Grantham Newsflash!

The Government was today breathing a collective sigh of relief after the surprise appointment of Sir Reg Pither who single handedly brought the Sir Fred Goodwin affair to an end.

Gordon Brown had been coming under increasing pressure as he continued to dither, fart about and generally shy away from facing the problem posed by Sir Fred who ran up debts of £86 krillion at the Royal Bank of Scotland by buying up loans to fairies at the bottom of his garden and then knobbing off into retirement at the age of 50 with a pension pot of £650,000-a-year - almost all paid for by the taxpayer.

Sir Reg ended the sorry affair once and for all today by taking a slightly firmer line during a 13 second meeting with the former bank boss.
Grantham News has obtained a leaked transcript of that meeting this morning and it is as follows:

Sir Fred: "You wanted to see me? Your letter said something about me being an 'abject twat' and it mentioned something to the effect 'not as long as there's a hole in my arse'."
Sir Reg: "Yes. I've got a chihuahua called Frank who has got more fiscal acumen than you! You ain't having a £650,000 pension. In fact, you ain't even getting a state fucking pension until you pay back all the money you've pissed up the wall. Now fuck off, you greedy, incompetent wanker!"
Sir Fred: "That's breach of contract! I'll sue!"
Sir Reg: "Then I'll get MI5 to kill you."
Sir Fred: "Ok, fair enough."
Sir Reg: "Close the door behind you."

This afternoon Sir Reg was reported to be in the Gaza Strip for talks with Hamas leaders and Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert having taken with him only half a dozen sets of genital clamps.

Mwa, Mwa!!

"Just shut up twining and show us yer Globes!"


What is an actor? Come on! Tell me! What is an actor? I'll tell you what an actor is. It's a person who dresses up, puts on makeup and pretends to be someone else. When five-year-old girls do this with their mum's shoes, clothes and lippy in front of the dressing table mirror it is quite rightly regarded as cute, charming and a wholly acceptable ritual on the path to maturity. How then should we regard this behaviour when it is exhibited by an adult? FUCKING DISTURBING, that's how!!

Be honest, if your other half came down to breakfast dressed as Lord Cardigan and started bellowing about cannons to the right and cannons to the left would you toss a bouquet in their direction and shout "Encore! Encore!! Magnificent, darling. A tour de force! Such a brave and inspirational performance"? No you fucking wouldn't! You'd pick up the phone pretty damn sharpish and tell the receptionist at the local loony bin that your Kevin had thrown one again and to get to blokes in white coats round asap!

What else do these retards do? Well, they learn, parrot-fashion, words written by someone talented and then, at a given cue, spew them back. For this "act" of genius they are hailed as gods! THEY don't write the words. THEY don't craft the story. THEY don't conjure up the comedy. THEY don't carve out the tragedy and melodrama - and yet THEY are the ones praised and hailed as superheroes. This is the only trade in the world where this happens. I mean, when Albert Einstein first wrote down E = MC-squared, was it the bloke who sharpened his fucking pencil who was credited with discovering the link between mass and energy, so ushering in the nuclear age? No! That bloke went on sharpening fucking pencils for the rest of his miserable, pathetic, fruitless fucking life until he died a sad, lonely and unmarked death. Quite right too!

Anyway, whatever happened to the good old days? In days of yore, when thesps and jesters were summoned to entertain the king, what happened if their performances went down like a pork pie in a synagogue? Did they get an ascerbic review in The Times? Did The Stage carry a piece criticising their commitment? No! They got fucking executed, that's what! Hang some sense into them, that's what I say!

All this brings me to last night's ferago - The Oscars. Film makers, directors and technical bods were rewarded for their efforts. Ok, at least they have a modicum of talent. I might not insist on them being tethered to posts in the middle of a field as the firing squad takes aim come the glorious revolution.......but the actors? To hear Kate fucking Winslet accept her textured golden dildo you'd think she'd discovered bastard penicillin!! Jesus H Christ!! Get a fucking grip, woman!! Someone's given you a tacky, fucking ornament for pretending to be someone else!! Get this in perspective, girl!

