-
Ah, my dear Monsieur Stanislav, it is good to 'ear from you, manifique. Je 'ave Mme Polly in ze back of ze shop, knocking back le absinthe. She puts le customers off, crying all ze time on ze forecourt, so I 'ave taken 'er in. You cannot sell tumbrils wiz nasty stained Straw. Nor yet a party, I zink dey will find.
Monsieur Parris 'as sounded de retreat et zere will now be an orderly scuffle for the lifeboats, 'owever I am 'opeful zat we vill see Nick et Mick et Andy et Kev go down on the ship, as zey have plenty of practice of zat sort of ting.
Now we 'az le penultimate act, where zey will fight like ferrets in le sac, oblivious to ze economic melt-down et civil unrest. It is always zo wiz deze palace-types. Now we in La Belle France know a ting or two about starvation and massive debt and enemy occupation, so now is not ze time for le 'ot-eads to begin too early. No, now is go to le cafe for a drink and get tinned food in.
Le ancient regime 'ave not yet reached the point where zey are destroying files et claiming never to 'ave been zere, but this will come by Octobre, avec le end-of-le-pier outings, when ze will all say: "zis time last year we could 'ave won an election but le coward did not call one at the only time in his entire life when 'ee could 'ave won, because le stupid garcon David was all over the place. Et now, we 'ave Le Boris. Ah well, we 'ave only one year left, zo remember to take all le petite shampoos from le salle de bains and empty the mini-bar." Monsieur Milburn is smiling, but not too wide as 'e as to arm-wrestle Monsieur Johnson over a broken glass, but first dey 'ave to combine to dispatch Monsieur Balls. Azlo, zey do not want le night-watchman job. Let Monsieur Straw do dat.
Ah do not zink you Rosbifs nor Scots will do La Revolution. You are too sangue froid, zo let me introduce to you the new service of Defarge Industries Political Solutiens Internationale (DIPSI): Timeshare on Elba.
Yes, for only a small fee we at Defarge Permanent 'Olidays will collect your unwanted politicians and keep zem safe on a rock in l'ocean which is humane, yes, zey can form a petite parliament and 'ave all ze squabbles zey like. When zey are morte, we will return l'ashes for burying in nauseating public sepulchre, 'we shall not see their like again'; well, one 'opes not.
Now, if you will excuse me, Mme Polly is takin' off 'er clothes and trying to do le can-can. She is too old for dat and will fall off le table an’ crush Mme ‘Arman ‘oo ‘as applied for hamnesty.
-
LONDON (Reuters) - Gordon Brown's personal popularity ratings have plunged further and faster than any other British prime minister since polling began in the 1930s, a poll revealed on Sunday.
But the biggest blow was delivered on Brown's personal ratings, which have fallen from plus 48 last August to minus 37, on a zero midpoint scale.
"The collapse is the most dramatic of any modern-day prime minister, worse even than Neville Chamberlain who in 1940 dropped from plus 21 to minus 27 after Hitler's invasion of Norway," the paper said.
hahahahahah bye snotty!!
-
Stanislav and whose army, one might ask?
It is like finessing a play nobody is watching. Fretting over notes with the microphone off. Dabbing on a canvas hung in a pigsty. Here comes Stanislav blasting into the void, with no-one but a couple of crumpled pensioners to creak into arthritic applause.
Perhaps Stan should remind himself of the words of one of his abler predecessors,
"Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech--and nothing happened. Nothing could happen."
-
Dear Mr Tacitus
Talent like yours, you should be whoring for Mr Murdoch. His drones, too, rather than wrest their own words from a troubled, anxious perception, instead, cut and paste the words of others more gifted, as do you.
In the age of Google what a worthless, redundant cunt you are. The jock, of course, your spunk-faced bedfellow, banging his niece and nephew under a cheap tartan duvet, a worthy comrade.
There is an excuse of course for Jock, he, as all can see, is a retarded imbecile, one of thousands queueing to suck King Alex's cock, you, meantime, would pretend to an education and a mind. You should try to write something of your own. Just for a change.
This is probably the kindest thing anyone will ever say to a pretentious, empty-headed piece of shit like you. You should try to absorb it. If you can.
love from stanislav
a man who writes his own words and your superior in every conceivable way.
-
tacitus - "Stan, you poor thing. I am not contesting your little kingdom: it is all yours. Here, you are the actor and all others mere audience. But that is all you are: an eccentric schoolmaster entertaining his sixth form."
Are you, Mr tackypuss the person to do more? Are you the mover of mountains, the saviour we have all been waiting for; is it words of yours that are going to bring about the improvement in our desperate national position? Let us know when you come down from the Mount, to lead us into the land of milk and honey.
None of us KNOW stanislav except through his posts here, nor do we know anyone except the odd cunt, usually some three-dollar-bill of a publicity seeking ex MP, whose name escapes me, but I don't think - no I KNOW I am not alone in being hugely entertained by the prose, the disparagement, the matchless bile, and the possibilities explored by stan's oeuvres.
You on the other hand neither amuse nor enlighten, have no discernible purpose and as such are a worthless wanker. We do not know whether you have any tangible existence in the wider world, nor do we care.
