Friday, 13 January 2017



He - President Andrew Jackson -  always said that the people would stand by those who stand by them.  Such is the covenant of democracies - and the fate of the democracy lies both in the hands of the people and the hands of the President. 
               Time magazine, December 2017.

.. .....for all our outward differences we in fact all share the same proud type, the most important office in a democracy, citizen. So that's what our democracy demands. It needs you.
                       Outgoing US President, Barack Obama, 
                                            Chicago, January 2017.

Eight years ago, here, we described Obama as the best speechifier of his generation;
 how quickly his rhetoric soured, how quickly we realised that he was no orator, 
that without his polished, autocued soundbites he was just a tongue-tied oaf,
 resorting inevitably to the inane burblings of a late-night TV chat show host, a Letterman or Leno, trading meaningless cant, a clown for all seasons.

Last Tuesday night's performance, 

before an adoring audience, was vintage Obama, seemingly principled and lyrical but on closer examination self-serving tripe, a ghastly, inaccurate, exaggerated, selective, contradictory and misleading psalm to himself.
 A modest man would have blushed but Obama is a shameless hyperbolist; 

 there is no red line which cannot be undrawn, 
no claim which cannot be unclaimed, no truth which cannot be untruthed.  
He has ended torture, he says, and worked-on closing Gitmo. he hasn't ended torture and he hasn't closed Gitmo, he has, in fact,  legalised the summary and unconstitutional murder of US citizens - and others - abroad but he makes these pious Gitmo claims quickly, amongst a catalogue of other bogus achievements and the hand-picked crowd goes wild in an ecstasy of righteous, ethical masturbation. Guardian hacks in the UK, the same vermin  who rejoiced at the burning of the wheelchairs and the closing of the libraries, claimed to have wept at Obama's speechifying. Luvvies, too, are sobbing into their TwitterThings. The deranged, child-farming lunatic, Mia Farrow, 

issuing a proclamation to the effect that Barry and Shell have created the real Camelot, there, in Washington, DC. 
Well, spouse to both Mafia wife-beater Frankie Sinatra and the dwarf beast, Woody Allen, 

Mad Mia should know a good Camelot when she hallucinates one.

 I have yet to learn Mr Bruce Beardsteen's view on this glorious-tragical-comical-historical event but no doubt light entertainer, 

A man in retarded adolescence
and his hero.
Take your pick. 

Bruce,  a man who considers himself not so much a pop singer as  a Movement, will have profound thoughts to share with us, about his baby, and being in his car 
and about his president.
He will share them at a concert near you,
at a hundred pounds a ticket.
Doesn't get more blue collar rock'n'roll than that.
This insufferable cunt, Springsteen; 
where is punk 2 when you need it?

That post-election issue of Time, from which Obama seems to have taken inspiration,  illustrated mr mongoose's truth that they - the hacks and the luvvies and the legislators - are all just talking to themselves, whistling in the dark, pissing in the wind. Hillary and Spunky Bill Clinton's defeat at the hands of the Trumpsters is described exhaustively, in Time, as a failure of an electorate poorly connected to feminism; as a glass-ceiling issue, describing the dreadful old bitch  as an American Moses, an imperfect prophet, leading women to the edge of the Promised Land. Now it's up to another woman to enter it.  
America, according to Time magazine, must have a woman president.  
Now, given that only the truly rotten can ever come within a mile of nomination for that office, what Time is saying is that the system must be influenced, even corruptly, as it was in Clinton's case, in order that a rotten woman, instead of a rotten man be elected.

The voters must be educated, must be alerted to the fact that for Ruin to prosper it must appear to be a pestilence truly committed to equality of opportunity, right?  Doesn't it?  Isn't that what it means?  For surely to God no-one in their right mind would find Virtue or Competence in Hillary Clinton?

 Hillary, though, claims Time, couldn't do right for doing wrong; she was too smart, too experienced, too well briefed for dumb, sexist voters, and that's why she lost to a redneck fathead. What a shame that sexist America isn't more like Pakistan or India, Time laments, where women members of political dynasties were a shoo-in to presidencies and prime ministerships; why can't American political dynasties flourish similarly, bleated the Clinton camp mourners, like good democrats.
We want our own royal families, people better than us, just because, well, because they stole more, and because they say so. 
Steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you a King.
Or a presidential candidate.

In the entire post-election issue of Time there was no mention of voters being suspicious of a marriage which existed for no other apparent reason than to neutralise Spunky Bill's sexual predations, to homogenise sexual abuse into a palatable mix of a good if naughty ole boy, stood-by, loved and forgiven by his family, 
even though the whole nightmare nuptial trip remained extant only to  secure Hillary's political career. 
There was  no mention of vast sums of money being funnelled into both the Clintons' Foundation and their election fund. Hillary didn't lose, according to Time, because of her extraordinary and illegal personal IT server and her disappearing of thirty thousand e-mails - Richard Nixon, we must remember, was indicted over a missing seventeen and a half minutes of recording tape - Hillary didn't lose because of her mishandling of Libya or the preventable murder of the US ambassador nor because of her bizarre relationship with the wife of serial sex offender, Anthony Wiener and definitely not  because of her watertight and highly-lucrative connections to Wall Street. 
No, to the ordinary voter, none of this stuff was important enough to make them vote for Trump instead of for the Clintons,  they only did it and she only lost  because she is a woman. That's what  they were saying to each other on election night and they are still saying it. 
Worse, they - at all levels of influence and none, including Obama - are all still hoping to see Hillary and Spunky Bill  in the White House.
Unseating Trump would not be enough, his VeeP, Pence, would have to go, also. Nothing would do, short of the Clintons retrospectively being awarded the White House by default. This anti-democratic movement is echoed, here, in what still calls itself the Labour Party, utterly resistant to the will of its members and their choice of leader, unmoved by the democratic will of both party and nation, in the matter of Brexit.

Speaking to a partisan audience at a stage-managed event in his home town, Obama perfectly articulated the American Nightmare; always a bogus illusion foisted by elites - Obama's  much referenced Founding Fathers - upon greedy, gullible morons, the US political system has yet to produce a president of any merit and it never will, now; crooks and cheats and worse, all of them, and when one  of them shows a hint of Decency, say, Jimmy Carter, then he is  rubbished by his colleagues, knee-capped by the press and a proper dummy installed, in that case the fuckwit, Reagan, and his star-gazing Mummy-Wife, Nancy. 