Acting is a trade, nothing more, nothing less, and not a particularly skilled one at that, so why, oh why, is so much fucking fuss made over the insecure, self-obsessed congealed masses of sputum who practise it? Look at it another way. If we're going to make this much fuss over the annual trade awards to thesps, then why don't we have similarly elaborate spectaculars for other trades?........................

MC: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Adelphi Baths, Maccelesfield, for the 2008 Gas Fitting and Plumbing Supplies Awards!!
"Yes, this is the one you've all been waiting for - who will take away one of those famous and coveted pewter Plunger awards tonight....................?
"And the winner of the Intermediate Apprentice-Level S-Joint and Extruded Pipe Extension Mold Installation Award is............Kevin Sidebotham!!!!"

TV Commentary: "And here he comes, wearing a stunning boiler suit and rubber boot-combo, making his way up the famous red lino to the trestle table in front of the stage, pausing only for a quick snap in front of the photographer from the East Cheshire and District Pipe Benders Gazette."

Kevin: "Oh God! Well....oh dear, what can I say? I just SO wasn't expecting this. Oh no! I can't believe it. Thank you SOOOO much!! To think, when I was a little boy, dreaming of getting a start in the world of domestic plumbing supplies, I would stare into the bathroom mirror and rehearse this acceptance speech, using a shampoo bottle in place of a pewter Plunger. Well, it's not a shampoo bottle anymore! This is it!!!"

MC: "Fuck off, Kev. The buffet's open." etc, etc, etc, etc.

Actors? Scum of the earth. They can all fuck off to Grantham.

Pigs In Space!!!!!!!

Beware the one that calls itself Harman - it is not a Labour Party loyalist at all but a Krinod from the Planet Fuck!

As a Fuckoid, the beast Harman is intent on "Fucking Up" everything on Planet Earth and particularly in that already crumbling outpost known as the UK.

Remember when her fellow Fuckoid Blair first materialised? Obviously, prior to his
teleportation across the universe, no-one had ever heard of him here on Earth. Moments after his particulate reassembly, however, he was leader of the Labour Party - or the New Fucking Labour Party, as he restyled it.

The warning signs were there for all to see. When the former Labour Leader John Smith went and rolled a seven - something this nation has lived to regret ever since - his fellow party members went into mourning, but not Fuckoid Blair. No, he started secretly manoeuvring and doing deals behind the scenes while everyone else was attending memorial services and giving heartfelt tributes to Smith to the media. Hey presto! When the black veils were lifted, there he was, a virtual shoe-in for the leadership.

Beware those warning signs again, I say! Blair's half-wit, half-brother Brown - he who struck a deal with the alien Devil and enabled the complete Fucking Up of the country - is now in his death throws. More than that, he is a dead man walking. While fellow Labourites rally round to keep him on life support, the Fuckoid Harman has begun a pathetically ill-disguised campaign behind the scenes to take over.

She has already arranged a Fucking Women's Conference to coincide with the next G20 economic summit so as to grab headlines. She has also been speaking out against bonuses paid out to the Krinadian Fuckoid hardcore who run our banking system. Laughably, the media brand her a Left-winger for this. Ha! Left-winger? She's so Fucking Left-wing she's gone round the bend and met herself coming back!

This creature has only one thing on her agenda - herself! Her shady husband found that out to his cost. The moment her career was threatened with a dent, out the window he had to go!

I'm sure her policies of putting a tax on penises, outlawing the Y chromosome in built up areas and instigating compulsory sperm bank donations with a view to phasing out men by 2015 will prove popular among some comfortably-shoed members of society but beware!! Harman will Fuck Up this country more than Blair and Brown ever managed. She is the Queen of Fuck Up!!

She has already been sent to Grantham. I now propose building a 30ft-high wall around Grantham specifically to ensure she does not get out.

