I've Done Nothing Wrong, But I'll Stop Doing It Now I've Been Caught!

"British Fiddles For British Ministers!"

Unemployment (For The Proles) Minister Tony "Mad Dog" McNulty lives with his wife Christine Gilbert in a house she owns in Hammersmith, three miles from Westminster. Yet the minister has been claiming up to £14,000 a year in parliamentary expenses to help pay for another house he owns in Harrow, 11 miles from the Commons, in which his parents live.

The MP can claim the money because the house is in his Harrow constituency and so qualifies him for the second home allowance. After the arrangement was disclosed by the Mail on Sunday this weekend, Mr McNulty announced that he had decided to stop claiming the money, which he has benefited from since becoming an MP in 1997.

Still 12 years at £14,000 isn't too bad, and no tax to pay on it! Not as good as Home Economics Secretary Five Bellies Smith, but maybe McNulty isn't as clever as our Jacqui?

The Penguin

Oh Come Off It, A Peer Of The Realm Wouldn't Lie!?

What on earth will they suggest next?
How could one be expected to believe that a Peer of The Realm would tell lies? What ever next? They'll be suggesting that Peers might be corrupt, venal, grubby, or have blood on their bumpers!

It's an outrage!

The Penguin

Who Says The G20 Is Good For Nothing?

Delusional Cunt Bites Nails

Some people are suggesting that the G20 Photo Opportunity for Our Great Leader is a waste of time and money, and will only lead to embarrassment for McBroon as he desperately tries to spin a success out of a disaster.

However, it's a nice little earner for the Police Farce, loads of overtime and all the shiny new toys they can ask for.

The Penguin

Of Course I Believe Everything In The Newspapers

The Polski Sklep story is just that, a complete bollocks designed to stir up trouble.

No shop keeper is going to turn away custom. No Polish Shopkeeper in a town with a relatively small Polish community would be mad enough to turn away English customers.

So we have one reported incident by 17 year old student, Kaley Leighton - no witnesses. Plus a "local newspaper reporter" supposedly treated similarly.

Some years ago an very unfortunate accident occurred at an event I was running, and you would not believe the tissue of exaggeration and blatant untruth that the newspapers local and national printed until I was lucky enough to get the BBC East Anglian local news to feature the real story. After which the vultures moved on. No apologies or retractions.

The Penguin

Buying Floor Coverings? Beware Allied Carpets Sub-Contractors!

It never rains but it pours, or some such cliche. And yes, I know that should be an e-acute, but I don't know how to achieve one typing here, and I can't be arsed.

Not only the drains, but today was supposed to be a major staging post in the conservatory revamp that Herself is project managing. I'm the labourer. And the carpenter, and the electrician. But I don't do cutting and laying of vinyl flooring at £22 a square metre for it is a job needing many many hours of experience to do well.

By some small miracle SWMBO had found the right size of end-of-roll to match the Kitchen, and 9am Today was supposed to be delivery and fitting, after a small amount of patching of the floor screed, approx 2 square metres, where the previous flooring had "gone around" built in units now removed. So we cleared the conservatory, moving a large pine armoire, a fridge, a freezer, sundry pot plants, all the cats' requisites, occasional table, and a butcher's block into the kitchen and sitting room, thoroughly cluttering the place up.

By 10am Madam was on the 'phone to Allied Carpets (name kept the same to embarrass the incompetent) to ask where the vinyl fitters were, and why were they not here getting on (as the screed takes around 6 hours to dry). Various bollocks and poor excuses later, some cocky young git called James from some firm of carpet fitters contracted to Allied Carpets turns up with an even younger side kick. Lots of teeth sucking and tutting. He didn't do screeding. So after telephone calls and a promise that a manager would call Herself within the hour, they buggered off.

