stanislav, not with Zurich Insurance anymore said...What we need, friends and citizens is Up Against The Wall, Motherfuckers.

stanislav, not with Zurich Insurance anymore said...

Dear Mr 45 Govt

Go on. Call him a cunt. Why break the habits of a lifetime ?

What I wanna know is where's the fucking army when you need them? This is a tinpot, multi-party dictatorship of thieves, ponces, nonces, gender-reassignment basket cases, copraphiliacs, ladymen, dildo-wielding carpet-munchers with severe haircuts and sensible shoes, badger fuckers; overdressed career socialist entertainers, drunken deadbeats, crack whores, money-launderers, diseased, creepy Hughes-monsters, freshly slid out of Satan's arsehole, covered in warts; lying, warmongering, toilet-creeping criminals who have given the keys of the Bank of fucking England to that horrible cunt, Branson; given all my healthcare money to a gang of thieving Geordie bastards; gone off and started World War fucking Three for their own personal pension plans and suborned the United Kingdom into a European Soviet Federation. Oh, yes and they wanna put me in jail for not installing rubbish two candle power light bulbs so's I can fall over in the gloom, break my fucking leg and die before some fucking jobsworth, speak-your-weight bastard at NHS 24 answers the phone. And that's not to mention turning the place into a killing ground for tooled-up homicidal infants; modernising the hospitals into filthy shithole death camps and giving worthless fucking imbeciles first class honours degrees in watching fucking TV; the newspapers are worse than fucking comics, flung together by illiterate, gabshite fuckwit Bingo Callers like Toilets Kelly's Eye Maguire; the capital city is run by a fucking drunken raving monomaniacal lunatic surrounded by equal opps voodoo witch doctors; the roads are fucked, the trains are fucked, there's no fucking houses; half the fucking country is under fucking water most of the time; there's bird flu, foot and mouth, blue tongue disease; the turkeys'll fucking kill you if you go within a hundred yards, half the country's vomiting it's ring up; Plagues Minister, Benn, says everything's under control and is there anyway that from this mayhem of misgovernment he can get to be prime minister, not for him, y'understand, for his phony old, money-grubbing Dad; the national sport is falling down drunk; there are entire tv channels devoted to cruelty and fucking ridicule off some dumb fucking face-lifted slapper bint like Sharon fucking Osborne; deranged, emaciated TV doctors trawl through fat bastards' turds as entertainment for the masses, Oh, Fuck me, Fat John, just look at the state of this shit you've done here for us, Fuck me sideways, Fat John, it's dreadful, it's the wrong colour and everything. And it smells like shit. What are you like Fat John ? Yeah, you're right Gillian, at the end of the day, its right shit, innit ? The place is full of emigre billionaire gangsters who come in here nuking people while that fucking useless retarded inbred Millipede can do fuck all about it; the jails are bursting, the cops are shooting whoever they feel like, the home secretary's a fucking buffoon; the rest of the front nech is full of malformed witches and mouthy fifth-formers; the house of commons is a plague pit full of workshy cocksucker career politicians not worth a fucking bullet and the other place is full of Lord and Lady Bendovers like that cunt Digby Jones-Bendover and Lady Roy Hatterjee-Bendover, all sitting around shit-faced drunk, farting and dribbling; pissed-up and overfed on my money, and they only get a pittance for turning up, just think what Bachelor Boy Hatterjee could be earning, working down the Co-op in Barnsley.

And right at the top of this shitheap squirms Nancy Brown. Nancy doesn't wanna talk about anything that anybody else wants to talk about. No. Nancy wants to talk about his visions. That's the main thing. Every day is a new Day Zero, nothing that has happened matters; it is only the future which matters. All this news stuff is not important. Nancy must be judged by the future, not the past or the present, which condemn him wholesale for an incompetent, hypocritical, bombastic bully but by the future, at which, of course, none of us will ever arrive. Nancy, therefore, seeks, oddly and with characteristic Jock narcissisism, to be judged by some sort of imaginary yardstick of bloated, deranged, hyperbolic promises of Halcyon; promises which fly in the face of our experience of his dismal, meagre competencies.

Shredding his nails in the middle of the night, bogeybun to hand in case he's hungry, lights blaring against his demons, Nancy hears voices, telling him what he must do to make his father proud of him; Aye, Da', I ken, the noo; Yes, Da', I am a very clever boy; Aye, Da', I'll do it tomorrow. Set oot ma visions. And then, Da' will it be ok for me to come oot ?

By his mealy-mouthed, lickspittle collusion, his better late than neverism Dave Flashman just underscores what most already know about the cesspit that is MediaMinster. How many ways can we phrase: one law for them, one law for us; how many times must exasperated law-abiding citizens endure shit in their faces from some worthless old Etonian layabout, some jumped-up trade union pig in cufflinks, some freakish, mincing, glowering, Scotch horror story, all of whom have so much more in common, cross-party, with each other than they do with those whom they would bamboozle in the four yearly festival of competitive promising; those who they would seek to confound with their bogus I-Know-Best jargon bullshit, their fact-finding missions; their pompous, overbearing select committees. Every last one of these spivs and freaks is stooging for his own venal financial interests. Salaries, pensions, allowances, expenses, subsidies; their families, their multiple homes, their careers, their quango posts, their lovers, their boyfriends, their drugs, their freebies, their honours, their newspaper columns, their book deals, their directorships.........



If we would know what these people are like shorn of power and status we should look no further than our own, distinguished, Mr Jerry Hayes. Here is a man without skill, intellect, imagination, flair or courage. A man of excuses. A feeble bitch, a whiner and a whinger, a self-promoting, hypocritical, sanctimonious, delusional, name-dropping, lightweight, twittering fairy of no consequence whatever and yet and yet Mr Hayes was an honourable lawmaker. They are all like Mr Hayes; phony, vain, grasping and utterly amoral; theirs are blameless lives.

Should honour overwhelm him might we soon see the obnoxious scion of Conway & Family Ltd, ponces on the public purse, join our merry rancour hereabouts; reproving us, like the noble and ubiquitous Mr Hayes of RentBoysULike, for our bad manners, our lack of principle, our cruelty? It is no less bizarre an idea than Mr Hayes, stamping his little foot and storming ogg, only to return seconds later, hungry for further abuse, bless.

But its not funny anymore and Flashman's shameless collusion establishes the bad character of the whole stinking shambles. What we need is some mad colonel with a very big tank, bristling with flamethrowers and some of Mr Hoon's anti-children Democracy cluster bombs. This criminal oligarchy is beyond reform.

I pay my taxes for the Army to protect me; it should start doing so. We need no more whitewashing enquiries, no more committees, no more reviews and we most certainly need no more Nancy nutter visions;
What we need, friends and citizens is Up Against The Wall, Motherfuckers.

5:36 PM, January 29, 2008