Where to begin?

Apparently, Norge-nutter Anders Breivik didn't just believe in all sorts of c-c-c-crazy shit about 'Monoculture' and driving the darkies into the sea. Oh no.

According to the Evening Standard, in his bizarre rants he also ..

"..praised Top Gear Presenter and Sunday Times Columnist Jeremy Clarkson."

Oh, Jez, how must you feel? Oh, the confusion; the mixed emotions. Where to begin?



WE bought the winning ticket

While CF doesn't begrudge anyone a bit of good old fashioned luck, there was a surge of rage when he read the story of the couple from Largs in Ayrshire, named as the winners of the £161m Euromillions jackpot. Lucky, lucky guys, eh?

So, what were they doing before this unimaginable wealth?

The Weirs have both had serious health conditions in recent years and have not been able to work. Colin, 64, had previously worked as a television cameraman and Chris, 55, is a fully-trained psychiatric nurse

Not "been able" to work? OK, so the state stepped in and supported you, then? Rather too well, it would seem, judging by the amount of food you'd both seem to have consumed in recent years.

And tell us how it was when you won, would you?

"I started circling the numbers I had matched but wasn't doing very well. Then on the fifth line, all the circles seemed to join up."

What? Wait. The fifth line? The fucking fifth? Each entry into the Euro lottery costs 2 quid, right? So you lucky, lucky people spent at least ten quid on the lottery. While you were both on benefits.

Did you do that every week? Did you start doing it twice a week when the Euro millions started on Tuesdays too? Bet you fucking did.

Exactly how much of your benefits, which came out of our taxes, did you spend on the fucking lottery, eh? And did you ever feel guilty while you were doing so?

And what will you do now? Will you start to 'give back', in grateful recognition of what the state did for you?

"We have both always wanted to see the Great Wall of China and Colin would love to stand at the foot of Ayres Rock in Australia," said Chris.

Yeah? Well so would a fuck of a lot of people, only they can't, because they have to pay a fuck of a lot of tax, apparently so that the state can give it to fat people, to spend on lottery tickets.

For fucks sake.


Is it 2008 again?

Gordon Brown turns up, after having been completely fucking absent for weeks, at the climax of some enormous crisis.

Even though he's been intimately involved, for a long time, he denies all knowledge, and blames absolutely everyone other than himself.

He lists a number of claimed achievements, half of which are made up, the other half trivial and irrelevant.

He uses the opportunity, inappropriate though it is to do so, to launch a series of wildly exaggerated and deeply partisan attacks on the Conservatives.

To support his attacks and endless self-praise, he does not hesitate to tell a series of blatant, bare-faced lies.

He completely ignores the howls of outrage from all around him, and plods turgidly to the end of his entirely prepared speech.

He then stands up, and fucks off out of the House, without bothering to wait for any reply or counter argument.

Surely, we must have been transported back to 2008?

For fucks sake...


That didn't take long

Well, that didn't take long, did it? Gordon Brown reappears in our lives, tells a massive porky pie, and within hours we find out it was all utter bollocks. Well, what a surprise. How utterly fucking astonishing.

All morning we heard about the Broons had been so cruelly treated, by "criminals" who "stole" their sons medical records so that the Sun could publish them. They were "furious", they were "in tears".

What does the Sun have to say to that? Well, plenty:


We are able to assure the Brown family that we did not access the medical records of their son, nor did we commission anyone to do so.

“The story The Sun ran about their son originated from a member of the public whose family has also experienced cystic fibrosis. He came to The Sun with this information voluntarily because he wanted to highlight the cause of those afflicted by the disease. The individual has provided a written affidavit this afternoon to a lawyer confirming this.

“On receipt of the information, The Sun approached Mr Brown and discussed with his colleagues how best to present it. Those colleagues provided quotes which were used in the published piece which indicated his consent to it.

We are not aware of Mr Brown, nor any of his colleagues to whom we spoke, making any complaint about it at the time.

Furious? In tears? But not actually complaining? Someone's lying through their teeth.

Who do you think it might be?


Turning a blind eye

So, this blog's absolutely favourite person is back in the news, after a very, very long and entirely undeserved holiday at our expenses.

Yes, it's Gordon McBroon, folks.

He's - and his gimlet-eyed puppet-mistress wife - are bleating about something that happened in 2006.

Admittedly, it was something pretty fucking grim. News International's army of bribers and bin-grubbers found out that their son was ill, with cystic fibrosis, and promptly published the story, probably alongside a 'pic' of a nineteen old girl with impropable hooters.

The Browns were "extremely distressed" when that fucking awful ginger harpy phoned them to tell them she was about to publish. Gordon was "furious", and - we belatedly learn - "in tears".

An awful thing to do, but one that explains a lot.

It expains why, from 2006 onward, Gordon Brown, Mrs Broon and the Labour party had absolutely nothing to do with Murdoch, or the Murdoch press.

Broon did not ever give interviews to NI reporters, he did not write patronising pieces about what a marvellous job he was doing to be spoon-fed to drooling Sun-readers and he certainly did not have his people kiss Rupe's wrinkled arse for the next 3 years in the desperate hope of patronage.

And Mrs Broon really, really didn't use the Murdoch press to trumpet all her secret work for charidees, and she really wasn't regularly photographed tenderly prodding little brown babies. Oh no.