The the drainage engineer turned up, and dealt with the blockage, leaving me with a horrendous smelly foul mess to clear up. Herself's most recent garden scheme was Mediterranean or something and involved cobbles and patches of "decking" amongst the stones. Over time, leaf fall and worms and stuff had built a layer of fresh new soil under the stones. A large area of stones and soil and several pieces of decking were contaminated with filthy greasy disgusting stinking residue from the waste disposal unit and the dishwasher and the kitchen sinks. 20 rubble sacks are now hidden in the alley. I think She thinks they are going to the Recycling Dump in the back of the Volvo, but they will be quietly shoved in the "land fill wheelie" over the course of the next few weeks if it is left to me. Thank God for Jeyes Fluid!

Telephone Wars broke out when no-one called back about the screeding and the vinyl. I know from experience that it is simpler to give in and saves a lot of ear ache; although I do have to subvert many of the wilder schemes as they would require sky-hooks and other amendments to the laws of physics. As luck would have it, the estimator at Allied Carpets knew they were bang to rights in the wrong and was bright enough to save his manager from a very unpleasant experience, by finding a man-who-can-screed within an hour. However, it won't be until tomorrow afternoon that he can return and lay the vinyl (assuming Allied have got the vinyl back from James, who has done himself and his outfit no favours with the estimator) .

The Precious Chick is working late tonight, so we have the twins to collect from their child minder and look after and put to bed. Woman's work, in the main.

But it is going to be a right pain trying to cook tonight*, I really don't want to have to move everything back into the conservatory and then move it out again tomorrow. And there's no play space for the small monsters until late Saturday, so there'll be ructions.

Best laid plans.

The Penguin

*Sausages, Oven-grilled Vegetables, Mashed Potato, Onion Gravy.

Hoon Of The Day

George Galloway.

Smug Cunt.

The Penguin

Hewitt Backs Euthanasia

"There may well be circumstances where a dearly loved Leader, for example, has totally become deranged and insane and is doing incredible harm to his family. In such circumstances I think it should be perfectly OK to bring a dignified end to things for everyone concerned. Harriet agrees with me!"

The Penguin

A Quick Re-Arrangement As OK! Blows It

"Hello, is that Hello? Max here! I've got a great little deal for you, you won't want to miss out on this. OK! have blown it by going too soon with the Memorial Issue, so now the rights to the Funeral are on offer. For a price, naturally. In fact, we could do a double, Funeral AND Autopsy! What do you say? OK, think it through and call me back, but don't leave it too long, there's other magazines I can talk to. Bye!"

The Penguin

Drains! I Fucking Hate Them!!

Last New Year's Day (2008) we had the unalloyed pleasure of raw sewage backing up in our soil stack thanks to the grandchildren's enjoyment of multiple wetwipes as they transfered from nappies to using the toilet. The ensuite bathroom joins the soil stack via a macerator, and the Precious Chick enjoying a shower therein brought matters to a head, as it were, and the toilet in the main bathroom vomited all over the floor, and through the kitchen ceiling. This was in fact two ceilings, being the original crusted with artex (surely the Devil's Spunk?) complete with fluorescent tube, and the suspended tongue-and-groove that I had put in when I remodelled the kitchen around 1990.

Emergency drainage engineers on New Year's Day - wonderful start to the Year. Took them two visits as well. Then there was the snotty loss adjuster and the Irish Builders.

However, on the plus side, Madam got a nice new plasterboard ceiling and everything painted white. (One of my reasons for insisting I liked the darkening T&G was not wanting to have to do the work to change anything, so a decent result!) Plus new carpets to landings and staircase, and new vinyl in hall and kitchen. And a team of specialist cleaners to fumigate affected areas and cavities.

Wetwipes banished from the toilet, special wetwipe bin beside toilet, all OK so far.

Today I was removing pieces of "come in handy one day" timber from the conservatory to a temporary pile in the back garden when I noticed an unpleasant smell, and on investigation, great joy, the drain taking all but the soil stack is blocked and there's a small lake of filthy light grey water and "stuff" spreading across the area between kitchen wall and garden gate.