Imagine, Jimmy Carter in the White House, and four Manhattan skyscrapers fall inexplicably to the ground in their own footprints,  there's a ban on US air travel, apart from Saudi Arabians fleeing homeward; imagine that relatives of the dead are beaten by lawnforcement for disputing the facts; imagine that the very steel from the most blatantly deceptive building collap-se is immediately shipped to India for re-cycling;  imagine that the Constitution is ripped-up and the state empowered to read your every written word, listen to your every word; imagine that Torture and Sadism are sanctified at home and abroad by the White House; they'd have ripped poor Jimmy's guts out.

 George Dubya Chimp, however, stupid and compliant as a penniless, drunken whore, was licensed to commit kleptomaniacal genocide and nobody said Boo!

It is this failure to control, to properly orchestrate the illusion of democracy which Trump personifies, the personification, in millions, of the Can't-Fool-All-Of-The-People-All-Of-The-Time dictum which saw him elected, and which sees so many attempts to unseat him before he gets into the saddle.
Obama's not very subtle plea for people to stand-up and participate was a sneaky call to civil unrest, one which, under his stewardship, would have seen its author under arrest.
Obama, interestingly, has never, to my knowledge, since being elected, voiced a whisper of criticism of George Dubya, a man as rotten as can be, yet whilst loyal  to the Presidential Fellowship of Thieves Obama unprecedentedly - and we must presume with the permission of his masters - used his office of President  to  enthusiastically join in the partisan campaign for his successor.

To those watching, bemused,
 Obama's audience

appeared either to be on HappyPills or comprising the very best from CyberCorp's SynthCitizen range,  cheering and stomping at every successive, dishonesty.

 I confess to never having completed George Orwell's 1984 but it seemed that Obama has developed a NewSpeak of his own, deploying blatant lies as Truths, totally inverting disgusting reality into cheerworthy platitude; 
 that he has accomplished  this on the back of his notional blackness shows all the more vividly the voluntary, stupid complicity of an audience reared on Hollywood's presentation of a mythical America.

 I dunno about you - just to digress for a minute -  but if I was on an aircraft hijacked by a handful of screeching, hysterical Muslim nancyboys, armed only with tiny little blades, I'd fucking kill the bastards.  Even if they held Kalashnikovs,
 I would stab the fuckers in the eye with anything that came to hand - pen, spoon, rolled-up magazine, anything; you can make a sharp, eye-penetrating splinter from a plastic coffee cup - I'd grab them by the bollocks and twist as hard as I could,  that'd make them cry-out and pray  to Allah in their hour of need, alright, peace and blessings be upon His name, as we should now all say, lest we offend those who want to kill us, out of respect; I'd kick them, punch them, strangle them, I'd bite their fucking faces off. But no, even though they outnumbered the unarmed arabs by ten or twenty or thirty to one, Septermber 11's Americans sat still, doing as they were told, probably expecting Superman to fly alongside, or Bruce Willis to emerge, bloody and in his vest, from the baggage hold; tossers, too stupid even to fight for their lives, too cowed; too fucking special; American exceptionalism, another chorus from the  Obama songbook of criminal fraud.

The great confection of Americanism to which Obama repeatedly alluded the other night was not Nobility, there was nothing noble about drunken Paddy bastards dressed-up like cavalry and mutilating native, continental indigents at Wounded Knee; 
 nothing noble about refugee Scotsmen founding the Ku Klux Clan and burning negroes alive, nothing noble about Haliburton mercenaries and psychobastard crew-cut MommasBoy GIs looting and gang-raping their way through Iraq and Afghanistan and there is definitely nothing noble or self-sacrificial about militarised lawnforcement goons shooting black people like clay pigeons. What - in relation to Americanism - Obama was actually referring to was the cruel utility of overwhelming might and technology, to the plantation's whip-wielding overseer, to the Gatling gun and the atom bomb, to napalm and Agent Orange, to that towering American virtue - vicious technology applied to defenceless populations. 
The great Gangster spirit of  Cowardice and Greed, that's America.
Home of Continental Organised Crime.

Institutionalised Felony, 
such a beautiful American tradition.
Every matter to which he had turned his attention had been improved by his thoughtful consideration.

 My fellow motherfuckers. 
When I assumed my great office I speechified like a demented sonofabitch that the authors of the financial crisis would be hunted down and punished.

Now, after eight years, I am happy to report that up to and as many as precisely no bankers or financiers or mortgage carpetbaggers have been  arrested, prosecuted or jailed.
As many as precisely none.
Not one.
That ain't the way to keep folks working. And I'm proud that my administration helped keep so many, well, kept all the bankers and financiers and mortgage carpet-baggers in work.
And as a matter of fact, as a part of moving forward, I have managed to employ as many members of Goldman Sachs in the White House as they have told me to. 
Yessir, n'deed I have. 

Same as the professional torturers.
 I remember, right here, in mr ishmael's commentaries, vowing to track down them torturing folks and punish them. But instead I chose to be more progressive, make torture part of  our arsenal against bad folks and keep them torturers hard at work, in jobs, and payin' taxes.
How many torturers did we prosecute and punish?
That's right, up to and including and as many as precisely none.

The economy is cured, fixed, sorted, even though America is indebted to a degree almost unimaginable, a sum which can never, ever, ever be paid-off but only written-off, by a war or some other act of selfless virtue; 
jobs are abundant, even though voters in America's industrial heartland think differently - and they ought to know - so differently that they voted for anyone bar the Democrats whom they supported for generations, a bit like what happened to Labour, in Scotland,  a parliamentary party grown fat on the strife of the poor had it's arse kicked, and one hopes that the contusions prove fatal.
The US now has an NHS, even though it doesn't; 
Peace reigns,  even though it doesn't; 
Obama had reined-in the military-industrial complex, even though it is stronger now than under George Dubya Chimp, is more costly; Uncle Sam still has eight hundred military  bases abroad and spreading to places from which it has long been absent,  armies posted to Australia and the Baltic states, fleets cruising in the South China Sea;
 US fleets and forces intimidate almost everyone in the world,  they provoke and perpetuate tensions;
her drones assasinate illegally and at will, 
her recent Secretary of State provoked conflicts at the whim of her Arab paymasters.
To Obama and his handlers War truly is Peace.
Thanks to capitalist US adventurism, shambolic millions of migrants are besieging European nation states, making chaos of national public services budgets and among their ranks are many made sui/homicidal by Uncle Sam slaughtering their infants. 