And there's no way the McBroons, after being treated so shoddily, would ever go to Rebakak-kah-kah's wedding. No way.

And it also explains why Gordon's successor, Ed Milliband and most of the Labour opposition Front Bench were absolutely not in attendance at Rupert's party on June 16th this year.

None of those things happened, because if they had, we might have concluded the Broon and his friends were a bunch of hypocritical power-whores, so desperate to cling to power that they'd carry on dancing with someone who'd kneed them in the groin, pissed on their chips and stolen their wallets.

Wouldn't we?




Be careful what you wish for

Ooohh, the excitement! We're all a-twitter.

The News of The World is gone, and - apart from a couple of self-regarding journalists - we all think thats abso-fucking-lutely marvelous.

Everyone on twitter thinks that they did it. The morons who repeatedly tweeted companies who have never advertised in the NOTW, ordering them not to .. err .. advertise in the NOTW.

Even the insipid bints on Mumsnet have stopped comparing choccy biccies for long enough to claim responsibility.

We're pleased to see the giants toppled, we tell ourselves. The little people overwhelming the all-powerful, tweeting them to death.  But they're not naturally powerful; we made the media powerful. We lapped up their stories of indiscretions, paid good money for them to go through our bins.

And we have the power to bring them down again; and we're exercising it.

The rumours swirl and grow: the Sun's next, the Sunday Times is on its way out; and that Daily Mail, they won't escape for long. Drunk with power, the Twitter mob staggers around, smashing everything it sees.

But just hang on a minute. Whoah! If we get rid of all these terrible papers, and - for good measure - get rid of Rupert's awful Sky to punish him a bit more, then what we be left with?

A Britain where there's one newspaper - The Guardian - and one live news channel - The BBC.

Is that what you want?

Didn't think so.


Please, please, say it isn't true :

Oh dear God. CF has already written about the fucking preposterous amount of misplaced sympathy being lavished upon the hacks at the News of The Screws, who - for fucks sake - aren't exactly Ethiopian.

And now this:

Oh sweet Jesus, is that true?

Has the paper that tried for years to turn us into a nation of hysterical, gullible, over-emoting fuckwits actually suceeded, at the last minute?

For fucks sake.


Oh. Dear. God.

And you think your friends and relatives are wierd? You won't, when you've read this.

A 43-year old woman died after suffering a massive allergic reaction brought on after she had sex with a dog in Limerick.

What? Pardon?

The woman, a mother of four children, suffered the reaction to the dog’s semen after willingly engaging in sex acts with the Alsatian dog in a house in the Patrickswell area of the county.

Wh .. wha .. quick, bring a bucket ...

the unfortunate woman involved came in contact with a man who provided the dog on an internet chatroom.

“Both these people would have been visiting bestiality websites and at some stage it appears they agreed to meet up for sex,” [a] source said.

“The Alsatian then entered the picture and it appears that intercourse took place between the lady in question and the dog on the night that she died.”

Oh. Dear. God.


Sympathy. For the Devil

Oh dear God, you can not escape it. Every bloody paper, every sodding webpage.

Weeping faces, people hugging, crowds with heads bowed. Has there been another bombing? Has someone set up some webcams in the Horn of Africa?

No, no, this is far more serious than that. Didn't you know? A rich businessman has closed down a small division of his global enterprise, and a fraction of a percentage his employees are ... errr ... no longer his employees.

It's a disaster. A catastrophe! Oh my god, has anything this awful ever happened? Twitter is frantic. @fleetstreetfox is distraught.

Get real. 200 people - yes, that's all - may - yes, may - lose their jobs. But CF has been through this: CF has been made redundant by cash-rich companies, and, hey, guess what? It's not that painful.

So, even for the few poor sods - the runts of the litter - who aren't good enough to be cherry-picked to work for the new Sunday Tits, or whatever it's called, it ain't the end of the world.

They'll get a very generous settlement - 3 months pay for the 'consultation period', more pay for their notice period and, and, a months pay for each year 'worked', if you can call grubbing-through-our-bins and slipping-envelopes-to-dodgy-policemen 'working'. Tidy.

So you'll pardon CF, whining journo's, if he doesn't join you in your fucking orgy of self pity.

Promise us you'll buck up, eh?


Evil Genius

Hate him or loathe him, you've gotta give the Dirty Digger some credit, eh?

At a stroke, he's turned the game around. Snatched yet another victory from the jaws of de thick.

He's taken the heat off himself and his pet politicians (yeah, of both colours).

He's decontaminated the brand. Yeah, there won't be a News of the World anymore, there'll just be an almost-identical red top, produced by News International, full of tits and made-up footballer shagging.

He's retained his trusted senior staff - there'll be a little extra something in Rebekah's pay packet this year when she's launched the Soaraway Sunday Sun, won't there?

He's got rid of ten tons of deadwood staff - he can now cherry pick the good 'uns and offer them jobs elsewhere: mostly likely on the new Soaraway Sunday Sun, eh? As for the rest? The B Team? Sorry, chum, nothing we can do: blame the politicians..

And best of all? He's made the sanctimonious, driveling twitter mob think THEY won. Power to the people! Fuckwits. When they've finished crowing, perhaps they'll shut the fuck up for a bit. That's the only good thing that could come out of this.

Other than that, it's Rupert and Rebekah, grinning all over their smug fucking faces, as they continue to pay scumbags to go through the bins.

Evil fucking genius...