Sunday, 15 February 2009

My advice to Paul Moore is not to go on lonely walks near woods and stay away from penknives

Over this weekend the noose is tightening round Brown's neck with the HBOS whistleblower about to tie him in to this financial debacle, which is the result of greed,fear and hubris on behalf of the Banking Industry, and ego mania on behalf of Brown.

My advice to Paul Moore is not to go for lonely walks, stay away from woods and penknives, get your life insurance upto date.

Labour has got a lot a friendly Judges on side.Labour got control of the BBC the last time, so do not think for a minute that there are not other factors in play here.


Anonymous said...

A heart attack. Stress related, poor man has been under a lot of pressure.

Anonymous said...

I have no idea how that filing cabinet fell on him out of the seventh floor window

Anonymous said...

A world war one pilot has got a better life expectancy than Paul Moore at present

Chalcedon said...

Dr Kelly, like most men of his build has around 5 litres of blood. Go on, spill 5 litres of water on the floor. It's a lot. Blood is more viscous. And it sticks. Where was his 5 litres if he exsanguinated with a penknife? I ask you. Although I don't have the details of his forensics I do know that you cannot lose 5 litres of blood like that in a wood unless the body was dumped there. OMG I'm a conspiracy theorist!!! Nope, just stating the bleeding (oops) obvious.

Mitch said...

Wonder if "offers" have been made to accidentally let his dog eat the homework.
A nice seat in the lords perhaps...a safe seat at the trough in Quango land or a view with a body bag.

Personally I would have just sent copies to every news service in the world.

Anonymous said...

Doing a Moore (su⋅i⋅cide)

Pronunciation [soo-uh-sahyd]
noun, verb, -cid⋅ed, -cid⋅ing.

1. the intentional taking of one's own life.
2. destruction of one's own interests or prospects: Buying that house was financial suicide.
3. a person who intentionally takes his or her own life.
–verb (used without object)
4. to commit suicide.
–verb (used with object)
5. to kill (oneself).

Oldrightie said...

I'm sure the fragrant Alistair Campbell is on the case. Mind you, can they afford another high profile killing? Better ask Tone!

Anonymous said...

whilst you're in giving advice mode, should you not be advising that 13 year old father to get a couple of paternity tests done. the second one he could use on Miliband,they look closely related.

The Beast Of Clerkenwell said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
The Beast Of Clerkenwell said...

Fuck penknives
I were him id be carrying a handgun, if not available a big fuck off knife.
An take at least two of the cunts with me

Arseholes said...

Anyone know if Dolly does Sundays?

Fucking wanker.

Anonymous said...

And he needs to avoid sexy American females who may be a spy but you never know.

stanislav, a young polish plumber said...

More from beyond Armageddon



The Doings of a Madman

Thin, ragged children skip and tumble, chanting:

"Ring a ring a mortgages
A pocketful a credit cards
Re-Cession, De-Pression
We all fall down."

Others, having shared a nest of small, fire-blackened mice, make the movements of an old, country dance, from long ago, before Armageddon, before Ruin:

"Mandelson’s blue, dilly-dilly
Mandelson’s green
Gordon’s a freak, dilly-dilly
Peter’s a queen.

If we grow up, dilly-dilly
If we grow up
We shall be poor, dilly-dilly
We shall be poor."

After a day scavenging and hunting small rodents, the small tribe returns to the camp, calling greetings:

"Yo, friend; curs-ed be the snot-eater."

"Yo, too, may his one good eye be pluck-ed out…"

(both) And stomp-ed underfoot.

Others, catching-up, complete the ancient curse:

"And may legions piss in his dead, empty socket."

It is a similar pile of bricks and breeze blocks to the one in Book One, a weak fire, made from twigs and compressed shit splutters, the tribe, pitifully thin, cold and dirty, gathers around the Elder.

