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stanislav, a young polish plumber said...
NEXT WEEK’S PLUMBING NEWS OF THE WORLD.
FROM THE NORTHERN OVAL OFFICE.
My fellow Eskimo motherfuckers. Just A Heartbeat Away President Eskimo Nell here, speaking to you from the Northern Oval Office on this here iceberg.
People say that Ice People are dumb assholes. And that may be true. Sure as shit is the case with my First Gentleman Eskimo, Wotsisname, to whom I done been hitched these past however many years it is, only he don’t go mis-spunkin’ as Hillary put it, over young ladies young enough to be his daughter only not so ugly as Chelsea or whatever the fuck her made-up name is and leaving me and the help to wash up all that jizz offa the Gubernatorial carpet. Don’t get the State Troopers crawling around the Alaska whorehouses getting him some Inuit pussy and smuggling it all back in here under my very nose, not that I cain’t smell fish or anything.
My first Gentleman Eskimo is vindicated in more ways than one this week. Not only is he not a bloated piecea cocaine-induced heart attack shit like President Spunky Bill but his dream of a gun-totin’, Creationist, communist America done come true; after all these yearsa him labour-agitating his sweet ass off, we done nationalised the banks, Lordamercy, and my first task as VeePee is to set up The House UnEskimo Activities Commission. Are you or have you ever been a capitalist, ’swhat I’m gonna say to all them Democrats. Was you a capitalist sympathiser ? Did you ever invest any money in the hope a making a profit ? And if you did we all gonna fry your ass…….Long live the communist revolution of America. Down with the running dogs of Frankie May and Ferdy Mac. Eskimos of the world unite, you got nothing to lose, the whole Goddamned place is melting anyhow and I’m up to my sweet Beauty Queen ass in slush round here. Them Goddamned capitalist sonsafuckinbitches done melted my whole world away. Property is theft. Only not mine.
God Bless The Soviet Union of American States.
Vote McCain-Eskimo Nell. Vote Communist.
JOCKLABOUR ELECTS ANOTHER TURNIP AS NEW LEADER.
Mr Ian Turnip was today elected leader of the Jock Labour party. Mr Turnip follows the liar, Wendy Alexander; the liar, adulterer and astonishing, national, cross-dressing embarrassment, Jock McConnell; the liar and thief, Henry McLeish, who should be in jail but instead receives a pension of a grand a week, the cunt, and the miserable fucking skinflint, Donald Dewar, whose Mrs was so fucked-off at being shackled to the horrible, stuttering, fuckpig bastard that she ran away with Lord Derry Wallpaper, Cupid to gay Tony Blair and his part-time Mrs, Imelda Gob. QC, and miserable old Donald had to content himself with fucking Scotland while Lord Irvine fucked his Mrs for him. Still, at least he had a meaningful relationship with Edinburgh’s most delectable transsexual, Mr Wark; if you call a cup of tea and some shortbread biscuits meaningful.
At a low-key, so called acceptance speech, Mr Turnip said Grrrrr, Aaargggh, Salmond, Grrrrrr, Aargggggh, Salmond, SeeYouJimmy, Grrrrr, Aaaarggggh.
Nobody cares. Apart from the US-owned Jock Herald, motto: Scotland; what the fuck is that all about ? Can we, daily, day after day, editorialise a fathomless sense of grievance a thousand years old ? Yes, we can. Cunts. All of them. Think Alan Arsebridger’s bad ? You should see Mark Douglas-Home. Anglo-Scot. Like that bastard Rifkind. Big brown shouty voice, that Rifkind, like His Excellency Field Marshal Max von Hastings, VC, of Canary Wharf, about whom the only good thing to be said is that he is not a Jock, even though he may as well be; miserable, money-grubbing cocksucker.
THE PRIME MINISTER IS SITTING-UP IN BED AND TAKING NOURISHMENT, SORRY, PUNISHMENT.
This is Kay Fright with you here at Sky MadeUpNewsAndFilth in the Afternoon.
Over now to our correspondent, Jane Totty, outside the Harold Wilson Hospital for Sick Prime Ministers. Adam, what can you tell us?
Thanks Kay and yes, doctors have issued a bulletin saying The patient is suffering from an untreatable variant of mad cunt disease and needs to be gagged, restrained and sedated for the foreseeable future; it is a scandal that he has not been formally diagnosed before this. That he is barking mad has been obvious for the past twenty years only nobody paid us enough money to say so. Now that Mr Murdoch has given me shares in his company the prime minister’s condition has become much clearer and Mr Dave Flashman will be appointed Mr Murdoch’s Viceroy in the UK.