I have poured a large amount of "guaranteed to unblock drains" stuff into the drain, which has had little effect as yet (two hours) except to turn the water a nasty brown colour. The destructions did say it might take "over-night" to have the desired effect. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, no use of kitchen sinks, or bath or handbasin in bathroom, or dishwasher, or washing machine.

Thank goodness the ensuite is still fully functional!

I fucking hate drains, they are such a stinking pain when problems occur.

The Penguin

Hoon Of The Day

"Gordon's ringpiece was like this after a session with Mandy!"

Saint Anthony Bliar.

UberCunt.

The Penguin

Michael Bentine, Comic Genius

DRATS
by
Michael Bentine

A typical Olde Englishe pub. Low beams and a smoke-darkened plaster ceiling are hung with horse-brasses and decorated with old pewter tankards and rusty horse-shoes.
The pub is filled with yeomen in their traditional garb of flannel shirts and knotted red-spotted handkerchiefs, while their moleskin trousers are held up above their yeoman boots with knotted string. One or two of the local yeomen are holding ten foot poles, gaily painted with stripes. Behind the bar is a purple-nosed, bloated landlord and a cheerful, buxom barmaid, giggling away and slapping the odd rustic whose questing hands stray over the contours of her fulsome figure.
The chatter is incoherently `Mummerset , with the lilting burr of the south-western counties of 'Olde Englande'. It is loudly animated and only interrupted by the heavy slurps of `rough' cider that is being consumed by the gallon. The bar is decorated with bunting, and a large sign which reads `Annual Drats Match' hangs prominently in one corner. Into the bar comes a stranger and the buzz of cheerful banter ceases as though cut off with a knife. The newcomer is obviously a 'Townee'.

STRANGER: Good evening! (He walks up to the bar and addresses the waistcoated bulky figure in shirt-sleeves behind the beer pumps) Are you the landlord?
LANDLORD: Ah! And what if I am?
STRANGER: I'm Charles Berkeley, from the BBC. (He looks round haughtily)

(A reverent murmur of appropriate awe comes from the customers)

LANDLORD: (Thawing slightly) Oh! Be you now! And what brings 'ee to these 'ere parts of ourn?
BERKELEY: I'm surveying the local country pubs for a programme we're doing on pub-games and sports, and I see by the local paper that your pub, 'The Ruptured Pig', specializes in the game of drats.
LANDLORD: (Amid proud cries and murmurs of assent) Ah, drats! The Game of Games! Greatest pub-game in Olde Englande!

(Cries of Ah! Ooh! Ee! 'Er be that! Drats - 'mazin' game, noble, aah 'tis, etc.)

BERKELEY: Have you been playing drats for long?

(This convulses the landlord who chortles happily amid general guffaws of cidery laughter)

LANDLORD: Aah! Oh! Ho! Ho! Ho! Oh! Ah! (He goes on laughing heartily till his eyes water and he is forced to wipe them on his spotted handkerchief. He makes up for the liquid tears with a hearty swig of cider) Ho! Ho! Ho! (Pause) ... or even longer!

(General cries of hearty rural laughter and rustic mirth ending with massed swigs of cider and the concerted response:)

ALL IN BAR: Or even longer! Ah!

(The BBC man is a bit confused but presses on regardless)

BERKELEY: I wonder if you could explain the game of drats to me? So I can get some idea of how it's played. I'll record you.

(The landlord has now come out from behind the bar and stands revealed in high-braced and massively-belted corduroys and heavy boots, just like his customers'. Obviously he enjoys great respect from his patrons as an authority on drats)

LANDLORD: Oh! Ah, drats! 'Er be a noble sport! Sport of kings, dukes, earls and the loike, 'er be.
VARIOUS VOICES: Ah, you tell 'em, Tom! Drats! Cor bless my bedsocks! You tell 'em, Tom!
LANDLORD: Now drats! That is to say, the Great Game ... (His eyes are raised reverently and the yeomen take off their hats) has been goin' on 'ere at the Ruptured Pig for yearn! And yearn! And yearn! And yearn! And yearn! And yearn!