“Today has been a good day, none have been carried away by Others, to be topp-ed and eaten; none have wandered in the Poisoned Fields and died, thrashing, vomiting their lungs down their fronts - from toxins, children, deadly filth, bequeathed us by criminal industrialists who lived among the Ancients and enslaved them - and we, helpless, watching, unable to end their agony in the traditional manner. Today, only one infant, and it an skinny runt, was devoured by rats, it’s mother even now, an panting beast with two backs, behind yon rusty old wheeled carriage, making an new life. Treasure was found, two tins of small, oily creatures, some say they are fish although none alive now have seen fish, and five tins of beef which is corn-ed; enough, with careful sharing, to Feast the whole tribe

Come now, let us settle, but watchfully, send men and women with sharpened sticks to guard against Others, throw fresh shitcake on the fire, chew on these roots, and huddle ye close, whilst I tell more of the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner as it was told by my fathers and theirs. Tinsman, fetch the Sacred Opening Tool and make ready the Feast. Turn to your neighbour, make the sign of Ruin and say the prayer of stanislav, the Polish plumber: In my country would hang this bastard up by neck off lamppost for few hours and then chop off fucking head, stick-up on spike and piss down throat and feed body to bogblokes, bastard is good for fuck all and waste of fucking space is; is worse than fucking Jock, innit, this bastard, Hoon ? As much use as chocolate fucking blowtorch, eh? Send horrible fucking bastard straight down in Hell and hot poker shove-up in poxed-up murderer’s arse is, for ever and ever, Amen. Let him tell Mr Devil he simply doesn’t accept this or that, fucking lying fucking bastard shithead sonofafuckingbitch. And God bless from stanislav, friendly Polish plumber, do good job and cheap for cash. Take off shoes and everything.”

(All) “In my country would hang this bastard up by neck off lamppost for few hours and then chop off fucking head, stick-up on spike and piss down throat and feed body to bogblokes, bastard is good for fuck all and waste of fucking space is; is worse than fucking Jock, innit, this bastard, Hoon, is fucking rubbish, could kill ten times and still not enough would be ? As much use as chocolate fucking blowtorch, eh? Send horrible fucking bastard straight down in Hell and hot poker shove-up in poxed-up murderer’s arse is, for ever and ever, Amen. Let him tell Mr Devil he simply doesn’t accept this or that, fucking lying fucking bastard shithead sonoffuckingbitch. And God bless from stanislav, friendly Polish plumber, do good job and cheap for cash. Take off shoes and everything.”

Historian’s note. The Sign of Ruin varies from tribe to tribe. In some it is a silent mouthing of : Oh, for fucks sake! several times; in others it is a cartoonesque miming of manic, high-speed nail-biting or of exaggerated nose-picking, studious mucus examination and determined oral consumption and in yet others the Tribespeople drop their shaking head into both hands, like one bereaved and devastated and chant: All is gone, All is gone, admit it, take Flight. In the tlong dark decades after Ruin, when the tribes could just about remember Plenty, people would huddle together, leafing through a fragile holy scripture, called an Argos catalogue, looking at the images of Holy Stuff and chanting, Oh, the fucking horrible one-eyed Scotch gti, over and over and over