Speaking through a leather gag and strapped to a wheelchair in the Dayroom, Gordon Brown had this to say: I am getting on with taking the right long-term decisions. For old people and poor people. And that’s what the country wants me to get on with doing the job of. Even though I never asked them. If you were to go around the country, as I do, listening to people telling me to For God’s Sake Fuck Off You Fucking Mad Bastard or Fuck Off Out Of It You Fucking Lunatic, then you would know that I am the only person capable of doing what needs to be done. And won’t do it. Fuck off, that is.
At an economic time when people in the country want me to hurry-up and Fuck Off, the best thing is to get on with doing the job and making-up the policies and having the visions and hearing the voices to make sure that the people charging the other people for the gas and stuff -which they say has gone up in wholesale cost but hasn’t really - get an opportunity to charge the people who already can’t afford to pay the first lot of more money a second lot of more money for the privilege of having a pair of clowns stuff their lofts with recycled lemonade bottles and fill their walls up with expanding super glue so’s the house can’t breath and the condensation makes the house fall down, thus kick-starting the building sector which has been terribly damaged, not by me being a mad cunt but by America abolishing capitalism and going communist, like it has, by nationalising without compensation the biggest financial institutions in the whole history of usury. And nobody says Boo!
And on top of that the people who are charging other people too much money for the gas are delighted, I must say, at the prospect of filling up peoples walls with superglue so that in the future, instead of freezing to death and starving they probably won’t need as much gas as what they already can’t afford – even without being saddled with superglue charges - and so profits will go down with the result of all the money being burnt again. As in the case of the runaway financial success that is Northern Rock. And all the other banks which we have failed to regulate and are now having to give poor people’s money to, only prudently, in tens of billions of pounds, with no hope of ever getting it back out of the directors’ pockets. Or noses.
Obviously, at a time like this when hard-working English families can’t afford to eat or keep their houses warm and its all they can do, in fact, to ensure the comfort of Chief Executives of energy companies and members of Parliament, the best way to get on with the job of helping them is by giving them a very generous paycut of somewhere between five and one hundred per cent.
And for this I am grateful to Lords Prentiss and Barber of the TUC for them giving me thirty million pounds of their members’ money which I don’t know anything about, just like the money I trousered from Mr Abrahams of the Tel Aviv branch of the Labour Party and of whom I have also never heard much less met at Labour functions and asked for money for my leadership election campaign which never happened because everyone is frightened of me. And my mighty rocking horse.
No, my links with Lord Barber and Lord Prentiss of the TUC are the right thing for the hard-working, freezing and starving people of the country and only I know that. They are perfectly open and above-board; they give me their members’ money and I give them peerages, jobs on Quangoes and ever-more repressive anti-union legislation. And everybody is happy; everybody who matters. And I am right and everybody else is wrong.
If you come back and see me tomorrow I’ll have some new policies, I am working on developing some self-igniting currency notes, no sooner do you get hold of them than they go away up in smoke.
I have decided, also, that the best thing I can do in getting on with the job that only I can do in the long-term interests of hard-working English presbyterian families is to nationalise them and everything they think they own; that way, you see, everything and everybody belongs to me and has to do exactly what I say.
I have my National Freedom Team, Frau Schmidt, Mr Jack Torture and Mr Angry Tony McNutter working on the implementation of this policy right now and they will be coming in here to my secret control room to brief me to-morrow, or maybe the next day. But they will be coming.
Seeing as how I’m trapped in this funny jacket and can’t get my hands out, do you think you could help me out with a quick J. Arthur. I wouldn’t ask only it’s been half an hour now and I’m getting desperate.
I am right and everybody else is wrong. I am the cleverest patient in the entire secure unit. Nurse says.
Well, thanks, Adam, for that, still putting on the pounds, I see…….. this just in on the wires, in a gesture of national healing, organised by Lady Imelda Gob, QC, the former First Freeloader and wife of his Holiness Cardinal Blair, it is being arranged for everyone in the country to be bussed to the Harold Wilson Hospital for Mad Prime Ministers, file past Mr Brown in his straitjacket and punch him, hard, in his mad, snot-gobbling face, are you getting that, Adam ?
Prudently kick him up the arse is what I’m hearing, Evan, but very definitely an act of national reconciliation centred on punishing Mrs Brown. We did hear that Lady Imelda was going to charge everyone in the country a pound a head because she felt that we hadn’t quite appreciated her efforts when she was joint prime minister with the Cardinal, the one who would never do anything wrong, and that sixty million pounds might go a little way towards satisfying her outrageous vanity, although it would do little for her greed, which is insatiable. The horrible Scouse slag.
Thanks, Adam, and I am joined here, as I stand up and stride around in the studio, in my black suit, like a preying fucking mantis, by Butcher Hoon, the acting prime minister.