The world, in short, and the US particularly, are in a better place, thanks to himself.
You have to laugh, because if you cried, you know you'd fill a lake with tears.

My fellow motherfuckers.
One of the things I have accomplished with your help is the end of war.
And that is why the American arms industry grows almost exponentially, year on year.
The US can proudly say that it is the world's biggest arms producer.
And that its Commander-in-Chief, myself, has brokered more arms sales - and to more degenerate, criminal regimes - than any other president in history.

My stewardship of world peace has resulted in forty billions of dollars worth of weapons sales in 2016 alone.
And it just doesn't get more peaceful than that.
Even that great American institution, Lockheed DeathCorp, 
is on record as saying
 that thanks to your C|ommander-in-Chief,
the Middle East is seen,
 more and more, 
as what its sales teams call
 an area of outstanding growth.
And that's not all.
These sales are led by those good folks at the Pentagon
Those great patriots.
Who will, 
there is no doubt, 
in future,
 take up responsible positions
in that same arms industry. 
And who,
on behalf of those client states, 
- say, Saudi Arabia and Iraq - decide exactly what arms they need to buy, going forward.
We tell 'em what they need in order to kill or torture folks, which folks they need to kill or torture,  and then they pay us for it. 

Was business ever any better than that? 

And to those great ISIS libertarians and Al-Kay remnants,
fighting Russian tyranny in Syria, we sell them arms, too.
Y'know, we can't expect our allies in ISIS to make progress just by chopping folks' heads off, or burning them alive in cages.
We will sell the instrumentation of Death to anyone.
Just so long as they got money.
And if they ain't got any money
we give 'em credit.
Like we did with the Limeys. 
When they were fighting  Hitler
and what they called fascism.
Loaned 'em three, nearly four billion,
to buy shit from us with.
 Okay, it meant that after the war they had a decade or so of Austerity. 
But that's just how business is. 
You haveta fuck everybody up the ass.

 And do it hard..
Even if, without them, the Limeys,
 we might all be speaking Kraut, now, in America. 
And my folks'd definitely be in the gas ovens.
Betcha sweet ass.
Schwarzers, Hermann didn't like schwarzers.
Worse'n Jews, is what they thought.
But that's no reason them Limeys deserve special treatment.
Just for standing up to bad shit. When everyone else just bent over to Hermann's racist dick.
Is it? 
I don't see what's so special about that.

 They paid it all off, though, the Limeys,
a hundred billion bucks in today's money.
Done it in 2006.
That guy, Snotty, the one from off the Northern Reservation,
 he did it.
And that's why we call it a special relationship.
We bled Britain dry while giving shitloadsa dollars to the post-war Hermanns.
And that's why, when they wanna disobey us, then I, as your Commander-in-Chief, had to kick their asses to the back of the line. Save the world from tyranny or not.

My fellow motherfuckers.
That great experiment in democracy.
Which we call Guantanamo Bay. 
Thanks to the efforts of my administration.
Still in business.
Mistreating nigger folks.
Now, they may or may not be guilty of something.
They was, after all, most of 'em, anyway,
just pulled off the streets of Islamabad or some shithole like that.
And sold by the kilo to the brave men and women of the CIA.
 Fifty thousand dollars for a terrorist is a lotta money to some nigger in a dress and I guess they just grabbed some other nigger, anyone who took their fancy and said, Hey, way to go, this one's a terrorist, and this one, and this one over here. 
That'll be a hundred and fifty thousand bucks please, CIA effendi.

And so, my fellow motherfuckers.
It only seems right.
That we torture their asses,
these people that we bought fair'n'square, just like our ancestors bought the slaves offa their neighbours.
'N' find out if they are guilty of something.
My National Security advisers tell me that if you torture folks long enough, they'll confess to almost anything.
That they'll even make shit up.
Shit that nobody ever done, never mind them doin' it.
Shit that never even  happened.
And confess to it. 
So, as part of my legacy, to you, the American people.
Part of my legacy is, well, I don't much like to refer to them Limey sonsabitches these days.
Not after they disobeyed Uncle Sam, like that.
Over Europe.
But there was this Limey poet.
And if I can paraphrase his ass,
as part of my legacy,
I will remind you that, 

if I should die
think only this of me:
that there is some corner of a foreign field 
that is forever Torture.
And when people say they don't want no more immigrants, 
they should remember, 
as I do, 
that without the Poles and the Krauts and the Wops and the Paddies
 coming over here
 we woodena been able to kill most of the indigenous people,
burn their villages, baby-rape them
and herd the survivors into concentration camps, 
where, my fellow motherfuckers, 
they remain to this day, 
dejected and dispirited,
 just like we'd ethnic cleansed them or something,
just to make way for greedy immigrants,
too fucked-up to make a go of things back in they own countries.
'Swhat made America great.

And just lemme speak to my record on lawnorder, jurisprudence and due process and why we murderered Osama bin Laden - or some nigger, anyways, and his family - in cold blood  and dumped the bodies in the sea when we could've easily captured him and brought him back here to stand trial. Well, folks, that's a simple one. See, when a great crime is committed against America, say, when a president is assassinated or some buildings blown up then what you gotta do is find a patsy and then kill him quickly, just in case, at his trial, he says things about folks who benefited from the crime, things that nobody oughta hear about. And so, in the finest traditions of American justice, the man who we said was responsible  for 9/11, or a man, at least,  was shot dead and silenced.
 Job done, as the Limeys say, case closed. It really was a proper example of American justice working just fine. No need to thank me, I was just doing  my job, murdering anyone I felt like and perverting the course of justice.

 My fellow motherfuckers, you wouild expect nothing less from me.

