ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS A DAMN GOOD SHIT

It’s not much to ask Santa for is it? I do not want a Cartier watch or a Bang and Olufsen tele, I’ll settle for a simple tom tit. A modest enough ambition, especially when one has not been for weeks and lost hope of passing a load without the aide of an epidural and forceps.

Some people are plagued by bunions or varicose veins, with me it’s my bowels, they have seized up and last weeks breakfast has established squatters rights in them, which adds a new dimension to the term down in the dumps. What does one do next I ask myself.

In desperation I have stuffed laxatives down my throat to the point where I practically choked, naively believing the claims on the packet, which turned out to be a load of diarrhoea despite not inducing any in the human condition. The only dividend I received from these shop soiled panaceas was a series of feeble sphincter rattlers, which did nothing to loosen up my mood or anything else. Another ploy was to raise my legs high when sitting on the bog, an activity which shifted nothing, but did result on me falling off and banging my head, which at least took my mind off my concrete guts.

What next I ask myself, just because I live in a dump, is it too much to expect to be able to have one every now and again? But, life moves on even if my innards won’t, and Christmas in already on the doorstep, so raise your glasses to a merry Yuletide. Bottoms up.

GORDON BROWN, THE TIBERIUS OF OUR AGE

They who ignore the lessons of history are condemned to live with it's mistakes, and as most members of the Labour Party are ignorant of our own history, let alone that of any other nation, then it should come as no surprise that by adopting Gordon Brown by acclamation as their leader, they landed us with the modern equivalent of Tiberius Caesar.
 
Notice Brown's slow moving jaws, just as Augustus described Tiberius. The second Emperor of Rome was intelligent, cunning and beset by dark moods. That's our Gordon all right, the moods do not come any darker and the man is as cunning as a shit house rat. If you doubt any of that, check with Tony Blair.

Tiberius allowed himself to come under the influence of unscrupulous friends, although our modern counterpart would describe that as all balls, despite the influence of his education Secretary, who, for all we know is the trainer of the spintriae.
 
The Emperor frightened the Senate, describing them as men fit to be slaves, ever seen Gordon at the Despatch Box, glowering at all around him in the Commons? And the reaction of those he was glowering at? The analogy is disconcerting to say the least.
 
Now we come to Sejanus, the Praetorian Prefect, a venomous specimen who the Emperor promoted way beyond what his social status merited, and when Sejanus stepped out of line, he was quickly finished off. Oh lordy, Mandy, you'll be for the chop one of these days, mark my words you will, sweet cheeks, especialy when Gordon finds out what you've been saying about him behind his back.
 
In his latter years, Tiberius lashed out at his enemies, treason trials being his weapon of choice. Damian Green love, you really should have seen it coming, your fate could not have been more clear if the Prime minister had put up a notice in the bus shelter signalling his intentions.
 
Now Tiberius, as we all know, spent his last years in a villa on Capri. Well, we do not have anything similar over here to offer our Gordon, but we could always shunt the old bugger off to a caravan on the Isle of Wight.
 
A mean spirited tyrant was how contemporaries described Tiberius, oh Gordon it gets worse as it gets more accurate doesn't it? But, the last word on this subject belongs to the Princeps Augustus, who described his adoptive son Tiberius as mud kneaded with blood. Pace Gordianus.

DAMIAN GREEN AND A FART IN THE FACE OF THE NATION

The arrogance of power lives in blissful ignorance of common sense, as the Damian Green episode demonstrates so graphically. There are many disturbing aspects about this case, the most prominent of these is the use of terrorist laws to harass a sitting MP, that is not what these laws were introduced for. The dissemination of details of government incompetence is not by any yardstick an act of terrorism, there are many who would describe that action as a civic duty, it is certainly the duty of opposition MPs to expose government shortcomings. This is not the first time such legislation has been used in a situation where it should never have been applied, as in the case of the octogenarian arrested under terrorism laws at the labour Party conference for heckling the Home Secretary, that was not a terrorist act either, merely an affirmation of good taste. That such laws are being used to stifle dissent is frightening, where will it all end? We are not heading towards a police state, we are already in one.

These events were not in any way helped by the dreadful Speaker,Michael Martin. this ignorant clown is not fit to be in charge of a bingo hall let alone the forum of our liberties, not content to to allow the police to enter an MP's office and carry away sensitive information which probably included details of the private affairs of constituents, he then seeks to offload the blame onto the shoulders of the over promoted Jill Pay, Searjent at Arms, an individual who has amply demonstrated that she is not fit to be in charge of the corporation lavatory let alone the Nations Parliament. As Miss Pay's predecessor was fired by the Speaker for being too posh I can only conclude that PayPal Jill's only qualification for the job, is that she is as common as arse gas in a cow shed.

The Prime Minister and his Home Secretary, declare they knew nothing about this pantomime. A member of the opposition is arrested, and his office in the Palace of Westminster raided, and the PM and Home Secretary knew nothing about it, dear God do they think we are simple? unfortunately, they do. The arrogance of power you see.

This Government will never apologise for it's actions, it does not believe in admitting to mistakes let alone saying sorry for them, such attitudes go hand in hand with their overweening contempt for the electorate, but they will find out when the time comes that the electors can and will exact a terrible revenge on them when the time comes. New Labour has forgotten what it was that propelled them into government in 1997. it was anger at the Tories not love of labour that gave them their historic majority. The sooner this government is given it's marching orders the better, although I balk as calling these tawdry specimens a government, they are nothing more than a fart in the face of the Nation.

