Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Meet me at the little nest
At the Head of the Sea - Kenmare
Iveragh and Beara peninsula
Let's take the Island first Formorian
From brothers Eremon Eber Fionn

Make believe Ir is an interpolation
Landed life a pastime of war, raid
And invasion after high tea at Eton.

SHOCK!! SHOCK!! SHOCKER!! Winnie: Working Class Scumbag.

This is an interesting text by Churchill I creativised here in the cheap hoe factory where

"I hate you ready shower of foreign invaders, robbing me lingo and having a laugh with our tragically national icons, reverse engineering their reputations. Why can't I do that, I'm from Oxford, with a lawn and ponies!

Why can't I make people laugh, you horrible bitching bores! I want to turn Frank Carson into the octagenarian Dr No and make big Ian go bonkers..."

Yeah yeah yeah, there's always a big fella or short arse git to take the piss out of here, don't worry about it, you deeply uninventive slagger."


SHOCK! Winston Mon, Whassup Bro, Wanna Pop At The Nogzi Lot?

How The Jews Can Combat Persecution: Winston Churchill: 1937

"The central fact which dominates the relations of Jew, non-Jew"....Jock, Geordie, Manc, Mick, Brum, Monkey Hanging Hartlepudlian scum.

"...is that the Jew is "different." He..."

..Hey Spence get gender correct you fat toffy git...

"looks different. He thinks differently. He has a different tradition and background. He refuses to be absorbed."

Winston Churchill Senor Hacking tortured artist?

Get real brainwashed ones, he was a lard arsed rich bloke I am willing to bet would not have pissed on you if you was on fire.

"I hang my head in shame every time I see this behaviour, as I am a true Englishman who would gladly amputate any part of my own body, and kill others, for any member of the aristocracy who asked me to do so. In fact, I would press the button in the Whitehouse if my master requested, because I have that rare quality, which Fleet Street sadly lacks, loyalty to the Crown."


What a laugh we brave enslaved Baldric gened Britons had when all our masters surveyed was pink in their name, won by us good old working class scumbags toffs tell what do when using us as tools to secure their dream all across the planet, us pissing and shatting ourselves laughing at their stiff upper lip one liners.

"Baldric, die now"

Hurrah for the queens and kings of England we died on demand for and tugged our greasy unwashed forelocks to.

How blessed we scum
Our aristocracy love us
More than we them

England or Engurland, we all are indebted to them born better than us, it's just that soemtimes I think it's not right, that Harry's not respected enough for kicking it all off, and Liz

Virgin princess
Own and possess
Us your subjects
Dye in my memory
Let us war and dream
Die in the underpass

All of our tribe
Live without rancour

In Hyde Park corner
Let me kill scumbags
For minimum wage
Their remains a gift
To remember love by.

Lovely Elizabeth
Bring back beheading
Let me majestically
Spike up their skulls
On walls surrounding
Your countless mansions
For a piece of cloth
A slither of tin
Pinned on my chest
Let me piss in Buckingham
Palace garden after
Tea, a biscuit and death
Come slow, slow, no stop

Don't come at all, live
Invisible around us
Your mug and those of us
Unlucky enough to be born
In a royal derbhfine.

Elizabeth let me
Race with your horses
Gymkhana no more
The son of the 7th Duke
Of Marlborough, Spenser
Saved us, tug tug tug.


Sir Winnie was born into an aristocratic sept of the Dukes of Marlborough, wigged up ponces, born for spoiling and who ably served the imperialist cause, unflaggingly for centuries, their duty to diddle scum and enslave them. Hurrah!

Whenever they went beyond the nine waves of, where the honest peasants knew their place, men like the born to be Sir Winston turned up, unininvited by those he was there to kill or rip off and take the piss out of as but one servant of her and his Majesties, bored on a throne thinking up who to war with next for their lives to have meaning.

Winnie was great gas, hated the working class and against a national Health or Education service, as he knew that educating the masses only took from the champion's portion.