Just as I never finished 1984, I actually know bugger-all about Pavlov and his poor dogs, except that they were tortured into responding in  certain ways to certain stimuli,

like Obama's stooges do although the Chicagoans do it to much greater effect;  the Pavlov dogs remained dogs, illustrative of nothing more than their programmability, anybody can train a dog, anybody but me, I tend to have arguments, discussions, really, with Harris, in which I articulate his points of view and which,

even so,  he more often than not wins. 

Obama's dogs,  however,
screened around the world, were, as a laughter track prompts otherwise undeserved laughter, intended to prove the universal truth of his remarks; they would have cheered had he been speaking out of his arse literally as well as figuratively, they were responding to a kind of psychic cattle prod, a crowd-taser, they only had to hear the words America or Michelle or Chicago or Liberty or Freedom or EllGeeBeeTee  and they would erupt, cheering and clapping and crying as  TeeVee anchors and hacks all around the world rejoiced, insisting to viewers that the few thousands in the Chicago hall cheered for and on behalf of the whole wide world a-watching. How could we betray such Goodness, by electing such Evil? It's not too late, we can stay in Europe and we can overthrow Trump. 

I just heard some wretched, has-been NewLabour shit on This Week, making that very point 

Chris Leslie, MP,
member of the Govament of National Unity and
a NewLabour cyborg.

It's not because he's black, because that would be racist and I am in no way racist, except when it comes to bombing niggers and their children, and that dosn't really qualify as racism, but President Obama's gabshitery is truer, more meaningful than Donald Trump's gabshitery. 

But my fellow motherfuckers, no matter how hard we've all worked together for the bankers, we should ree-dooce the influence of money in politics. I mean, it was fine when me and my fellow presidents were all on the make, sellin' our asses to Mammon but now that the president-elect shits golden hundred dollar turds, we gotta review our priorities; leastways until we get rid of him.

Don't let me be misunderstood.
That small fortune that President and Mrs Clinton  accrued after leaving office -and in her case while she was still very much in office, as it doesn't say in the thirty thousand emails which she didn't destroy and even if they did say that, what does it matter?  - 

that was good, decent crooked money, corruptly given and received, in fair exchange for illegal actions, in and out of federal office and it is perfectly proper and constitutional that once they had taken out what they needed for themselves, they spent some of that money on buying the White House on behalf of all the foreign folks who had given them the money in the first place. I mean, no good American patriot thinks that you can be poor and get into the White House, do they? That ain't what the American Dream is all about. It's all about money; stealin' it or takin' it as a bribe; protection money or political donation, paid to gangster or politician, ain't no difference.

What nobler action can there be,
what higher, more American purpose can there be 
 than gaining public office and then selling favours to criminals?

So, money, it is a great thing, my fellow motherfuckers, for you to lose, as your jobs go  overseas, and your living costs rise and your pensions are quite properly stolen by my employers; it is a great thing for me to make, in return for favours, well, I prefer to call it obedience shown to rich folks and it is a fine, fine thing for Hillary Trousers - and Spunky Bill, too - to accept bribes from crooks and tyrants and child molesters. 
But for the President-elect to have money from none of those fine sources is just one more reason for you to take the law into your own hands, I mean to engage with politics like you never have before, during those years you have been betrayed by proper crooks, like me. 

It just remains for me to congratulate myself on my wife
 and the children, 
as politicians always do; 

their children and wives are so wonderful 

that how can the politician, himself, 
be anything less than wonderful?

That was President Obama there, in Chicago, yes, I know, viewers, fucking awful. And we were gonna go to Jayne Tits, who's there for us, in the hall, talking to a tearful Obama supporter. But it was all:

Jayne Tits:  Tell me, MaryJo, was that speech wonderful for you?
MaryJo:  Yes, it sure was wonderful.
Jayn Tits:  And why was it so wonderful?
MaryJo:  Because it just was. It was just so wonderful.  
Jayne Tits:  Yes,  he truly is wonderful, President Obama.
 MaryJo: Yes Ma'am, he sho is. He sho is just, I dunno, wonderful.
Jayne Tits: And President-elect Trump, I don't suppose you think he's very wonderful, do you?
 MaryJo: No Ma'am, I sho don't think he's too wonderful at all, I sho don't.

It went on like that for about ten fucking minutes, look you, isn't it, make your fucking toes curl it would. I said to them, I said I wasn't gonna be in any news show that broadcast crap like that, look you, isn't it. I mean, there is a fucking limit, even for me, and I've played the piano for Tom Fucking Jones, look you.  Not too many newscasters can say that, not at the PBC. Least he's not a paedo, Jonesy, pity he can't sing, though, just yellin' and fuckin' bawling, 'swhat he does, shame he couldn't lower his voice to a scream, if you ask me.
So, anyway, in a break with PBC tradition we thought we'd bring you this, from my colleague at ChannelFour's News and Indignation Show, Mr Jon Sox. Jon, what's your take on all this, isn't it, look you, this Obama business, you're a bit broken-hearted, I understand.........? Back on the wacky baccy, isn't it/? Don't mind a toke, myself, got to have something to get me through all this bollocks I have to read out. I'll pop round to your studio, then, eh?

Yeah, man, like whatever.
  One newscaster for all and all newscasters for one newscaster. 
If it's cool with you, it's cool with me.
I'm just so fucked-up, man, with Trump winning and Obama going, man; it's too much heavy shit.


noun: learned helplessness
a condition in which a person suffers from a sense of powerlessness, arising from a traumatic event or persistent failure to succeed. It is thought to be one of the underlying causes of depression


Good evening, this is Channel Four News and Indignation, with me, Jon Sox,

 the caring, caring face of madeupnewsandfilth4caring people. 
 And tonight we report, as we do every night, in terms of helpless, ballsaching despair, from Aleppo, where the ceasefire, when there is one, is rubbish; where the non-ceasefire is rubbish, too; 
where John NewFace,  

US Seckaterry of State,  

and all other decent, modest  people, 
like me,  
say that whatever they do the Russians are bastards, 
they're bastards and war criminals.
 And lessfaceit, attacking ISIL and al Ki-wossaname, is just not what we are supposed to be doing is it?  
What we should be doing is something which nobody knows what it is. 
Just that we should be doing it. 
Y'know, as that ishmael bloke says, at the top of the page:  intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.