A CRACK IN THE DYKE

This country is turning into a right queer hole, make no mistake we are definitely at the fag end of civilisation as we know it. Kerry Fletcher, a butch number slung out of the army, on account of her Sapphic tendencies, took umbrage at the treatment she received. Of course, in this day and age, it is not enough to be offended, one has to be compensated for ones hurt feelings, and Miss Fletcher, like her feelings required sensitive handling, so sensitive that it required a bum judge to award her 200 grand of public money to smooth her ruffled feathers. Bugger me blind on a thursday, for 200 grand you can hurt my feelings any time, I won't complain, just take you to a tribunal, it's a better cert than the bingo.

Now, call me a pedantic SOB, and I am, but, one has to ask the question, what was one of Miss Fletchers proclivities doing in the military in the first place? it is not generally known as the home of sensitive souls, and the lady should have known that she would have to take a bit of stick. One can only conclude that this payment was part of a larger game plan, and if it was who can in all honesty blame the lady for trying it on when the government is so eager to fork out the taxpayers cash to all comers who meet the politically correct criteria for such an award.

This award is so distressingly typical of a society who's moral values have gone awol and show no sign of finding their way home. Our nation is under relentless assault, battered by the high tides of political correctness, one is mindful of the little Dutch boy who saved his country, but this is not Holland and who will plug the gap in this dyke.

THE BELL TOLLS FOR BALLs

Our Esteemed Home Secretary has made the decision to address the problem of prostitution by taking the men of the nation in hand, not that that is likely to give them much of a thrill considering the woman's physiognomy. But why this rabid antipathy towards the worlds oldest profession, one gets the suspicion that Miss Smith is intensely jealous of those of her sisters who are able to charge on the open market for a commodity that she could not give away. And, while we are on the subject, what is so terrible about prostitution? one party has something to sell which another, party wishes to buy, it is no different from buying a pound of pick 'n mix from Woolies.

Miss Smith, bless her feminist surgical stockings would have us all believe that all prostitutes are slaves, in thrall to evil pimps, with not choice in life other than to grind on in their profession. Now lets settle one thing here and now, no individual is forced into prostitution, it is just as easy to get a job stacking shelves down at Tesco, although not nearly as remunerative, and there is the nub of the issue, whoring is good money and the work is not back breaking, you only have to lay on it.

The real target here of course is men. Jacqui Smith, and her pal Harriet Harman are the representatives in the Cabinet of those hairy arsed marxist lesbians who spearhead the feminist movement. To these harpies, all men are rapists and should be persecuted, as they regard being in possession of a dick as an indictable offence. If these laws, making soliciting for a jump illegal, are put in place just saying "How much luv?" will get you banged up.

It is about time men started to stand up for themselves, for the end is nigh. Men of England, show some balls while you still allowed to have them.

SWEET PEACHES GELDOF

Sweet did I hear you say? Ok, the little madam is about as close to confectionary as a bar of fruit and nut is to hemlock. But let us exercise a little charity here, it is not entirely the poor child's fault that she is what she is, with a name like Peaches one is bound to view the real world through a slightly distorted prism, there would not have been many Freds and Gladyses in her narrow little world where every parent is a star of some sort and all ones friends have equally daft names, but that is as far as charity can stretch to. Now I can understand our little princess wanting to find out what sex outside of a one night stand would be like, but in order for her to assuage her curiosity was it entirely necessary to marry some unknown American dork? Still we should not be too negative, it will be a beautiful divorce and the magazine rights will pay for a shed load of coke. Just like her mum bless her. What I can not understand is why this teenage trollop gets so much attention, as apart from shoplifting and freeloading she has nothing to mark her out from the tenant of your average council estate, although it must be admitted though, the latter has marginally more class. Of course I blame the parents and the fad for giving their children rediculous and pretentious names for her current sate. Peaches, poor lamb, your life would have been so normal if your parents had give you a more down to earth name, apple tart and custard would have been perfect.

THE PARLIMENTARY PANTO

Christmas is coming and the goose is wasting away. Times are hard as my uncle Sid used say when anyone in the family tried to tap him for a sub, for many folk this year the festivities will go with a bang, and that is all they will be able to afford for Christmas dinner, bangers. For our Parliamentary masters however, it will be John Lewis as usual, and to bring joy to the world they will be performing a Christmas Pantomime, the preferred venue was to have been the Albert Hall, but the administrators of that august arena wouldn't accommodate the Parliamentarians at any price, in fact about the only place that would tolerate their presence was the Co-Op hall in Wiggan.

Star turn is dear Gordon, you know the one, prudence in a jock strap. The dear leader will be playing Baron Hard up, not that he actually is of course, but as he has made the rest of us broke he will pass muster in the part. Naturally, Peter Mandelson will have a staring role, under his stage name of lord Mushy peas, he will sing that delightful duet from the Gondoliers, you know, the one that goes a bit like "And one of us will be a queen and sit on a rock hard bone, with a frown instead of a crown on her head and an oligarchs yacht for her own"

David Milliband will pull funny faces for the delectation of the audience, not that he will actually have to do anything, the man looks gormless in any situation, the great difficulty will be in persuading the authorities he is old enough to tread the boards as he does not seem old enough for his balls to have dropped yet. The opposition Tories are to be represented by George Osborn, he promises to give a rendition of the Eton boat song, translated into the Russian of course. The Lib Dems are not taking part, word on the grape vine has it they are feeling a little queer these days, plus ca change plus ca la meme chose.

Alastair Darling is to be on the box office, taking the public's money to pay for a duff performance, talk about art imitating life. I wish the performers all success, in the sure and certain knowledge the politicos will make a complete dogs breakfast of it as they make of everything else they set their grubby little paws to.

You may think this is unduly harsh, no, not at all. If you really want to witness the dirt being dished to our tawdry elite then log on to www.satyricon-books.co.uk But be warned, if you are politically correct and love New Labour, then you will bloody hate it.