(Suddenly they all stop yearning' and together take a long pull at their cider, emptying their glasses)

ALL: Ah! Yearn!
LANDLORD: (Pointedly) They're dry! (Pronounced `droi')
BERKELEY: (A bit more confused) Eh?
LANDLORD: Droi! Now you was sayin', sir! (He breathes meaningfully into the BBC man's face)
BERKELEY: (Getting the point) First, I insist on drinks all round.

(In a swirl of activity, they refill their glasses and the atmosphere further relaxes)

LANDLORD: Now, Sir. You was askin' about drats and I was about to show 'ee a drattin' pole. Obadiah!
(He calls over one of the besmocked yeomen carrying a pole) This is Obadiah Smothergoose, our local champion dratter.

OBADIAH: How do?
BERKELEY: Delighted! Is that a drattin' pole?
CRIES OF: Ooh! Aah! Drattin' pole! Best made! Petrified English bog-oak. Show 'im, Obadiah! Bog-oak 'er be.
LANDLORD: Obadiah is a tack hand - keeps his left hand low. Show the Lunnon gentleman your drattin' pole.

(Obadiah hefts the long, gaily-coloured pole about in a professional manner - half crouching as he does so)

LANDLORD: Now that's drattin' for you, sir! Lovely loose knees and plenty of flexibility in his lumbar region.

(Obadiah flexes his lumbar)

ALL: Bootiful! Real drattin'!
LANDLORD: Note the drattin' pole - all lovely matured petrified English bog-oak.
CRIES OF: Ah, lovely! Bootiful! Petrified! 'Tis!
LANDLORD: This is the foresight for alignin' the pole. (He indicates a spring-shaped object on the end of the pole) This is the hand-guard or Waffle-Banger.
BERKELEY: Waffle ...? (Enquiringly)
LANDLORD: (Completes it) ... Banger! Waffle-Banger. Protects the leadin' drattin' hand at high speed. This is the Nurdle Grip. . .
CRIES OF: Aah! The Nurdle Grip!
BERKELEY: What is it for?
LANDLORD: 'Case of nurdlin'! Naturally! 'Mazin' you didn't know that!
CRIES OF: 'Mazin'! It's for nurdlin', naturally!
BERKELEY: Naturally!
LANDLORD: And finally, (Proudly) note his Threep Danglers.
BERKELEY: (Bristling) Threep Danglers? Where?
LANDLORD: These. Danglin' down as plain as a pikestaff. (He indicates three brightly-coloured balls dangling on woven strings)
OBADIAH: (Filled with pride) The wife made them. She's got a marvellous touch with my Threep Danglers.
BERKELEY: Charming! What happens now?
LANDLORD: The runnin'!
BERKELEY: The running?
LANDLORD: Exactly! You're catchin' on fast. But afore the runnin' comes the wettin'.
CRIES OF: Afore the runnin' comes the wettin'.
BERKELEY: Wetting?
LANDLORD: In water. Obadiah first wets his boots in spring water.
BERKELEY: Why?
LANDLORD: For the grip. He must have a good wet grip with his boots or he might nurdle.
CRIES OF: Ah! Obadiah might nurdle? Never! Not Obadiah, too much lumbar! Not nurdle - never! (Some of them are quite vehement)
LANDLORD: Every dratter has to face facts. There is always the danger of nurdlin'. If you be afraid you might nurdle, then I say - don't drat.
CHORUS: Aah! Don't drat! Not if you be nurdle-shy.
BERKELEY: Sounds dangerous.
LANDLORD: Oh! Terrible perilous, drattin' be.
BERKELEY: Well, now Obadiah has wetted himself, can we see a running?
LANDLORD: So you shall, sir! So you shall! Ted Mossop will be Lurker.
BERKELEY: Did you say Lurker?
LANDLORD: Aah, Lurker! See! The dratter has to 'ave a Lurker to lurk by the door, ready to open it and let him out for the drat run.
BERKELEY: I see! (He doesn't but he feels he must say something)
LANDLORD: Now, Obadiah gives his signals to the Lurker, who replies in the time-honoured manner of his lurkin' forefathers. All right, Obadiah! Let's drat!
OBADIAH: (Shouting to the Lurker) Queen Anne's bloomers.
LURKER: (Tensely at the door) Henry the Eighth's kneecaps.
OBADIAH: (Loudly) Disraeli's bedpan.
LURKER: (Throwing open the door) Gladstone's big brown warts.

