Monday, June 30, 2008

stanislav said... From the Jocksman, one of the many British newspapers driven into the ground by MrJock Neil of the BBC.

stanislav said...

From the Jocksman, one of the many British newspapers driven into the ground by MrJock Neil of the BBC.

Scotland's McBaath party was celebrating in the streets yesterday after the beheading of it's sworn enemy, Wendy al Halibut, leader of the bin Alexander tribe; haggises were discharged into the air as grown men, sort of, wept for joy, their hands up each others' kilts, tongues down each others throats, in traditional McBaath fashion.

Vengeful, melancholy, embittered morons stormed the message boards of the Jock press, sat at home in their high-rise blocks, in the biggest council estate in England, eating lard pies, swigging Scotsmac and Irn Bru, the mad wee fantasists, probably wearing their skirts and their wee plaid socks, bless, leapt on any who declined the poisoned Nationalist chalice.

Ranting of the coming one-party McBaath state, these poor semi-literate, peasant tribesmen, the al-See-You-Jimmys, cutting and pasting the Infidels' comments and adding That's shite that is, you labour twat, - much too dumb to paraphrase or summarise, much less originate - gave a fair impersonation of 1930s Berlin or 1990s Baghdad, heedless that this is what poor Jock - like Fritz and Abdul - always does, follows some Messiahanic, jumped-up, cheesy sound-biting would-be Princeling into poverty and ignominy and while he often escapes to Europe, Jock doesn't.

Poor Jock cannae see that Kings, Princes and political careerists are just that. It is their own grandeur and conceit which concerns them, their own legacy, which, even should they raze and ruin all about, transcends.



Sitting, though, with his press secretary, Mr Ian Kneepads McWhirter of that ilk, surrounded by a crack regiment of the feared McBaath Revolutionary Guard (Grand Vizier Lady Sir Sean Connery and his Magic Sword, the hermaphrodite ginger singing duo, the al-Proclaimers and Lulu bin Botox ) and toasting events with a chilled glass of his own piss, the McBaath leader, Caliph Sheikh Ali bin Salmond, promised that he would sequester the salary and pension of the late Ms bin Halibut and add it to the three or four he currently received as leader of the Jock Caliphate, from the Infidel Englander taxpayers. As well as the five million dollars from his Local Democracy Secretary, Mr McDonald McTrump. He would do this, give this money to himself, he said, to cheers, for Scotland.

(The daft wee ginger bastards don't see that the bin-Salmond Jock Emirates will be merely a tiny dependent region of the unelected New European Order of Mandelson and Kinnock, Alec a fat, pompous satrap.)

He was now, he thought, smugly, the undisputed leader of the entire Jock Diaspora, which ran through job centres, battered wives refuges, prisons, detoxification units, STD cinics and mortuaries all across the known world. Crack open a barrel of my ain pish, the 2007 vintage, and drink ye your fill, lads, make yourselves worthy of me.

Ye shall be my weapons of mass inebriation, my warriors of idleness. Awa' ye tae Coventry, Birmingham and London, knife folk in the back, head-butt the Infidel when he expects ye not. But dinnae say I told you or we're all fucked.

Sheikh Ali, a pretend economist and a short, balding, oily little chap in built-up shoes had even more reason than usual to be pleased with himself. His octogenarian pretend wife was in a tent at the far side of the camp, tending the camels, McWhirter of The Herald was pleasuring him and he had adoring ginger men in skirts and shiny shoes all around, joyfully complicit in their own great Caravan to Doom.

Alec Ahbar !Alec Ahbar! Alec is Great, went up the cry around the camp as Jock Suicide Drinkers assembled, anxious to enter MacParadise and claim their free seventy-two beating-wives.

Far away, in London, Ali bin Salmond's other sworn enemy, el Sultan al presbyterian Gordon bin Brown was in a most mighty, tumultuous strop, biting other people's fingernails, hurling telephones at his secretaries, dashing every few minutes into the toilet for a fierce bout of dry masturbation, cursing Donald bin Skinflint Dewar and Tony el Miranda Blair with equal venom.

They fucking bastards up there, they'll fucking do for us, they will, give 'em their own fucking bastards parliament and look how the fucking bastards fucking well behave.

Regime change. That's the fucking answer. Send for the fucking army. Whaddayamean the army's no' fucking here, its stuck up some fucking wog mountainside in the arse-fucking-hole of fucking bastard fucking nowhere, where nobody, nobody, not even the whole bastard Red Fucking Army has ever beaten these beardy fucking wog arse bandits. What's it fucking doing there ? What ? John fucking Reid sent it there ? For a nice, wee rest ? The fucking useless, smelly little Weegie gangster, i knew he'd be in on it.

At the Zimbabwe Independent, Yasmin Alibhai Moslem and Jojo Lardboy Hari were quite lost for words. Yabbo hoped that, as Ali bin Salmond's co-religionist, she would be able to make-up some Speaking-as-a-moslem-woman rubbish in advance of the next Question Time; JoJo took some more drugs, inhaling, he hoped, inspiration and not cancer.

Mr stanislav, the former artisan and now prime ministerial spokesplumber reflected ruefully that, having mentioned brother Mugabe's similarities to Mr Brown, the prime minister, at some length yesterday, he seemed to be getting somewhat out of sync with what passes in Britain, for fucking reality and had better have a quick kip in the back of the van before he warped into another dimension, entirely.

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