I simply don’t accept that there’s a problem with energy prices. I simply don’t accept that. You may say that Kirsty. And you do. But I simply don’t accept that there are problems with energy prices. Even though there are. But not for me.
And as for those ungrateful Iraqi bitches, well I told them that one day they would thank me for blowing their brats to bits with illegal but legal-for-infants fragmentation bombs and it was a price worth them paying, although none of my own repellent children have ever been in harm’s way, fuck me, no, as we draw near to finding the weapons of mass destruction and so on ………..And do you know, Jeremy, the slags haven’t. Thanked me. These wog women. What are they like ? Not including you, of course, my fellow panellist, Yasmin Alibhai-Lard, speaking as a career, separatist muslim woman and sat here beside me reeking of cinnamon and garlic and mutton fat, the dirty, greasy fucking bastard, toes sticking out of her tights, lipstick applied with a fucking trowel, it’s her neighbours I feel sorry for. No, Jonathan, I agree with everybody else on the panel, only not Mr Hughes the dirty fucking degenerate, what is needed is a mature debate, and I want to have the debate, a mature informed debate on a package, a raft of long-term measures that are good for the country so we can draw a line in the sand even though the Devil as ever is in the details and I will take no lectures from those cunts opposite, but let’s not, with hindsight, get into a blame culture, what we need clearly is a safe pair of hands on a level playing field and ninety minutes more of Cuntspeak like that. Just as long as I don’t ever have to go back to working for a living I’ll sit here talking bollocks all night long. Like you. And your fat brother. Is he the shagger in the family? 'swhat I heard.
Oi agree, wiv wot moi mate Geoff the Butcher, from Wolver-Ampton, sez, said Troop Deaths Minister, Bob The Brummy Cunt Ainsworth, who, Like Butcher Hoon of Wolverhampton, has never attended a serviceperson’s funeral, the proime minister, the last one, loike, Gor-dun, wuz roight, an’ all; when them planes cum fallin’ out the bleedin’ sky cuz they’re fucked and leak petrol all over the shop like bleedin’ cullanders it ain’t my fault; ain’t the fault of none of us in govament, loike; it’s the poilots’ faults. What we need, loike, is lunger in office, show the great ’ard-workin’, freezin’, ’omeless, unemployed English people wot we can really achieve, loike, on their be’alfs. ‘Omes fit for ‘eroes; only they won’t have no money to ‘eat ‘em, loike. Just have to put a few more blankets over their wheelcairs, wot Oi supplied ‘em wiv, out the goodness a me own ‘eart.
When Oi wuz a nipper, in Perry Barr, loike, we wuz so cold we ‘ad to set foire to the ‘ouses of the pakis and wogs movin’ in next door and stealin’ our jobs and fuckin’ our birds, loike, with their great big bendy knobs. Yasmin knows worramtalkin about, duncha, babe? Them West Indians wuz the worst. Oi ‘ate ‘em, Oi do. Specially that Keth fuckin’ Vaz. Set foire to a few immigrants, that’s the answer, when things are gooin’ all wrung, loike. You fuckers think Oi’m jokin’. But Oi int. You watch. Enoch Powell, now there wuz a real NewLabour MP.
Dimbleyby Question Time returns shortly, Any Dimbleby Questions returns shortly, followed tomorrow by Any Dimbleby Answers in which listeners can phone-in and compliment Jonathan; This Andrew Jock Week returns shortly, with Diane Lard and Michael Coward and guest appearances from Peter Stringpenis, a pimp and procurer and that stupid bald fucker, Kemp, off East Enders and the SAS. And in Scotland all those Jock programmes with ginger morons, they return shortly, too.
ONE FINAL PUSH TO POWER. OVER BY CHRISTMAS, SAYS TIELESS NICK KAMIKAZE.
At the Liberal Democrat conference the temporary leader, Mr Nick Haircut, will give his last speech as leader.
My fellow nasty, two-faced, double-dealing, back-stabbing, dog-murdering, shit-eating, alcoholic cocksuckers, If I ruled the world, you might ask me, would every day be the first day of Spring ? Would every heart have a new song to sing ? If you are asking me Would every head be held up high and would there be sunshine in everyone’s eye well then the answer, not that I am into answering, apart from when, as in this case I have asked myself the question, pretending that I am you, as well as me, is obviously – or, rather, are obviously - Yes, Yes and it depends, Jeremy, what you mean by sunshine, sunshine.
When I first became your Emperor I decided that when it came to interviews with pretend journalists I’d ask myself the questions and although that has worked to the extent that, under me and my policy of no ties at the weekend, just suits, we have nearly disappeared off the political radar, even the questions I ask myself can sometimes trap me. You can never be too suspicious of questions. Whaddathey really mean? And this will be a plank of my major new sinking raft of policy initiatives: The proposed Clegg Act, or, more fully, The What is the Place of The Question In Public Life, No, Better Not Answer That Act of 2009.