Home From Home

Our MPs - their dedication, honesty and tireless work for the country is already well documented, but I ask you to spare a special thought for the massive sacrifices made by our Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith.

Imagine what she has given up to serve the nation. Before Mrs Smith became an MP, their she and her family were, living quite happily in the back bedroom of Mrs Smith's sister's house in Nunhead, south east London. Mrs Smith had the bottom bunk, Mr Smith took the top. Their four children - Vlad, Lucretia, Adolph and Saddam - each had their own draw in the chest in the corner in which to snuggle down at night while Mrs Smith's mother slept standing up in the wardrobe - she had a back condition and lying down proved painful so the orthopaedic wardrobe was a Godsend.

The family's four golden retrievers had the run of the 6ft by 8ft room so they were happy and Lucretia's pet pony, Hermann, was stabled on top of the dressing table and had a vase of tasty daffodils to munch on during the day.

Then Mrs Smith was catapulted into the House of Commons and, owing to an outbreak of bubonic plague among New Labour's ranks, she was appointed Home Secretary. The family's home in London was obviously no longer convenient for her getting to and from work. She was forced to seek a second home closer to Parliament where she could lay her head during the week before returning at weekends to the bosom of her family. All the taxpayers would give her to get this second home was a measly £116,000 and so, having studied her Acme school map of Britain and tightened her belt for all our sakes, she plumped for a £400,000, nine-bedroom, six-bathroom, detached home with a billiard room, function suite, gatehouse and lodge set in 200 acres of land 150 miles from London - in Redditch, Worcestershire. Such was the pokiness of this squalid pied de terre that it was bursting at the seams with her meagre collection of worldly goods. There was so little space that her cellar of champagne had to go in the centrally heated stable block, there was just one outdoor swimming pool for her bathing costume and her collection of tropical plants had to go in the indoor poolroom and jacuzzi with effect-waterfall and hydro pool.

What happened then? Not content with Mrs Smith having put herself out to this massive extent just so she could serve us all, the scum, gutter press had a go at her, claiming that her house in Redditch might actually be her first home while her sister's boxroom was in fact her second home, and not the other way around as she obviously said to get the extra accommodation allowance. In addition, the hacks also had the nerve to make the ludicrous allegation that not only was the London base her second home, £116,000 was rather steep rent for a one-room residence during weekdays.

There is a real danger here that if we continue to snipe at and criticise over things like this we will lose leaders of the dedication and calibre of Mrs Smith and they will go elsewhere to serve - you know, like we almost lost to America those genius bankers and financiers who spent billions of pounds of our money buying up loans to vagrants before they all had to be written off.

..............................................................................

Back in the real world, bear in mind this is not some grubby little backbencher we are talking about. This is the FUCKING HOME SECRETARY - the third most important and lofty office in the land behind the PM and Chancellor. If she's pulling this stunt, just think what the other fuckers are doing, given the fact that their chances of discovery are so much less likely as they are not in the limelight. As my pal BGT pointed out - THIS IS JUST TAKING THE FUCKING PISS!!!!!

And what is Mrs Smith's defence? I'll tell you what her fucking defence is. It's the same defence offered up by all these fuckers when they're caught out. It's the same defence used by those bankers and financiers mentioned earlier who creamed off millions to line their own pockets as a reward for bringing about the near collapse of the financial system - "it's in the rules"!

Listen, pal-o-mine, hanging in public used to be "in the rules". So did bear-bating, witch-ducking and the burning of Catholics. Hitler dictated that the annihilation of six million Jews was "in the rules". IT'S THE FUCKING RULES WHICH ARE WRONG - AND WHO MAKES THE RULES? THE FUCKING MPs!!!!!

Until we reintroduce public floggings - only for MPs - there will never be any progress. Up the revolution!!

Banking - A Fairytale?

Once upon a time there was a beautiful garden tended by a devoted and caring gardener.

In the middle of the garden stood a huge oak tree which had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The tall oak was the life of the garden and it attracted many red squirrels who made their homes in its leafy branches.