(With the pub door open Obadiah runs out, holding his dratting pole like a lance. Thunderous applause from all and then deathly silence as the Lurker slams the pub door. Everyone is frozen like statues now listening intently to the sound of the dratting run)

BERKELEY: I say! What?
LANDLORD: (Fiercely) Quiet, Sir! 'Tis a drat.

(As the tableau of rigid, listening yeomen seems locked into immobility, we hear Obadiah's running footsteps disappearing into the distance. He runs over gravel, then tarmac and pavement, on to sand and finally his footsteps fade into silence. During the running he crashes into and through various obstacles that splinter,
crunch and disintegrate - loudly culminating in the distant sound of a huge pane of glass shattering)

LANDLORD: (Relaxing visibly) Twenty-two! (He turns and marks the score on a large blackboard next to Obadiah's name)
BERKELEY: Was that good?
LANDLORD: Not bad. But at one moment I thought he'd nearly nurdled.
VOICE: Never! Not Obadiah. Too much lumbar, he'm got. Don't 'ee say that 'bout Obadiah!
LANDLORD: (Placatingly) I said nearly nurdled. Could happen. Even to Obadiah.

(Another drafter has taken Obadiah's place, hefting his slightly different drat pole, but standing reversed with his back to Berkeley)

LANDLORD: This 'n be Hezekiah Trumbleweed. 'E's a southpaw. That's a left-hander.
BERKELEY: How unusual.
LANDLORD: Unique. That's what Hezekiah is - unique. Only left-handed dratter in the county.
BERKELEY: How many dratters are there in all?
LANDLORD: Countin' Obadiah Smothergoose? (Counts carefully) Two. Hezekiah's the other one.

(Hezekiah has had a wooden tub filled with a white liquid placed beside him)

BERKELEY: (Pointing) That's not water.
LANDLORD: Pig's milk. Hezekiah is an international.

(All remove hats. Hezekiah wets his boots in pig's milk and signals the Lurker)

HEZEKIAH: (Shouting) Old Mother Reilly's incontinence knickers.
LURKER: Richard the Third's hump.
HEZEKIAH: King William's rupture appliance.
LURKER: King George's codpiece!

(At this last piece of historical information Hezekiah starts his dratting run, with the Lurker whipping the door smartly open and then slamming it shut. Everyone, including Berkeley, freezes into intense listening poses. The sound of Hezekiah's run is subtly different from Obadiah's - a blend of splintering matchboard, skidding
sounds, a ricochet and accompanying breaking glass and as the footsteps die away, a rending crunch of impacted metal - with a sharp cry. Groans from the assembled drat fans)