They can be the very Devil, can questions. For instance, y’know, as I travel round the country I walk down the street and say to voterpeople, Do you know who I am?
Wassup son, said one gentleman, don’t you know ? Never seen you before in my life. Are you off the telly ? Should have your name written on your clothes, that way if someone finds you, they can read it out and tell you. You look a bit like that Bob Monkhouse, only he’s toast, innee ? So you can’t be him; no, I give up, I’ll have to take you to the police station. Are you on medication? Only they’ll ask, down the copshop.
No, no, no, stupid voterperson, I do know who I am.
Well. Why are you asking me, then ? You think I have fuck all to do?
No. it’s not that. Of course I know who I am. I have known all along. Am I the right honourable Mr Nick Haircut, Leader of the Liberal Democrat party? Of course I am.
Is that right, son? And whaddathey do, then, is it like for kids birthday parties and that, clowns, pantomime; Oh yes, he’s the leader, Oh, no he isn’t; that sort of thing; Look out, Huhne’s behind you; I bet you’re good at that.
There is no point, comrades - as we march together in the sandals of proportional representation, tie-less at weekends but still in our suits - in false modesty and since we are all agreed that I am the best-ever leader of this great party, founded a huge twenty years ago in the mists of time by some vengeful but now doddery old people who are still whining in the House of Lords – Baroness Stupid of Crosby and Any Questions and Doctor BigHead Owen, foreign secretary for five minutes and Lord Dave Abort-Them-All-Now-This-Minute Steel et al - and that we must all get behind me as I release the handbrake and push the green char-a-banc of Liberal No Questions Democracy over the Cliff of Oblivion.
I need to hear you all singing at me, as I stand here, casual and handsome, without my tie, the Liberal Democrat Anthem; altogether now, after three, ah-one-two-three, sorry, that’s after four, ah-one-two-three-four:
(sprightly and with feeling)
Ying-tong, ying-tong, ying-tong, ying-tong
Ying-tong, ying-tong, ying-tong,ying-tong
Louder! I can’t hear you.
Up and over, lads; give it to the filthy swine; I’m right behind you. And Lieutenant Hughes, the straight choice, he’s right behind you, too. So you better run. Captain Kennedy, unfortunately, won’t be joining the assault as he has passed out from overwork and private Oaten is on latrine duty.
The upcoming contest for Mr Haircut’s job is likely to be won by the party’s youth spokesperson, Mr Brian Eno, 67. Respec’, innit?
AIR BEGORRAH CAN FLY THE ARSE OFF ALL OTHER AIRLINES. SO IT CAN.
Mr Michael O’Looney, owner of AirBegorrah said that at a time like this, sure, - when hundreds, t’ousands of people who should have flown Air Begorrah, had been stranded by some other cowboy operators in the arsehole of nowhere, sweating their bollocks off, so they are, worried about getting home – all a man could do was gloat, so he could.
Air Begorrah has never stranded no-one nowhere, so it hadn’t. And I blame that eejit, Branson, for this debacle which frankly could have been avoided if everybody had flown, three to a seat, one on top of the other, like, with my company, which only ever abandons sick, disabled or fat fuckers, so it does, on the grounds that they are too much trouble, so they are, and take up too much room, so they do. No, Willy Walsh, that fucking leprechaun in charge of BA, only not very, if Terminal Foive is anything to judge by, he’s welcome to them. See how much money he can make hauling great fucking hulking lardarse bastards and cripples with half a fucking ton of wheelchairs and fucking life support systems and fucking drips and stretchers and Jesus only fucking knows, so He does, what else these fucking parasites expect me to shift for them on a ten pound fucking ticket. And on top of that, so there is, is the prospects of one of these sickly bastards dying mid-flight and his manky corpse having to be jettisoned overboard, so it would and frightening the Bejasus out of decent able-bodied passengers, or having seizures and jerking about sending everything flying all round the fucking aircraft. Who the fuck wants to carry them bastards all over the shop. They should stay at home, and pray, so they should.
Air Begorrah will be doing all we can to help the customers of other failed operators. That is to say, fuck all, so it is. Ha ha ha and top o’ the morning’ to you, so it is.
Talking to SkyMadeUpNewsAndFilth, Jason and Chardonnay Burberry, who are stranded in Greece, said some self-pitying drivel about being totally and absolutely gutted and totally devastated at this little bit of inconvenience which has totally and utterly so just ruined their lives. Which must have been shit anyway. Cunts.
September 14, 2008 8:26 AM