Each Spring the oak tree would soak up the sun and, nourished by the warm rain and rich soil in the garden, it would grow and then by the summer time produce a bountiful crop of acorns.

The squirrels fed on the acorns and, each autumn when the tree shed all its acorns as it preprared to shed its leaves
and shut down for the winter, the squirrels worked feverishly to gather up all the nuts which fell to the ground to make sure they had enough to tide them over the barren months to come.


One day a gang of fat cats got into the garden and they quickly climbed the tree to take a look round at what was going on. They saw all the squirrels working tirelessly to gather nuts and they sniggered at their antics. The cats were far too fat and lazy to work but came up with a wizard plan to ensure they could eat well throughout the year.

They called all the squirrels to a meeting and told them: "Listen, if you give us some of your nuts to look after we will put them into a magic nut machine we have and it will make them grow bigger. The magic machine will make every nut you give us grow three per cent larger."

"Goody!" shrieked the squirrels, and they agreed. What they didn't know was that there was no magic nut machine. What the fat cats did instead was to take all the nuts they had been given down to the furthest corner of the garden where there was a compost heap crawling with mice. Here they challenged the mice to games of hide and seek, using the nuts they had brought to bet on the results. Now the cats, being cats, almost always caught the mice and so they almost always came away with large winnings which they insisted were paid in freshly caught salmon and gallons of double cream.

The squirrels continued to work away every day, oblivious to what the fat cats were doing. Even if they had known, they wouldn't have been able to join in because they didn't have enough nuts left to gamble with - they had handed over all their surplus to the fat cats.

The fat cats' scheme worked so well for them that they soon amassed stockpiles of salmon and cream and still had some of the nuts given to them by the squirrels left over. That gave them another idea and so they called another meeting with the squirrells and said to them: "Listen, instead of just getting by over winter, why don't we lend you some nuts so you can eat a little better? For every nut we lend you, however, we will want a seven per cent bigger nut back."

Now the squirrels liked the idea of having a comfier Christmas and thought they would just have to work harder to come up with the bigger nuts demanded. It never occurred to them that all they would be doing would be borrowing their own nuts from the fat cats and paying for the privilege! Finally worn down by persistent pressure from the fat cats they agreed to the idea and started borrowing.

Now all the frantic exchanging of nuts and the gambling down at the compost heap attracted the attention of some rats in the neighbouring garden. They saw what a good scam the fat cats were running and wanted to join in but the gardener knew they were trouble and he determined to keep them out. He put poison down for the rats and chased them off whenever they appeared. But sadly, one dark and rainy day, the gardener died.

It was indeed tragic for the beautiful garden because, with the gardener dead, only his pets were left to look after it. Chief among these was the gardener's evil
cat, Moggie, and it was she who decided to take charge. Now Moggie was an arrogant, stupid and selfish cat who believed that the garden could look after itself. She would not listen to anyone, believing that only she could be right, and so, when the birds who lived in the garden tried to patrol it themselves and keep it safe, she chased them away.

Sure enough, soon after Moggie took over, the rats invaded the garden and she did nothing to stop them - "market garden forces!" she would bellow from the comfort of the gardener's palatial house. Once in the garden, the rats began copying the fat cats, lending nuts to the squirrels, gambling and generaly getting fat themselves on the profits. Meanwhile, Moggie spent her days looking down on the rapidly deteriorating garden, all the while smiling a self-satisfied smile and thinking that she was right and the garden could look after itself.

Eventually, Moggie grew so old and so senile that the birds and the squirrels were able to chase her away and she went to live in a bigger house down the road. Of the other pets left behind, a devious young rabbit who no-one had ever taken notice of before started jumping up and down all of a sudden and saying that he would do all that the birds and the squirrels wanted if he were to take charge, for he claimed to be one of them. He said he was on their side and so he was allowed the tend the garden - he was Blair Rabbit.