LANDLORD: I hate sayin' it 'bout Hezekiah, but that were a very near nurdle.
CRIES OF: Aah! Nearly nurdled did Hezekiah. Never thought oid live to see the day. Bloody careless! Man could do himself a mischief like that, aah! Nearly nurdled at the third hazard. Nasty. Very nasty.
LANDLORD: Still, he didn't.
BERKELEY: Didn't what?
LANDLORD: Nurdle. That's what he didn't. There's an old saying in these 'ere parts. So long as 'ee doesn't nurdle, 'ee be on the straight and narrow, loike.
ALL: Aah! (Hats off) Keep to the straight and narrow and the Lord protect us from nurdlin'.
LANDLORD et al.: Amen.
BERKELEY: Amen, I say. Do you think I could have a go?
LANDLORD: What, Sir?
BERKELEY: I'd like to try a running.
CRIES OF: (In amused amazement) Ooh! Aah! Well, I'll be nurdled. And 'im nobbut a lad.
LANDLORD: I admire your pluck, sir. Well, boys. (He addresses the yeomen) What do 'ee think?
YEOMEN: Aah! Admirable. Very plucky. Spunky lad. Aah, why not 'ave a go, lad?
LANDLORD: 'Ere's a spare pole. (Berkeley grabs it) Now, sir, nice loose knees ...

(Berkeley crouches, bouncing up and down)

LANDLORD: Little more lumbar. (Berkeley gives a bit more lumbar)
LANDLORD: That's good.
BERKELEY: Shall I use the pig's milk?
LANDLORD: (Reluctantly) No, sir!
BERKELEY: (Already putting one foot towards the water bucket) The water, then?
LANDLORD: (Horrified) Not in Obadiah Smothergoose's water, please!

(Everyone gasps)

BERKELEY: (Confused) Sorry.
LANDLORD: You try a nice dry run, sir. Less chance of you nurdlin' on your first drat run. Now I'll give your signals to the Lurker.
BERKELEY: Right!

(He tenses for the run, a look of do-or-die determination on his face)

LANDLORD: (Shouting) Teddy Roosevelt's spectacles.
LURKER: Queen Mary's toenails.
LANDLORD: Lloyd George's bunions.
LURKER: Kitchener needs you. (Points to Berkeley)
LANDLORD: That's you, sir. Away you go!

(With great concentration, the BBC spokesman runs, clumsily, past the Lurker and through the open door, which slams shut behind him with an ominous clang. Everyone listens in rapt silence as we hear Berkeley's stumbling run over gravel, pavement, grass and muddy terrain, crashing through and past various deadly
obstacles, which crunch and disentegrate. Then suddenly there is a cry of despair, the sound of an approaching express train, a tearing skid and a car-crash, followed by a dying scream as Berkeley falls over a cliff into the sea far below. This ends abruptly in a distant splash. In mute horror the yeomanry remove their hats and stand with bowed heads)

LANDLORD: (In subdued shock) Drat me! He nurdled!
CHORUS: Aah! Poor bugger.


Brilliant.

The Penguin

Don't Rush - It'll Be Cheaper Very Soon!

Some ugly cunt pictured with Kate Garraway

Dolly Dripper has a new book out.

Life Support: A Survival Guide For The Modern Soul by Mr. Kate Garraway (Hay House, £8.99).

Look our for it in the remaindered bins along with Gordon's "Courage: I Have None"

The Penguin

The Brown Support

"It wasnae me - bigger boys did it and ran away!"

Oh dear! It seems as if there's mutiny in the air!

Hazel Blears made it clear she believes Mr Brown and other ministers should own up to mistakes which may have fuelled economic problems. 'You can't just pretend you weren't there,' the Communities Secretary said.

Charles Clarke, a former home secretary, undermined Mr Brown's claim that Britain is well-placed to weather the economic crisis.'There are many aspects of our economy that put us in a worse position,' he told the BBC's Daily Politics programme.

And Ken Livingstone, Labour's former mayor of London, reopened old hostilities with the Prime Minister, telling Total Politics magazine that he had warned as long ago as 1998 that Mr Brown, then chancellor, was a liability.

'I was very critical of the first two years. The passage of time has shown me to be right,' he said.

'I hoped when Brown took over, things would change more than they did. But I have not been massively surprised.'

And a nice little row between Number 10 and the Solicitor General over her claims of "Green Shoots".

New Nokia?

The Penguin

Swearing Toy Parrot - Fucking Brilliant!

"The Vicar's A Wanker! The Vicar's A Wanker!"