“Once, Before Ruin, were many; as far as eye could see were Ancients, beyond counting on all our fingers. And they dwelt together in shining temples called City and Town and they travelled, on these same pathways, not darting and hiding in The Great Ruin, as do we, from pile to pile but in moving carriages, powered by Magic. And Gordon the Ruiner said they must work and toil that they might have carriages, man and woman and child, but then said unto them that it was wrong to use them, naughty and inconsiderate, and did penalise them mightily for even the Magic which was needed to make the carriages go, and for taking the carriage into City and Town they were penalised further and beggared and for driving the carriage quickly they were punished even though the Carriage was made to go quicker and quicker and Gordon said Buy Carriages for the Eck-onomyStupid but use them not for they will cause the Sun to melt and all will die. And lo, when people stopped renewing their carriages for they had become an pain in the arse Gordon lamented and took the people’s treasure and gave it up unto the CarriageMakers, whose carriages no bastard, what with one thing and an other, wanted the fuck to have do with, in order that ever more carriages be made and lined-up, for no-one to want. And Gordon smiled and called this an Stimulus to the Eck-onomyStupid. And the Ancients looked at Gordon the Ruiner and thought This is an Fuckwit, innit. He taketh unto himself our Treasure, for which we have toil-ed long and hard and pisseth it up the fucking wall, like an pestilential cunt and an fucking lunatic. And the people of all the tribes did cry out, You have no legitimacy here, Gordon; Tony and Imelda, The Horrible Fucking Thieving Cow did have some right to govern the Tribes but you have not any, give unto us an election, you fucking one-eye-ed Scotch bastard. But Gordon did say No, you don’t want an election, instead, you want me to preach at you, of Vaaal-ewes and Visions, trust me, I know what you want, far better than you know what you want. My father was an clergyman (which as we know, children, is an Ancients’ word for an child molester, an filthy fucking bastard) and though dead he talks to me yet. And he sayeth unto me, Gordon, my son, thou art the cleverest one-eye-ed Scotch bastard in all Time and you must rule and rule and rule; why, therefore, have an election when only I am suitable to rule and do unto you all the Right Thing, even though it is wrong. And with such statements did Gordon the Ruiner make clear unto the Tribes that it was his intent not to make good his early promise of an election but to shit, instead, long and hard, in their faces. And so he did.”

Historians note: Scotch or Jock or drunken, idle, wife-beating, child-molesting, cross-dressing,inbred, beetle-browed, ginger imbecile are believed to be terms for the inmates of a secure Reservation in the North, wholly supported by the wealth of the Ancients, until Gordon the Ruinous burnt it all. Gordon himself was a Reservationee but by sleight of hand and bombast for a long time persuaded people that he was a proper human being and not, as he obviously was, a mutant, snot-eating bastard.


“They say cocaine’s for horses and not for men, they say it’ll kill you but they don’t say when.” From an Ancients’ lullaby.

A child: “Tell us, Old One, of Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho”

“Ah, Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho, he was an clown, an laughing stock, good, as stanislav did say, for fuck all, not even for tying the thongs on his own footwear, lest he fall over them and smash his stupid grinning face on the ground. Bo-Jo, against all sense and reason for he had never accomplished anything in his life save debauchery and twaddle, became Tribune of City and did have it all at his feet and all the maidens therein and he was loved for the simple reason that he was not Gordon or one of Gordon’s servants as had been the previous Tribune, Ken the Whine, who was an utter cunt and did consort with Reptiles and with brigands and butchers from Beyond, bringing them even unto City and celebrating their slaughter of Innocents, whining and smirking, like an walking arsehole. And so Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho was Tribune of City almost by default and knew not even the first thing he should do save say Ho-Ho-Ho at all who questioned him. And the children of City, parentless and ill-guided, took to stabbing at one another with blades and Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho said only Golly Gosh and Ho-ho-ho, little buggers, eh, what’s to be done, teach the little perishers latin, eh, that’s the ticket, Ho-ho-ho, never did me any harm. And multitudes remarked that lo, ipso facto, quad erat demonstrandum, neither had it done him much fucking good, the useless, idle coke-snorting buffoon.

Blame me not, Ho-Ho-Ho, he would say, for anything, I’m only the man in charge Ho-ho-ho, you knew what you were getting Ho-ho-ho, jolly good laugh, eh, cogito ergo cuntum est, eh, Ho-ho-ho; it is chaps, the little white powders, doncha know, Mayor’s Little Helpers, Ho-Ho-Ho.

And Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho came from an tribe within an tribe; there was George Osblow-Ho-Ho who was judgement-impair-ed by means of being an coked-up wastrel and good, as stanislav the plumber taught us to say, even for fuck all, the useless, innumerate little fuckpig, and William Ho-Ho-Ho-Mr-Deputy-Spanker-I-Yam-Ay-Very-Clever-Fellow and Dave Camero-Ho-Ho who pretended to be Chief and he did surround himself with thieves and nincompoops with whom he had been an rich young bully and they were call-ed the Bullying club and did foregather and by means of potions and powders did make themselves even stupider that they had been born, which was already considerably well blessed in the stupidity department and they did go a-bullying and rampaging among the Ancients and it was such qualities of leadership which led the Ho-Ho-Hos to think, Fuck me, chaps, if that Jock spastic can do it, why, so can we and so they did preach to the Ancients an tale of compassionate Ho-Ho-Hoism, which was just an form of Gordonism in an set of garments painted with stripes and an loud voice. And much spliting, was there, of infinitives, seeking, as did Dave Camero-Ho-Ho, the perfect bite of sound, as they called their lies, each and every last sorry-arsed, shit-eating, thieving, lying, degenerate, sonofafuckingbitching one of them.

(all, making the sign of Ruin) "and every last sorry-arsed, shit-eating, thieving, lying, degenerate, sonofafuckingbitching one of them."

"But enough, children, of BoJo the Ho-Ho, he is incidental in the Saga, which laments, down the ages of Man, the Horror and Terror and Mayhem wrought, in his cowardly misbegotten life, by Gordon the Ruiner…….

And Gordon did issue an proclamation to the Ancients saying, Buy ye all an dwelling of thine own for we have no interest in building ye homes that ye might rent, it is only by massive indebtedness that ye can become true citizens, so said the Empress Thatcher and so say I, Gordon; buy even an broom cupboard or an carriage shed and buy it with an loan from scoundrels and thieves for tomorrow it will be worth twice its worth today, I, Gordon, decree it, and ye may take the gain and spend it on Chink rubbish from Beyond and cheap-flight holidays with Air Begorrah and its Leprachaun owner, Flying Officer Michael O'Mouth, for the day after tomorrow it will be worth four times as much and growth thereafter will be expo-fucking-nential, meaning not a proportion of the original sum but an multiple of each successively increasing sum, not an incremental increase but an exponential increase and those who say me wrong are enemies unto the State, or I, Gordon who are one and the same,and indivisible; those who deny me are BoomandBusters and I say No More to them, An end Unto Them; what goes up must stay up, it is the law of gravity; I have, economically speaking, made the cyclical linear, and all by the simple means of not, as it may appear, burning all the money, throwing the gold in the ocean and making you all bankrupt but by inverting reality; this means that the pound in your pocket ( a token by which the Ancients’ labour was exchanged for goods) is not worth a pound but ten of pounds or an hundred of pounds, however many pounds I say it is worth then so shall it be. And however many there are I shall take then from ye and give them unto the Bankers, without whom, we, or me, at any rate, are all fucked and in so doing shall I save the Eck-onomyStupid.”

But the children, many of whom would soon die, from filth and hunger, here, in Fourth World Britain, or would be taken by Others or Beasts and who shivered, homeless and knew nought of comfort or security, dozed-off, their hunger pains stilled for the moment by sardines and corned beef, pulled from the ground. And those grown ones as had survived, knew too well the Saga of Gordon the Ruinous, how once there had been more than enough for all and yet, in scrambling to give the most to the least, the greatest to the fewest, in his urge to give to the rich from the poor, Gordon had destroyed all. And they were weary of it.

They cared not to hear more os the Saga on that night and the Elder, sensing their despondency, crawled to his own, special, pile of rocks and meditated On His Time Of Dying, it would be soon, he had been, after all, in the Ancients measure, nearly twenty three years Born in Ruin.

The tribe made the brief sleeptime salutation to each other- “the man was an ruinous cunt” response: “An utter fucking bastard.” And went to the Shitcorner to make shitcake for the fire, before a fitful, shivery sleep.