Sadly, what the birds and the squirrels didn't know was that Blair Rabbit was a liar. All he wanted was to be in charge and he didn't care two hoots about the birds and the squirrels. In fact, not only was he not one of them he was, in reality, a great admirer of Moggie and so, once at the helm, not only did he not stop the lending and the gambling he said there should be much more of it. He told the squirrels: "Why just get by over winter? Why just get by at any time? Why not have as much as you want, if not more, all the time? Borrow more nuts and then you can gorge yourself all year round!" Then he told the fat cats that not only could they play hide and seek with the mice, they could gamble on any games they wanted to.

And so the squirrels began borrowing more and more nuts from the fat cats, guzzling them all year round. "This is the life," they thought. "Why didn't we think of this before? We can have as much as we want and more, just by borrowing from the fat cats. Prudence and financial management are for the birds!!" The fat cats, meanwhile, started challenging the mice to swimming and shouting competitions, as well as to their usual games of hide and seek, and, as before, they bet on the outcomes.

Then, one day, a pack of dogs moved into the garden and they made their home down by the compost heap. They chased away all the mice and when the fat cats and the rats came calling to play they were waiting. The dogs said they would also gamble with them on the games but as they were bigger, faster and more ferocious than the fat cats and rats they would agree to pay out much, much more to them if they lost. The fat cats and the rats began drooling at the thought of how much more salmon and cream and other goodeis they could get and, even though they already had more food than they could ever eat in a lifetime, they accepted the wagers - and for the first time they bagan to lose!

The dogs were far too quick and cunning and could easily win swimming and shouting contests, let alone games of hide and seek - something which should have been obvious from the start - but still the fat cats and rats kept on betting........and losing.

They lost so much that eventually they only had enough food left to tide them through the coming winter. Admittedly, it was enough to ensure each of them enjoyed a banquet every day, but that was not enough for the fat cats and rats who were by now used to the high life so they decided to ask all the squirrels for the nuts back they had lent them. Of course, many of the squirrels had borrowed so much that they couldn't repay the fat cats and the rats. Many of them had to give the fat cats and the rats their homes in lieu of payment while others just starved to death once they had given back all they had.

Soon the garden was littered with the bodies of dead squirrels and empty dreys which no-one could afford to buy. Eventually, things became so bad that even the fat cats and the rats ate through their stockpiles and they too were faced with starvation.

Now just before all this happenend Blair Rabbit had left the garden and been put in charge of looking after all the carrots in a neighbouring farmer's fields. The fat cats passed food over the fence to him and at nights they let him sleep in their luxurious beds in return for the help he had given them.
In his place, his brother had taken over - Brown Bunny. Now Brown Bunny had a huge job ahead of him, trying to stop the rot and bring life back into the garden. The birds told him he had to stop the fat cats and rats gambling with the dogs. They told him he had to make the fat cats and the rats live more frugally and not stockpile salmon and cream. Some even told him that the starving fat cats and rats should be left to die as they had caused the famine in the first place. There were even those who said that the fat cats and rats should be punished, or at least banished from the garden.

Brown Bunny, however, like Blair Rabbit and Moggie before him, believed that the garden could not survive without fat cats. He thought that if they went, all the squirrels would die. Besides, he thought, he had to stay well in with the fat cats or else there would be no-one to feed him and offer him a bed for the night once he retired?

So Brown Bunny came up with his plan to save the garden. He decided to bring all the fat cats and rats into the gardener's house. He also ordered that the squirrels should all donate a proportion of the nuts they planned to eat each day to the fat cats so that they could be well fed. That way, he thought, the fat cats and the rats could go out and gamble in the garden and loan money to the squirrels but if anything ever went wrong again and they lost they could always come back to the house and be looked after.

And they all lived happily ever after...........well, the fat cats and the rats did!



The moral of this story is clear:


BE BLOODY CAREFUL WHEN FAT CATS GET THEIR PAWS ON YOUR FUCKING NUTS!!!

P.S. The first person to say cats don't eat nuts gets it!!