Apparently you can get Swearing Toy Parrots for under a quid!

Great value, I must pop down to the shops and get some for the grandchildren.

The Penguin

Following In Cherie's Footsteps, Ken The Fare Dodger

"Ha ha ha! I'm above the law, me! Was your dad a guard at Auschwitz?"

Whoops!

Ken "Zero Tolerance" Livingspart travels without a ticket.

And gets let off.

The Penguin

Another Outbreak Of Woolas "Foot In Mouth" Disease

"I must learn to keep my mouth shut!"

Poor "Custard Pie" Woolas has done it again!

Under enormous pressure because he is useless, and his boss is useless, and her boss is useless, the Minister for Illegal Immigration flails around from one crass announcement to another. I think he took lessons on that from McBroon. The latest brilliant headline grabbing soundbite was to announce that he was going to build a detention centre near Calais to house illegal immigrants trying to get to the Land Of Milk and Honey. He claimed it would be funded jointly with the French, and the guests would then be flown home to Iraq and Afghanistan.
However, it turns out he had not thought to discuss this with the Home Economics Secretary, and the French have not been consulted and are not pleased either.

Mind you, Jackie was busy with her lawyers trying to cobble together a defence for when she gets dragged into court for fiddling her allowances, so maybe poor Phil didn't get a chance to tell her about his cunning plan.

The Penguin

One Law For Us, A Different Law For Them - Part 2

"Justice Weasel Jack Straw - Looking After His Friends"

Figures show that nearly 50 judges, magistrates and tribunal officials were disciplined in the year to March 2008. Of the 49 found guilty of offences, 21 were sacked.

They included three who committed crimes, one guilty of a motoring offence, one who 'misused judicial status' and 15 accused of 'not fulfilling judicial duty', a category that runs from failing to conduct cases properly to being drunk on the job.

But 28 others were allowed to continue in their jobs with reprimands or warnings.

This on top of recent revelations about the huge number of policemen convicted of crimes but allowed to stay in the police farce.

And of course, there's the charmers in the House of Lords and the House of Commons, whose behaviour would result in criminal prosecutions were they not "above the law".

The Penguin

Sensitive Prick Of The Month

"Then I'm going to sue the NHS because I'm bald!"

A BA pilot is taking the airline to an industrial tribunal because he has been racially abused for being Scottish.

He had some other claims which were thrown out, but the numpties decided there was a case on the Scottish issue.

Captain Douglas Maughan alleges he was sent offensive letters and called a 'Jock' who should go back to Scotland.

Mind you, his judgement is questionable, as he sent a letter to the staff magazine defending NuLiebore's economic record in 2005, by which time anyone with an IQ higher than their shoe size would have realised that McBroon had not eliminated Boom and Bust.

Personally I think ALL of our Scottish friends should go back to Scotland and stay there. Especially those wankers in the government.

The Penguin

What Is The Secret Of Successful Comedy?

"If the Russians launch ICBMs I'll just karate chop them from the sky,
because I'm Superman!"

Timing.

And Gordon McBroon, The Great Leader, is surely a comedic genius.

On the same day that the Russian Puppet President announces that he will modernise and increase the Russian Military Machine, particularly it's nuclear stuff, McCavity announces he'll cut back on our nuclear capabilities.

What a cunt!

The Penguin

Good News! Bad News!!

Good News! Poor chap in Austria in a stressful situation has been offered counselling to help him get through it.

Bad News!! Seems they've decided to appoint Dolly Dripper.

The Penguin

Twenty Daft Complaints By Tourists

A tourist at a top African game lodge overlooking a waterhole, who spotted a visibly aroused elephant, complained that the sight of this rampant beast ruined his honeymoon by making him feel "inadequate".

A woman threatened to call police after claiming that she’d been locked in by staff. When in fact, she had mistaken the “do not disturb” sign on the back of the door as a warning to remain in the room.

"The beach was too sandy."