Except that we don't.

Quite frankly, we in the West have been shamed, haven't we, by Mrs Merkel, who has shown us the true meaning of the word Humanity,


 unless, that is, you happen to be a homeless person, being immolated by some needy refugee children or out  doing a bit of Christmas shopping and you get seasonally mashed-up by a forty-ton lorry

 - did I say Christmas shopping?  
I meant Mid-Winter Festival shopping, because, lessfaceit, there's no exclusive and discriminatory religious, monotheistic aspect to Christmas, is there;  it's not as though Christians own Christmas or anything;

 I mean,  Christmas, 
for it to mean anything at all, has to be Muslim, doesn't it,  Mohamed came first, didn't he, you do the math, and Jesus just happened to be born on Christmas Day, didn't he;  yes, and whilst it may well be a family event, family, these days, takes many shapes and forms, so Christmas, if we must have it,  must be one which clearly reflects and signposts every step on the gender highway, representing the journeys which we all are making;  we, all of us, after all, are born lesbian or gay or pre- or post- or having-changed-our-minds-back-again- transgender or queer and we  are finding our own way out of the heterosexual or homonormativity straightjacket which has so sullied our civilisation.......

Any chance, Jon, we might cut to the fucking chase, pardon my fucking French, boyo, I mean, I brought the PBC viewers here to hear about about Obama, what with you and your connections, look you, isn't it, your connections, in Washington, and all we've heard is gay fucking rights, again....

Yes, Huw, but this is sophisticated news, for sophisticated indignant people, unlike some I could mention it's not all sport and showbiz, all in due course, Hughie, all in due course.

 Yes, now, where was I, yes,  we should be inviting members of the truck-crashing-into-shoppers diaspora 

to come and live in our spare rooms, well, not mine, obviously, but yours, our caring viewers' spare rooms. 
People like Gilly, whom mr ishmael wrote about, people who want to do something.

I mean, 
for all the good these cease-fires are doing the Russians may as well be bayonetting babies, which, we are reliably informed, is what the typical Russian soldier - or to give him his proper name, the typical Russian war criminal  

- likes to do anyway. 

Overthrowing the tyranny of Basher Assad,
Aleppo freedom fighters,
 are freedom fighting in the streets,
like this

and maintaining the rule of law,
like this

in the face of Russian brutality.
And we should jolly well get behind them.

Yes, yes, I know they lost twenty million in the Hitler war, the Russians,  but that's no reason for them disobeying Mrs Merkel now, is it;  and anyway, twenty million, what's twenty million;  it doesn't compare to the six million Jews who were killed,  I mean, you do the math, the numbers don't add-up; yes, and as well as the gipsies and homosexuals there were anarchists and  troublemakers, and talking about trade unionists, when you look at how certain British trade unions are currently behaving, inconveniencing people, well, you can't help but think that maybe there were aspects of Herr Hitler's strategy to which we could  all sign-up. Not with regard to the Jews, obviously, who lost so many more than the Russians, but the Russians themselves. And the trade unionists.  I mean, why should people be allowed to withdraw their labour, merely to protect their working conditions? 

I mean, 
striking's all very well, just as long as it doesn't interfere wth anything, like the bosses, who, let's face it, have enough to cope with, after the Brexit mistake, or the public, who might shout at the bosses, or the govament, when they should be shouting at the strikers, who are just ordinary people, like themselves.

 I mean, 
let's face it, apart from schools and hospitals and state pensions and equal pay for women,  and a minimum wage and health and safety and holiday pay and sick pay and maternity leave what have the unions ever done for anyone?

But Kelvin McFilth, 

who is perhaps Fleet Street's greatest editor emeritus,
 will be joining us to explain why striking workers should be shot.
Hack their fucking 'phones 'swhat I say; 
slags, that's what they are.
Shoot the cunts.
And if they got any teenage daughters,
 make 'em get their fuckin' tits out on page free.
An' their arses.
That's proper fucking journalism. 

Indeed it is, Kelvin, indeed it is.
Always got a platform on the PBC and a few license-payer quid for my old Murdoch mate.  
Those were the days eh, Kelvin, 
me at the Sunday Times, you at the Sun, 
trashing, between us,  everything decent. 
Did I tell you I went to grammar school and then to Glasgow university?
Yeah, right, Andrew, 
and then straight into the sewer, eh?

Well I'm not like Andrew Neil. 
On my show it definitely isn't all about me; well, not entirely.
Later in the show Cathy will be looking at how Brexit has deepened the plight of those suffering in Syria from Russian occupation and shameless Russian attacks on Islamic State freedom fighters and how we, as a nation, should be ashamed of ourselves. 
I mean beating ISIL in Iraq is one thing, isn't it, but beating them in Syria, where we are arming them in order to overthrow Basher Assad, that's a different thing altogether.

And to explain that apparent contradiction - that we are now working with our own worst enemy -  we are joined by War Seckaterry, Sergeant Mad Mick Fallon. 

So the thing is, you fly the plane 
and I drop the naplam on the children, right?
And watch them run around, ablaze?

Mad Mick Fallon, how do we explain to people why on the one hand ISIL are our deadly enemies and we have to listen-in to everyone's phone calls and read their emails in case they are terrorists working for ISIL while on the other hand we are funding and arming ISIL in order that they might overthrow Basher Assad? 

Yes, Field Marshal Ali Baba, and which part of ISIL do you represent?  
Are your wages coming on time?  
Plenty of guns and bombs and things like that?

Well, quite frankly, Jon, 
I think that your viewers have enough on their minds, just now, what with Rick Parfitt, George Michael and now Princess Wotsit, Leah, is it, all being murdered by 2016 - because,  make no mistake, Jon, that's what's happened, unless, of course you are one of those people who believe that great artists just die, just like that, y'know, because of illness or old age - for them to be bothered about us, in govament,  spending billions on arming the people we say are our greatest enemies.