Great violent toff to sort out Adolf and the boys, a useless humanitarian, voted the greatest of Britons recently by the Great on the greater island of Fiendishly Crap UK.



I read this earlier today in the anima mundi, written by the media slappa whose name and piece I didn't bother reading much. He's not been taking the VD tablets the Guardian blog-bore, and he knows being poxy will send him back to Highgate cottage and hospital, a return to the psychiatric fame academy he trained to be a journalist in.

He was having a hobnob, a coffee and going on about being brave, praying it was in an appropriately noble register, his brief list of names and a reference to Winnie being the man to invoke for a Brit to get boring about, advertising in a tenor which claimed astronauts are the perfect hero, choosing to end, depress au revoir to the reader with his state of mind:

"I see a command module and eight smaller modules in front. The pilot of the command module is wearing a red suit." Followed by the strains of Jingle Bells on a smuggled harmonica. That was Wally Schirra, who.."

We spent billions on sending into space with a harmonica in a moment of supreme pointlessness, just because JFK and the political dynasties of Uncle Sam wanted bragging rights with the Russkies, a small game taking up lots of conscripted labour, some of whome went AWOL, the unmanly puffs, not like Uncle Sam and kooky George the alkie, born to be a boss and pain in the ass to all beneath him on the human pole, the sociual pecking order. George III George, let Daddy pay for the election, Tone of Kennedy's Bono.

Beautifully stunning and wonderful boss, national capo, queen of bonded-slavery, you who exude class and poise with a rare grace, which clearly proves that good taste is genetic, as well as scummy taste.

Basically it's all down to breeding. english people want to serve and work to make the greater English better's and higher ups lives easier than ones own. It is ones nature, because a compelling desire to know our place and defer to our masters has been bred into us over thousands of years's?

Turlough Mor has eighteen
Kids and ten missus
Sean just keeps his prisoner

Look Liz
In saffron mantles
Gallowglass grunt
Cut to the palace
Suck up, see the Proud Mor
Unable to handle
Untangle the mess
Of all this creation.

Let me love you every Christmas and cheer the BNP.

If I was legally allowed to stand for parliament, I would do so as the Burscough: No Plebs platform that would bring in legislation (already drafted by the bedsit cabinet) which would allow every man, woman and child on the island the opportunity to pledge personal allegiance to any born bute who bossed for Liz,

Liz lovliest Lilibeth sat,
superbly selectively bred

her head of state pledged
contracted between us chavs

and the wonderful, favourite, fave gorgeous toffie
nosed bluebloods: whereby us scumbags - fit

only for filling mass graves - promise to voluntarily offer all goods and services, and die on request or be executed, if the ending of our lives furthers the whimsy of any member within the royal derbhfine.

The tasks and responsibilities of the pledge are enormous, and involve much hardship, but would unite us as never before, and we would be sending a very strong message to the planet we are at war with, that we are building on and consolidating our traditional way of life.

A way of life, masters and those who know what is good for us living their lives and going about ruling us without having to worry about anything what so ever. That is what we are here for.

Every single subject of this land, in my opinion, should be proud and honoured to help carry a tiny piece of the immense burden which the Great Boss family gift us.



Hear the blade whir
Hugh prostrate beneath, Bount
Knew you were dead, Mor O'Neill
Busted Hugh the O'Neill Mor
Holding the nuts and unbeatable
Cards divinely dealt goddess
Directing a sublime charade

Held you, piece of fictional
Intelleigence, a fantasy queen
Chimera who bluffed and crushed
Hugh the Great Earl unaware
Existence dealt him proof
An island's wholly ghost mimes
At history's pointed tip
Submits one short celestial act
Ineffable burlesque, tragic
Slap-stick on a stone floor


Hugh who knew war goddess Morrigan
Amassing her crop of severed acorn
Heads from before Partholon sailed
Up river Roughty the Tuesday Abraham
Turned sixty, the annals say Liz,
was helpless.

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