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Stanislav's Rants on Guido (www.order-order.com) plus whatever else tickles my fancy.
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- Plumbers Assistant
- This blog is a compilation of Stanislav's Rants as they appear on Guido. It is neither operated nor sanctioned by him. If you don't like it, don't come back.
Gordon however is from good working stock, he's your man.
Aye, Gordon's mum could pull t'waggon uphill wi'is dad up on't portable lectern, wobblin' an a'frothin' fit t'call all yon sinners to the LORD.
An' there's wee Gordo dodgin' twixt th'old ladies all clutching their bosoms in one hand and a lavendar hanky in t'other, an' he's got a little velvet bag on a stick - like yon fishing net, only velvet - an' a bottle of smelling-salts what he waves under their noses, barely able to reach from under the overhang of their gigantic bomabazine frontages, like cliffs of soft black basalt, fit to crush an impressionable child. But wee Gordo's not to be gainsayed, though he fears the LORD, he pokes out 'is velvet net and catches every wee bawbie that falls int'it, like catching silver shrimps in't Morcambe Bay.
An' t'old ladies are crying "GOD bless ye vicar and yon son of the manse, for it is written that he who shall have the right relatives will find it much easier to present themselves as half-way decent thinkers even if they couldn't carry an argument in a bucket".
As a sign, it began to rain, and the weather turned inclement. As was their habitude, Gordon's MOTHER let the rope go, and his FATHER hurtled back down the HILL in to t'lectern tabernacle, having brought LIGHT to the public who had at last seen the miracle waggon they had not ever thought to set eyes on, unless it was the handcart to go to hell in.
"Well I never, just fancy that, aye oop, did you ever" they cried, barely noticing they were speaking in tongues, as has been prophesied when St Marketing had noticed that people believe a Scotch accent for no apparent reason, but cannae write enna lest o'er com shurra ghosta Mel Gibson och aye the noo.
Wee Gordo asked his Father saying "Pa, why do they mock us?" and his Father replied "Let them mock so long as they vote. Or not on the matter of EU treaties, which ever is the most expedient in the coming years. Where's yon velvet bag - you don't think the money comes from my sales of theological books, do you? Where's your mam, is she not back down t'hill yet, I need her to get some money from your Uncle Gordon, that bloody Tory has the gall to enslave the working classes and employ dozens of them on steady wages in the private sector. Always remember, Son, it is easier and cheaper to be compassionate on other peoples' dollars."
4:14 PM, November 13, 2007
Encore.woman on a raft. Encore.
ps Fuck me, bird 'flu now, as well as Alan Johnson's disease. Good job we have hereditary Plagues minister Rosemary Benn at the helm, as we slide back into Middle fucking Ages. Maybe Lady Sir Iain MachineGun Blair send merry men out, blast birds from sky with Hoekkler and Koch. At least do something useful with mad gunslinger psycho-cops. Maybe Tony Benn wrap-up warm in cardy, go out in field with flask of tea and shout at naughty bird, go away, I am old Labour. And vegetarian. Maybe Foetus Hague go and point finger.
On the bright side, though, a good outbreak of plague would clear out the old and the sick and the poor - although, thankfully, none of the establishment who will be inoculated up to their bollocks - and leave so much more money for houses of parliament pensions.
Leicester Royal Infirmary, flagship NewLabour disease pit, and employer of mad ventriloquist McCann, has a mission statement which says: Doesn't matter if our incompetent actions result in your death as you would have died eventually anyway. Honest. Stanislav not invent. The government could display real vision by adapting this to any outbreak of plague. Hard choices. Not come in Downing Street to be popular (just as fucking well, really, considering.)Trust me I am son of fucking Manse. Many must die in order that few remain rich. More joy in heaven over poor bastards flung in plague pit and cover-up with lime and forget about. May as well go now as hang around with arthritis, dribbling. Only die in hospital anyway, lungs fill up limbs drop off from AJD. Better off fucking dead, really. Not like us who is left behind to grow old and spend pension. At going down of sun and in morning will remember bird flu death millions. Age shall not wither. Maybe dig-up Bernard Matthews and give peerage for solve pension crisis. Lord Levy negotaite price with family, oi vay. Have Nagilah. Don't work Saturdays.
Stanislav go now in Tesco, buy whole stock of own brand Beechams Powder, come home, seal-up doors and window, not go out, not do plumbing job. Kill budgie.
4:53 PM, November 13, 2007
Honest. Stanislav not invent.
I went to look, unbelieving.
The page has several lines which can only have been written by Stanislav himself
* Think twice before visit
* Hospitals excellent
At the top of the page, the header grafts a portrait of a man wearing an NHS hard hat (what's all that about, then?) on to the torso of a lady nurse, whose bra you can see through her thin uniform.
So much for gender re-assignment surgery. They give you nice tits but leave you looking like David Dickinson interviewing the Village People.
I can see why anyone should think twice before visit - it is a horrible warning.
7:11 PM, November 13, 2007