Yes but minister, 
how do we know which are the good ISIL-ites, and which the bad? I mean, we cheer and applaud when we drive them from Iraqi towns but it's a crime against humanity when Basher and Mr Putin drive them from Syrian ones, in fact we don't even call them terrorists, which they are, we call them rebels, which they're not, they're just foreign fighters paid for by us and Uncle Sam to overthrow the majority in Syria.  That is what's happening, minister, isn't it?

That's a very good question, Jon,  
but you'll appreciate that if I were to answer that I might be endangering the lives of our very brave servicemen and women, not to mention the share price of the arms industry, upon whose profits your pension and mine depend. Mine more than yours, obviously, because I work for them and you don't, not directly, anyway.  
And it's just exactly what it says at the top of mr ishmael's commentary, which we are all appearing in - the News, and you, especially, Jon,  peddle Learned Helplessness, and it does so  by broadcasting, day after day after fucking day, miserable, shitty, tragic, horrifying  events which no-one here can influence or change and you leave them utterly washed-out and therefore  unable to influence or effect those things upon which they can act, by, just  for instance, sacking cunts like me; you are as much to blame  for cunts like me, Jon, as cunts like me are, you are part of the Learned Helplessness business, you teach it.  Earthquakes and floods, Jon, in places no-one ever heard of, much less cared about, and you sit here, all indignant, that nobody's doing enough, either to remedy that day's particular tragedy, or to stop tragedy ever happening again, feigning an innate, all-encompasing and inexhaustible Goodness you make people feel bad.  Feeding on death, Jon, you're like a nightmare, sermonising carrion crow; 'swhat you are, Jon, what you have always been, one of Death's long-distance parasites. In your own way, you are much worse than me and my kind. Death's Seckaterries, they only serve a  handful of years, you, his Broadcaster and Praise Singer, you are his life-long liegeman.  Nightly, you gorge on those maimed, murdered, drowned, buried alive, imprisoned, starving, freezing, leprous, thirsting, trafficked, abused by their fellows, swept aside by Nature, you, Jon Sox, you are the ultimate pornographer, your show is a state-sanctioned snuff movie; squalid, repulsive and probably insane, you are a cancer in the public discourse.
But the main thing, anyway, Jon, regarding your question,  is that I, 
as HM War Seckaterry, know exactly what is going on and that's all that matters, isn't it? Unless you want to give the people another referendum? 
Oh, and apart from that,  as well as being an obnoxious bully, I am, like yourself, stark, raving mad. Now, should we have another referendum, about  war or anything?

Fuck me, no, minister, 
certainly not, 
not after the last one which they got so wrong. 

Yes, Jon, very good, glad you're co-operating with govament. 
It's rather like the aircraft carriers, them not having any aircraft to carry, unless Mme le Pen lends us some, which she won't.
That's strictly on a need-to-know basis. 
And I don't need you to know.

Gosh, that was Michael Fallon, there, for us.
Here's Cathy Stilletos. 
The token feminist harpy.


It's not too late, y'know, viewers,  to pull back from the brink and  reject Nigel Farage and all his works.  I mean, clearly, the numbers show that we sensible Remainers won the vote and have been cheated.  Just do the math, the figures don't add up, seventeen million is actually, in the real world,  far fewer than fifteen million.
And anyway, I mean, it's not all about  numbers, is it, voting?

And Krish will be reporting from Mexico City, where Donald Trump, having stolen the US election, has caused the spontaneous combustion of  millions of pesos' worth  of fireworks, killing a couple of dozen wetbacks.  It is believed that Mr Trump's threat to build a wall between the Greasers and decent white Americans has, rather like the inexcusable Brexit, destabilised the entire hemisphere. I'll be joined in the studio by prominent columnists and pollsters, like this cunt, here
Not this one, the one below him.

PBC, December 2016.
John Young-Parent Humphrys:

David Snuffler's-Beard Aaronovitch,  you work as a journalist, pundit, commentator, forecaster and all-round know-it-all.
You didn't see the Great Tits-Up coming,  you didn't see the Cameron majority coming, you didn't see Corbyn coming and staying, you didn't see Brexit coming, you didn't see Trump  coming;  let's see how you do with general knowledge:
 Which US President was distinguished from his presidential father by the use of their middle-name initials?

Dave Brains Aaronovitch.
 Was it Quincy Adams? 

It was actually President George Dubya Chimp, whose father was President George Herbert Walker (Dubya) Chimp.
And at the end of that round, Dave Aaronowitch, you've made a cunt of yourself, as usual.
Not that you care about that.
How could you, after all this time?

 to discuss how, in the interests of democracy,  President Obama might be persuaded  to stay in the White House for another four-year term. Or until President Trousers is duly declared the winner of the election which she bought so hard to win. 

New faces for old. 

I mean the election she fought so hard to win.  
No, no, I don't, I mean bought.
You'd think, wouldn't you, that losing two US presidential elections'd make any sane old lady retire, look-after her syphilitic pretend-husband and her retarded daughter and any retarded grandchildren which may come along. Either that or set-up a not very idyllic SapphoStudiesCentre, with the former Mrs Wiener, somewhere in upstate New York. I mean just do the maths, two out of two is almost a hundred per cent, so the numbers just don't add-up, do they? 
And now she's talking about running again, in 2020, when she'll be, what, seventy fucking three?  Nothing whatsoever wrong with old men - like me - clinging-on to jobs which we are incapable of doing, but old women doing it, well, that'd just be tokenism, wouldn't it?
  I know that that's what we do here at C4's SnowNews, pretend that we really value people like Krish and wotsername, that gobby Asian woman, Zainad Badawe, is that her? No, no, I'm hearing in my earpiece that she left thirty years ago - doesn't time fly when you have a job for life, as I do - and that we now have another brown bimbo, no, dunno her name.

 Anyway, Huw.......

Fuck me, Snowy, bach, I was just gonna put me feet up and get some kip, thought you were gonna rant-on for fucking hours, look you, isn't it, with that arsewipe, Fallon, he's truly insane, you know, isn't it, mad as a fucking hatter, think's he's Napoleon. I wouldn't have him on my show. Are we gonna talk about Obama, now, is it ?

Yes, Huw, and we are joined now from Washington

 by my American friend and colleague,
 Mr Joe Klein, of America's Time magazine. 

