Dame Michaela, another one in a Brownian marriage.
Still, though, the BBC does do some useful work. On McNeill's tosser politics programme yesterday was a young woman who was clearly, judging by her complexion, her antsy disorientation, her poorly dyed jet black hair and the truly horrific bags under her eyes that modern, urban phenomenon, a crack whore.
From hanging around doing drugs with undesirable Millipedes she had clearly developed insect-like interview techniques. Leering and ogling and smirking like a fucking nonce, O'Neill asked the unfortunate young woman a question.
Q: Minister, do you know what day is it?
A: Well, with respect, that's two questions and I'll deal with the second one first while I desperately try to conjure an answer to the first real part of your question, it is a fair question which I will return to but first I would say that unlike the other party who ducked this question for seventeen years my party has fully costed this issue and as we speak a select committee of Scotch members of all parties is looking into this very difficult question with a view to taking forward the debate, it is a debate we should have in an adult democracy and my party will provide parliamentary time for that debate to happen as I am sure listeners, and indeed viewers would want, my party will not, like the other party did and we will take no lessons from them, shirk it's responsibility in reaching a broad consensus on behalf of all of the rich people and not just a few of the rich people but these are difficult questions and there is no magic wand, or silver bullet, if there was we would have found it and waved it, or fired it. We will learn lessons and move forward and draw lines under this question and indeed in the sand. We also, of course invite the general public to comment on our websites, although we cannot of course guarantee that any such comments will be published or indeed read, We live in a twenty-four-seven feral media and busy politicians and their aides have much to do in preparing to be on Richard and Judy and indeed your own programme, Lord Dimbleby.
To turn to the first part of the question, what day is it, well I am sure that you would not expect me, as a minister, to comment on individual days, especially so given the security implications and I would just take this opportunity of thanking our security service for the magnificent professionalism with which they approach the task of herding vulnerable old people into hospitals and killing them. My right honourable colleague, Mrs Alana Belsen-Johnstone, the singing postmistress, has been fulsome in her praise and gratitude for these unsung heroes but I would add my voice to hers. But I digress, to return to the question, what day is it.. Well, it is a difficult question. With no easy answers. There are conflicting sets of evidence and a minister, as I am sure you understand, must balance often diametrically opposed wotsits. The very best answer I can give you to that question at this moment in time, and it is a very important question and viewers are right to ask it, is that clearly, on balance, in a very real sense, although the Devil as ever is in the detail, the bottom line is that I DON'T KNOW WHAT FUCKING DAY IT IS.
Q: Thank you minister. Do you by any chance know who that ginger cunt sitting next to you is?
A: Only one answer to that, Jonathan. That's that ginger cunt Charlie the happily married Dipso. He goes months without knowing what day it is. don't you , dearie.
The BBC has asked Stanislav to make clear that Health Minister, Ms Flint was on the telly and not at PMQs as part of her rehabilitation.
It goes without saying, really, that all Scotchmen are arsebandits but isn't former jock wunderkind Charlie the Dipso also in a Brown marriage. He, too, kinda got himself hitched quite late and only when he thought his star was rising and people might wonder about him otherwise. He's been pissed on and off ever since. Like the walking saliva barrage, Baron Hatterjee, Kennedy seems inordinately fond of his old mother, spinning in her Highland Croft. And he is ginger.
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