Matthew Dreariness Made Flesh Parris is off again, doing his owner's bidding and in Blair sentences rubbishing Nancy-Wu Brown. Mr Murdoch must have decided it's time for a change; good of old Rupert, Ms Bruiser Wade, Mr Parris and fiercely independent journalist "Sir" Peter Jenkins to take an interest, good of Mr Murdoch to let us vote, really, and Matthew, as ever, has Murdoch-approved democracy's foreskin firmly between his teeth and he's not letting go until he's told us what's wrong with Nancy Wu.
In today's Murdoch Times, in a list as long as your arm of Nancy-Wu's failings - none of which trouble Matthew and none of which include Nancy-Wu's curious sexuality and disgusting personal habits - Matthew finds the gravest sin not to be, just for instance, the bloodbathing festivals in Iraq and Afghanistan, the catastrophic mismanaging of the economy in favour of greedybastard bankers; the charitable giving away of the nation's gold and the confiscation of it's pensions; the prairie fire of unparalleled corruption among the so-called honourable members nor even the BlairBrown failures in health, housing, transport, crime, farming, fishing, education and indeed almost everything which one might reasonably expect a government to improve upon, after eleven years of taxing our bollocks off.
Nor yet, even, is it Nancy-Wu's self-protective appointment to cabinet of calamitously incompetent, caterwauling fuckwits like the witches Flint, Blears and the grim and ghastly Treasury lesbians; of the impossibly freakish, cross-eyed, workshy Milliband wonks, all at sea on an ocean of wholly unmerited responsibility; or his failure to oust poisonous necromancers like Jack Torture Straw, the winsome, self-flagellating Ruth Man Kelly and the unspeakable, cowardly, worthless piece of shit, Bob Yes, Jeremy, I Am A Cunt Ainsworth; no, Matthew is untroubled by Pandemonium, Mayhem, Deception, Brutishness and Blackmail swirling around a delusional, gibbering, snot-eating, presbyterian freak guided by his dead father's voice and a rusty moral compass.
It's not the sight of the prime minister of the United Kingdom kow-towing to chink thugs in his own Downing Street frontyard which disturbs the Parris amour propre; Matthew is troubled, seriously troubled that Nancy-Wu doesn't have a Big Idea.
The prime minister of the United Kingdom is demonstrably in need of profound psychiatric care and in one less obnoxiously and catastrophically ambitious his plight would be pathetic but over-reached, ham-strung and dumbfounded by reality, his fetid careerism, his practiced bombast, his masquerades and his rank, impertinent hypocrisy lay low not merely his own being but the entire nation. HMS United Kingdom, a ship of Fools.
The ruinous feud that is his party deserves the fiercest damnation of the poor, the rage of the sick and dying and the hot contempt of such of our youth that they have not corrupted by example - Hain, Prescott, Mandelson, Blair, Blunkett, Robinson, Clarke, Cunningham, Milburn, Martin et al ad infinitum; crooks, thieves, cheats, liars, blackmailers, ponces, pimps and whores - and the whole, horrible thieving Westminster shithole of career politicians and their stooge journalists requires a cleansing blowtorch up its well-trousered arse. All, though, muses Matthew, might be redeemed, made fresh and wholesome if only Brown might, from the very arse of Heaven itself soundbite a Big Idea into being. If only professional journalists had a more viable, Big Idea-driven government cock to suck. Aye, Matthew, right; rave on.
In the absence of same, years behind the bloggers, the bien pensant twitterati, Parris, claims, belatedly, that Emperor Brown has no clothes. Matthew knew it all along, mind; he and only he, it seems, saw flaws where others viewed prudent competence; detected charlatanry where others gasped at genius and now, exultantly, hints, Jesus wept, at what ordinary people have been saying for years. The bloke in the 'pub a far more astute observer of this train wreck of a government than any hack whoring for Murdoch.
On a weekend when vicious union punk, Alan Johnson, defends the nation's servility to China's secret police and the criminality of the attorney general; when Glasgow Des Browne dismisses passionate, righteous criticism from the courts and from Tommies' families as "outdated" and thus irrelevant even the Gods would puke.
Parris's conversion to Fawkesian order-orderism, therefore - belated, purple, self-serving, precious and incomplete as it is - nevertheless remains welcome. The national problem, though,is not one simply of a poor, maddened, gay jock, out of his depth, but also of a compliant and culpable, mainstream, deadtree press; fawning, collusive and corrupt; Kneepads White and Toilets Maguire fumbling and stuttering to explain away an avalanche of military, political, judicial, economic and constitutional disasters, all entirely attributable to the man with no nails.
Old mother Toynbee, now, too, sits knitting 'neath the tumbril, mascara tears running down her ashen face, a lifetime of champagne socialist hypocrisy laid bare; what a repellent gang of slimeballs is the UK quality press.
Parris, the droning, sanctimonious, querulous voice of the former MP, of the Times and the BBC should set aside his wretched, ludicrous, faux-journalistique pomposity, put his country before his employer, call a spade a spade and join in the People's tumult: Come out, Gordon; up against the wall, motherfucker.
love from stanislav