Joe, like me, you are a professional journalist of great integrity
 and you, therefore, worship the ground on which President Barack Obama walks.
 It must be a hard time for you, seeing him leave office, with the whole world either laughing at him or ignoring him, rather like our own Mrs Askey, I mean, I don't know if you saw the pictures of her in Europe the other day, 

everybody looking at her like she was a whore at a hockey match.
I couldn't help but feel a little indignant about that, but it doesn't take very much, people denying tnat we are all gay, for instance, that really gets me going. But anyway,
I mean - and I dunno what you think, Joe -  but maybe if she'd worn the leather trousers,

and maybe a pair of spikey boots, and given the Europeans  a good, stern Yes Miss, No Miss talking-to....

 I dunno, whaddayouthink, Joe, 
would it work for you, 
would you talk to an old lady 
dressed-up in bondage gear?

Run a fucking mile, me, JonBoy;
 what is it you Limeys say?
  Like shit off of a shovel, is that it? 
 Her husband, he's a comedian, right? 

Does stand-up, in flea-pit thee-ayters and on the radio, right? 
Ya still call it the wireless, here, in Limeyland?

Can't somebody have a word in his ear, 
the comedian, get him to kinda rein-in the old bitch.
I mean, you know as well as I do that thee-ayter folks are all stone mad, cock-wavin' perverts, exhibitionists, drug addicts  and child molester, an' that they dress-up in each others clothes and all kindsa shit, beat each other on the ass with sticks'n'belts'n'whips'n'barbed fuckin' wire, an' even, when they cain't get no-one else to fuck-about with, they string 'emselves up in a fucking noose like Clint Eastwood done to them bad guys  in Hang 'Em High - no, mebbe it was in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, mebbe it was in  both of 'em, it's a kind of a signature note for America, isn't it, hanging folks, shooting 'em, gassing 'em, poisoning them and electrocuting them, just one of the great things about this great nation of ours - an' then they balance themselves on a chair an'  jerk 'emselves off while they're nearly choking - auto-erotic asphyxiation, that, I believe, is the latin name for it, JonBoy.  Unless those guys from MI5 bust in and kick the fuckin' chair away and phone for Filthy Kelvin McKenzie to send some slags around to photograph the body 'n'print the story. 

I'm tellin' ya, JonBoy, 
I hate to think what goes on in that Downing Street dive come night-time.

 Nah, give me the fuckin' heebie jeebies, you Brits do, with all yer mad vices, an' the prime minister, floozyin' about, like a fuckin' old-age pensioner dominatrix wet-dream nightmare;  well, you know, once upon a time that stuff'd just stay behind closed doors, more or less; nowadays, though, within  a heartbeat, everybody in the world can see that the UK prime minister has some serious fetish issues on her mind. 
 Bondage trousers? 
On the sofa? 
In Ten Downing Street? 
What with Brexit and everything? 
The rest of the world'll think you've all gone insane. 

And don't start me, neither, JonBoy, on what'll happen if these heavy colds that the Queen'n' Phil  have got turn into pneu-fuckin'-monia and the pair of 'em croak.  
Fuck me Jesus, the whole fuckin' place'll turn into the Land of Perpetual FlashMourning.

But Jon, thanks for having me on the show, 
it means a lot. 
Y'know, we're very much alike, you and I, old buddy, we both get things as wrong as it's possible to get them - Eye-rack, Brexit, Trump, the Great Banking Tits-Up -  you name it, whatever it is, even though we're the experts, with the inside knowledge and the contacts, we still always get things wrong, not just wrong, we get them ass-backwards, nine times outa ten, Jon, we get things completely shit-faced, half-wit, dumb-ass motherfucker wrong.
An' that must be why, Jon, old buddy, they give ya alla them medals and cups and shit, don't it?  

I mean, that must be right, they must be givin' ya all that stuff for being more fuckin'  useless than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, mussen they? Right?

 But one thing we ain't wrong about, old buddy,
 is our adoration of President Obama. 
I mean, you've told me privately, more'n once, old buddy,  that you'd use Mr Obama's shit fer toothpatse, aincha? 
An' I tellya somethin', JonnyBoy, you'd plumb haveta wrestle them little beauty-turds outa my hands and shove 'em straight in yer kisser, know what I'm sayin', buster, 'fore I'd part with one a them there fee-cal dee-lights.

An' I tellya sump'n else, old buddy, 
that President Spunky Bill, 

his turds, they ain't half bad, considering, that is, that he ain't a nigger, and that even though the true copraphiliac cognoscenti would always prefer the flavour an' the texcha of that sweet brown stuff, comin' from a sweet brown asshole, 
 why, JonBoy, 

no-one in the journalistic fraternity's ever gonna turn their nose up at cleaning their teeth with a Spunky Bill Sphincter Special. 
That's me, standin' in line, Jon, right there, ready to be his toilet.. 
Yeah, I guess he was askin' her if she liked a nice cee-gar from time to time.
Well, I'd heard, Joe, on this side of the pond,
 as it were, that there were worms in it....
The Hell you say? 
What, worms in ole Spunky Bill's shit?  
An' we journalists're still falling over  ourselves to lick his asshole clean, like he was still president? 
How'd he get worms in his doo-doos?
 Them critters crawl up his asshole, or what? 

No, Joe, 
it's widely rumoured that he has some horrible disease,

 and that he, 
well, he just sort of manufactures the worms,

 inside of himself.

Inside of himself? 
 Just like that? 
Like he was a walkin'-talkin' wormery?  
Some kinda two-legged compost heap?
And what, they eatin' his ass up, from inside? 
That's some heavy shit, that. 
It's like somethin' from the Old fuckin' Testament. 
 Is it all down to his lifetime of fornicating with every woman he meets, 'n'every girl, too, from what I hear?
  Is that what it is? 
 Like syphillis, some shit like that? 
I betcha that's what it is. 
Worms eatin' ya up from inside, an' you ain't even dead yet. 
That's fuckin' mediaeval, that, Jonboy. 
Just as well he ain't President no more, 
or even First Gennulman. 
Imagine that shit.

