john bright said...Phil Woolas, the cunt; he wouldn't survive as far as the scaffold.

john bright said...

Yes, Phil Woolas, the cunt; he wouldn't survive as far as the scaffold. Tear the bastard limb from limb. Got one of those big fuck off tellies but with no fucking license, so its OK, Dennis, and was watching Kirsty Wark, the BBC's grunting, hunchback transexual and this bloke Woolas, smirking his fucking head off and nearly didn't have a big fuck off telly any longer. This bloke is obnoxious made flesh, he makes Murdering Bob Shithouse, the Brummie Butcher, look almost agreeable. What the fuck is going on that an intolerable little cunt like him is running the country? How did all this happen ? Stupid fucking arseholes voting for grinning Blair, time after time. Like the country was the Big Brother House. What a shower of cunts; once maybe but not after Mandelson, not after Iraq. Its like millions of people who are too stupid to have a vote thought Oh, I'll vote for the cocksucker with the biggest grin, grinning is good, grinning will make the country better, fucking imbeciles. And now we have the walking skidmark Phil Woolas lying to us, barracking us, robbing us, the iniquitous little Nazi fuckpig.

If those cowardly arsehole Tory bondage boys want any support then the next time one of them is on the box with that cunt Woolas they should punch him in the fucking teeth, miserable shower of shit, all of them, kick over the coffee table of consensus, set fire to the sofa of conformity, useless fucking bastards, freaks and layabouts. Some tory cunt last night, some ponce with with too much hair, muttering at Woolas like a speak your weight machine, worthless prick. They've all seen the Blair stratagem and they're all fucking Blairites, from Dave No-Face, right down to this twittering cunt last night.

The Eye, a while back, revealed Woolas's form - the dwarf cunt Hislop must have been off making some shit programme for his real paymasters at the Beeb, pulling funny faces and making lame, antique satire or maybe down at the Telegraph, playing at being FieldMarshal Max Gabshite Hastings, VC and bar - anyway, Woolas had smirked his way through some fucking compliant cocksucking Panorama programme about the alleged sins of drinking bottled water, more shit for us to feel guilty about, as though Nancy's economic miracle wasn't based on irresponsible, untrammeled, massively indebted consumption of fucking rubbish jetted-in from every part of the globe by FeelGood AirlinesRus, live for today, because tomorrow you're fucked, plc. Oh no, said the rancid little cunt, no bottled water in my department, London tap water is good enough for us, it's excellent. The Eye revealed that in the building Woolas was talking about the delicious London tapwater was filtered through two and a half grand water purifiers on every tap, courtesy of me and thee. Diane Abbot's lucky constituents in Hackney, thanks to her efforts on their behalf on the Jock Scab-Neil Show, of course, have two and a half grands lying around all over the place to make their shitty water drinkable, like moral, environmentally sound Phil's is.

Kirsty Wark, the thieving Glasgow baggage and some tongue-tied cowardly Tory cunt; no wonder Woolas is smirking. There is no point in rebuking these fucking gangsters, no point talking to them; they have nearly all got away with murder on an industrial scale, larceny that beggars belief and an incompetence that in the individual would signal profound mental disorder. No point in writing to your MP, he or she is a thieving cunt, doesn't give a flying fuck for some nobody like you and your miserable concerns, not unless you can bung him a few quid, a free holiday. Don't bother with They Work for You, - a cyber scorecard on MPs activities - because they don't. Read the drearily divine Matthew Parris, his revolting, narcissistic autobiography refers to the voter as some nobody, out in nowhere.

We are the nowhere men and women, outside the charmed circle of celebrity, unknown to Michael Kneepads White and Toilets Maguire, unconsidered by la grande dame, Polly Mascara, the mutant freakshow that is Johannes Hari, nor by the intellectually paralysed, morally bankrupt effluent of a criminal political caste so sharply characterised by the likes of Ainsworth and Woolas. In the BBC green room, as they drink our drinks before they are driven home in our cars, we trouble none, we are non-persons, we are not worth thinking about. Bienvenu, Mr English Liberation Front, au monde de cunt; say it loud, say it often.

May 28, 2008 11:48 AM