A guest at a Novotel in Australia complained his soup was too thick and strong. He was inadvertently slurping the gravy at the time.

"Topless sunbathing on the beach should be banned. The holiday was ruined as my husband spent all day looking at other women."

"We bought 'Ray-Ban' sunglasses for five euros (£3.50) from a street trader, only to find out they were fake."

"No-one told us there would be fish in the sea. The children were startled."

"It took us nine hours to fly home from Jamaica to England but it only took the Americans three hours to get home."

"My fiancé and I booked a twin-bedded room but we were placed in a double-bedded room. We now hold you responsible for the fact that I find myself pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room that we booked."

"I compared the size of our one-bedroom apartment to our friends' three-bedroom apartment and ours was significantly smaller."

"The brochure stated: 'No hairdressers at the accommodation'. We're trainee hairdressers - will we be OK staying here?""There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners."
"We found the sand was not like the sand in the brochure. Your brochure shows the sand as yellow but it was white."

"We had to queue outside with no air conditioning."

"It is your duty as a tour operator to advise us of noisy or unruly guests before we travel."

"I was bitten by a mosquito - no-one said they could bite."

"I think it should be explained in the brochure that the local store does not sell proper biscuits like custard creams or ginger nuts."

"It's lazy of the local shopkeepers to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during 'siesta' time - this should be banned."

"On my holiday to Goa in India, I was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant served curry. I don't like spicy food at all."

"We booked an excursion to a water park but no-one told us we had to bring our swimming costumes and towels."

The Penguin

One Down, Plenty More Available

Good Riddance! A Dead Scrote

With any luck this little scrote didn't have a chance to breed, as humanity is better off without his genetic legacy.

I do hope that the person responsible for shuffling this piece of shit from off our mortal coil does not face a stupid and unwarranted prosecution for murder or manslaughter.

That he was even arrested is wrong. The scrote's mother is asking "Why?" - because he had broken into someone else's property with intent to thieve, that's why!

The Penguin

Hoon Of The Day

Lord Myners Of Hypocrisy.

And incompetence!

The Penguin

Is This For Real? Are My Eyes Deceiving Me?

83 stone of fat benefit suckers

There's a report in the Daily Fear&Fury of an article in some crass magazine about a family in Blackburn who are pulling in over £22,000 a year in benefits who claim they are too fat to work.

One of the huge lardarses even had the nerve to afflict the proles who watch such things by appearing on some talent show called the X Factor. FFS!!! She was wearing a small marquee tastefully made by her father in the style of a "wedding dress".

They get extra benefits because of diseases such as asthma and diabetes brought on by being obese. Because they spend all day everyday watching television they don't have time to diet, and such things as fresh fruit or vegetables are "too expensive" and "taste funny", so they stuff 3,000 calories each per day of biscuits, bacon butties, pies and chips.

I have to presume that they are so fat that Mr. Chawner can no longer actually manage copulation, or surely they would have managed to breed a few more blobs of fat so as to up the benefit take?

The Penguin

UPDATE: My better half just bet me a bottle of wine that they'll soon be "Reality TV Stars" or even have their own cable channel, FatCuntsRUs.tv where sad freak-show fans can gawp at them 24/7

She could well win!

The Curious Priorities Of Inspector Knacker

The plod in Luton are providing a muslim extremist with 24 hour protection after his windows were smashed following his prominent role in the protest against the Royal Anglians marching through Luton, which you'll recall was so badly reported on by the Biased Browncasting Corporation (paid for by a tax).

This seems to be a very different set of priorities than are usually displayed by Inspector Knacker and his merry men.

You wouldn't have to look very far to find numerous cases where the police farce failed to take seriously complaints about windows being broken. Even in the fragrant environs of Luton, where muslim youths have been trying to force non-muslims to leave areas they regard as being "theirs".

Or many cases where complaints to the police about abusive and violent ex-husbands were not taken seriously leading to murder.

So what is so special about this case?

The Penguin