Imagine President Trousers, in her mad, scarlet pants suit and her brain-tumour faintin' fits, needing to be held-up by a secret service man and her plastic surgery bruises hidin' under her dark glasses, looking like she's escaped from some old lady funny farm and First Genullman Spunky Bill, all whey-faced, like he was having a heart attack, and them both gibberin an' fuckin' droolin' as they're welcoming some foreign fuckin' dig-nit-erry to the White House and a bucket of fucking worms comes cascading down outa his trouser legs an' starts wrigglin' and writhin' all over the fuckin' carpet.
Hundreds of the slimy bastards, 
all glistening with former presidential shit an' blood
an'  that oitment, wossitcalled,  Anusol, is that it, the stuff they give folks with piles?
 You're bound to have piles, aincha, passing hundreds of fucking worms every half hour? 
If you don't get piles in a poxed-up asshole infested with an unlimited supply of worms, when the more worms you shit, the more worms you grow inside of you, then you ain't never gonna have piles, not ever.
That's some heavy shit.
Ya cooden make that shit up, Jon.
Not even in Time magazine. 
I tell ya what, boy, you'n'me, we better think twice,
'fore we eat any more PROTUS doo-doo,
ain't that the trooth, boy?

And, pardon me, isn't it, look you, for intruding; I know this isn't my bulletin, but just a thought, 

thinking out-loud, as it were, isn't it,
but it wouldn't do Wall Street and the Stock Exchange much good, would it? The First Gentleman being worm-incontinent, as the broadsheets would put it, or Spunky Bill Shits Worms in White House! as some of Mr Kelvin McFilth's colleagues might headline it. 
I should think the dollar would hit an all time low, probably never come back up again,
I shouldn't wonder; 
  be a bit of a laughing stock, look you, America, wouldn't it, having elected a pair of gibbering, geriatric, poxed-up, worm-shitting lunatics to the highest office in the world, eh, isn't it?

But I had hoped that you might, Joe, if I may call you Joe, that you might tell us of the rumours that Michelle Obama, child of a Chicago drugs boss,  is really Michael Obama;  that her physique, her musculature and skeleton, are incontrovertibly male, in shape and proportionality, that there are many photographs which show an extraordinary, penile shape in her groin; that there is no offical record, anywhere, of the birth of the two girls and that they were said to be delivered, purely coincidentally, by one of her closest friends;  that there are no pictures of either of the two girls below the ages of three and that they are, therefore, adopted and that Barry and Michael, longtime supporters of gay marriage are having what we call a laff, that they are, in fact, a gay couple, Michael having had only the hormone and cosmetic surgery and not the removal of the meat and potatoes as it were. 
Whaddayathink, Joe?

Well, Huw, Joan Rivers  said that was the case. But then she died within a few days of saying so, so I don't think I wanna get into that.

And what about the fact that a young gay man testified to a Senate Committee that he had oral sex and crack cocaine with Senator Obama? It's there, to be seen, on youtube, Did he die, too?

No, not as far as I know. But Obama's assistant, who had been doing the liaison with the young gay man, on behalf of Obama, he died, mysteriously. And so, again, I don't wanna get into this.

That's fine. Rumour casts its wild spell and some events, like the disappearance of Madeleine McCann, are so mired in deceit and obfuscation that the truth may never emerge. 
I am not convinced that Michelle is a man, nor am I convinced that it is any of my business if she is but there is a wealth of persuasive argument in cyberspace. But I would just like to say, for the record, that the accusations about the Obamas' sexuality and about his narcotic use have far more substance to them than do the current rumours about Donald Trump and yet they have not prompted any offical fears of malfeasance, lewdness or blackmailability; unsurpising, given that, just the other night, with the help of MediaMinster,  Obama self-sanctified, and saints, we know, are immune to Earthly prosecution.

Here's what happens when Decorum prohibits an autocue. The tongue-tied bum can always do a bit of song and dance and have it described, by Time magazine's grateful Joe Klein, as Elegance.

Mr Bojangles, the showbiz president.

It all falls a bit flat, this amazing grace gospel turns graceless, when the young and clearly disturbed perpetrator of the multiple church killings 

is sentenced to death, and Obama's fellow congregants applaud the sentence, 

one of the bereaved saying that it proves what Love can achieve - Execution.
Grace Americanised, Grace made Murder.
Apposite, then, and truly representative of America's sickening, brutalising hypocrisy, 
at home, abroad and in its outgoing president.

And in other news, Lady Sir Elton John is said to be deeply traumatised by the death, at only 72, of former football manager, Graham Turnip, as he was unaffectionately known by Kelvin McFilth and his colleagues, down in the sewers.

McFilth's Sun,
 raising the level of national discourse

Does everyone have to die, wailed the distraught, elderly light entertainer and young parent. The football chap was so very, so terribly important to me. I just don't know if I'll be able to carry on. But I must do, for the sake of the children, 

little wotsaname, and the other one.

Graham was secretly a great fan of myself and all my good works, 

selfishly undertaken on behalf of poor, stupid people who didn't go to Oxford and join the PBC, for life, revealed charity queen and   beastfucker, 

Dame Esther Crow. 
( motto: see no evil, not about rich celebrities, anyway)
Like most red-blooded males, Graham kept his attraction to me secret, so's not to offend his wife, but I know that he not only had the hots for my extensive good-doing but for my taut, hot, mature body. They all do.

Wull, it were Graham, bonny lad,  who got me on't road to bein' rich and I'll allus respect 'im fer that, 

stuttered former England captain and cheat, Alan Gob.

Elsewhere, millions of George Michael fans and David Bowie  nutters said their thanks to the dead footballer. Honestly, we were kinda running on empty, as regards mourning fuel, until this chap, Wotsisname, passed away and put, well, he put a tiger in our tanks, a dead one, like, and got us mourning again at full speed. we didn't know him, like, but then we never knew George or David, either, but who gives a fuck about that? It's the mourning that counts, the AreEyePeeing, respect, that's worritsallabout, I mean, this bloke, he was really big in the world of root vegetables, wasn't he? 


And that's it for now. 
Kirsty'll be on Newsnight, later, by which time we hope some more celebrities will have died and we can bring the news to you. 
It's why I became a journalist, to obituarise nobodies.
Here's Jayne Tits for you, with the weather, again.