Gordon had robbed them, yet lectured them, even as he plundered; Gordon had destroyed Learning and Care and Order; had robbed the Old of peace and comfort, the Young of safety and the people had been lied unto, year after year after year until finally, calling for an examination of accounts they found that nothing was there, all was illusion, everything which was, was shit. And even as the hungerwars loomed and merchants closed their doors and the Ancients fell idle and frightened, Gordon the Foul did still address them as though they were imbeciles. I am like unto an great artist, he said. I am reminded, he said, of Titian - although, as any who had read Gordon’s writngs would know, he would not know a Titian should one fall from the wall and land on his mis-shapen gulping head – I am reminded of Titian who did not do his best work until his old age. And I am like Titian. It is true, of course, that Titian did not fuck-up everything he touched and turn it unto shit, not that I have and it is true that I am not an artist and have not an creative instinct in my hobgoblin body but even so, you all know what I mean, Titian, old age, greatness…C’est moi, as I am reminded that the Germans say. And the Ancients cast around for means to rid themselves of this blustering freak and could see only the Compassionate Ho-Ho-Hos and despaired of the whole fucking nonsense.

And I am reminded, insisted the jumped-up, immature, malformed, snot-eating, gulping, stuttering, tongue-tied spasming bastard, facetiously, condescendingly, that I speak latin, (even though I don’t,) and you don’t, well, few of you – and the people turned one to another and as early as that day, commenced to making the Sign of Ruin, Head in hands, Oh for fuck’s sake, he’s barking – and Y’know, credit, which is the means by which I have engineered this great Eck-onomyStupid miracle of prosperity and growth and an EndToBoomAndBust, almost, is based on the latin word, credo, which means Gordon is Great and always does the right thing for small people and hard businesses, yes and families, too, of which I, of course, have one, and if you believe that you will believe anything, and you obviously do. So, there you have it, there it is, not only does my friend and student, President Obamalamadingdong, do exactly as I advise but even those old scholars, Socrates and Pliny and Zorba the Greek, they all believe in me, too, it’s there, in black and parchment, Gordon is Great. To-morrow, I shall paint my masterpiece. All over you.

Historian’s note. It is believed that the Saga of Gordon the Ruinous was never completed and told for centuries only in fragments. So completely dispiriting was any examination of the One-eyed one’s record that few could stomach it in its entirity; stanislav the plumber on whose commentaries the Saga was based was an indignant outsider who railed against Gordon and his work, but to no avail; professional chroniclers, up their own and each others’ arses, dismissed his work as notorious, infamous, excoriating, shocking, preferring their own insular and equally ruinous, feeble commentaries – the why-of-whys and the if-onlys of those who felt, that by their timidity they would stay closer to the House of Gordon. They were cunts.

More of the Saga may yet emerge, much, as the Ancients said, had been done, yet much remains to be done.

Times are perilous, eat as much mouse as you can keep down and stay close, with sharpened stick, to the shitfire; Ruin stalks the night."

Warsteiner said...

Just a thought but

Mandy has been very quiet

Gordon looks like he's on death's door sometimes.

IMAGINE if he were to do a John Smith

Then think of the huge surge of sympathy votes going labours way

Just a thought.

R Nosgrove said...

I do hope Mr Moore has taken the elementary precaution of copying all this stuff and hiding it somewhere VERY safe indeed.

Ray Nerslane said...

If Gordon's boys have one of these he'll never see them coming:

I want one!

Anonymous said...

'Then think of the huge surge of sympathy votes going labours way'

Thought about it ......Nah !

JPT said...

They wouldn't dare - would they?

Anonymous said...

"They wouldn't dare - would they?"

Yet again, so soon. Doubt it, but they may think "when on a roll...."

an ex-apprentice said...

Nice one, Mr Stanislav.

Still waiting for the happy ending though, where we learn of the truly horrible manner of the Ruiner's slow and agonising demise.

Anonymous said...

@Warsteiner 16:09

What sympathy votes? Don't you mean flags, street parties,wild celebrations, dancing in the streets?

Democracy said...

They ducked
We're fucked
They're Labour
Not gonna save yer.

These laws
Big jaws
We gotcha

Bye bye.

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