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I couldn't find a picture of a cute cat to pad out this post, this will have to do ...

Good old Auntie Beeb has issued her annual back slapping propaganda report. It's all available here but to save you the bother of having to wait for forty minutes whilst it loads it's self-congratulatory little animations and adverts in, I've copied the essential bits out for you and filled in the gaps with my own commentary.

What the twelve inbred members of the aristocracy appointed by the government BBC Provides for your licence fee:

Before I continue let's just do some maths. Twenty-five million households in Britain, all paying £120.00 a year for the licence. That's a total of (sticks thumb up nose, chews bottom lip, takes off socks and counts toes, snips off big toe with scissors to adjust the numbers) £3,000,000,000.00 a year! Let me just check that...five multiplied by two add the carried one...yep...£3,000,000,000.00 a year!
Now then...there's 365 days in a year so that's £3,000,000,000.00 divided by 365... (more brain wheezing and creaking) gives you roughly £8,290,000.00 a day. Or to put that into words...eight million, two hundred and ninety thousand pounds a day. Almost as much as Children in Need raises every four years.
Right...now this is what the bastards do with all that money.

The BBC provides:

Eight BBC television channels. Unfortunately 99.9 per cent of the population only receive two channels and the other point one per cent have to spend even more money buying the machine to decode the extra crap which mainly consists of repeats.
Ten BBC radio networks. And all of them feature Terry Wogan.
More than fifty local BBC services. I hate to mention this but surely they're included in the 'eight' BBC Channels, aren't they?
High-quality local and national news, debate, documentaries, live music, original drama and entertainment. The 'High Quality' bit is highly questionable. Channel Four and ITV provide much better quality programmes completely free of charge!
Childrens' programmes, educational and interactive services, orchestras, concerts, minority language programmes, social action campaigns. Interactive services? Only if you pay the extra money! Minority language programmes? Are we talking about BBC Wales here? Surely Channel Four Wales deserves a mention at this point too, then?
Training and support for British production skills and talent in music, drama, film, radio and television. So long as you happen to be related to somebody who already works at the BBC!

What a heap of old shit. The vast majority of that £3,000,000,000.00 is spent on holidays for nepotistic presenters and camera crews, inbred fuckwit's expensive luncheons, mansions for Jim Davidson, freebies for Alan Yentob and gratuitous promotions for JK Rowling. The whole fucking thing stinks to high heaven and it's about time the BBC was abolished along with the aristocratic shitheads in charge of the bastard thing.
And whilst we're about it, let's have Ulrika Johnson shot live on air as they're pulling the final plug!

How To Attract Things that Flutter Into Your Garden!

1. Butterflies: Plant a buddleia and allow it to grow rampant in one corner. Very soon you will have a twenty-foot, man-eating triffid with huge purple flowers eating your shed. Buddleias are virulent creatures that put out small pods resembling testicles. Once every spring thousands of fluttering, irritating butterflies burst forth from these crusty polyps and savage the local petunias.
A feral and unkempt buddleia will produce an entire council estate of aggressive red admirals, dole scrounging cabbage whites and loutish blue emperors, all brandishing flick knives and cider bottles and crates of Newcastle Brown.
And the butterflies will attract the neighbour's cat!
Very soon your whole garden will be devastated as the cat thrashes and hurtles its stupid way through your lobelia, your lilies and your Douglas fir with various native British butterflies in its salivating mouth, shredding their delicate wings, snapping their antennae and laying low to your hanging baskets.
2. Birds: The common sparrow is becoming increasingly rare in British gardens nowadays due to the huge amount of decking that Alan Titmarsh uses to cover lazy bastard's lawns. Before you hide your garden with bits of old palette first dig up some worms and place them on a raised platform or garden chair. By morning a flock of innocent sparrows will have taken up squatter's rights behind your dustbin. You'll be amazed at how quickly the neighbour's cat will pounce on the little bastards.
Hours of fun can be obtained trying to prize the cat's jaws apart to release the flapping bird. After a prolonged and violent struggle the sparrow will eventually escape over the wall and into the neighbour's illegal bonfire, the smoke from which has been ruining your washing all afternoon.
Unfortunately, regardless of what David Attenborough might claim to the contrary, sparrows are not intelligent creatures. By the following morning the bird brained little cretin will have returned to your back doorstep, this time minus its head and several tail feathers.

If it's a hundred degrees in the shade how come my whisky isn't bubbling in its glass?
It's still bloody hot whatever the case and five minutes ago my video recorder exploded just to naff me off completely. Since then I've just lost sixteen pounds in sweat trying to dislodge, unsuccessfully I might add, a Jackie Chan cassette from the bastard's ravenous jaws!
So now I'm hot, I'm well on my way to getting drunk because I've reached the end of my tether with all things mechanical and I can't be arsed blogging anything more constructive than this feeble whinge.
If you don't like it complain to Deputy Editor Sedgwick. It's about time that bearded wombat molester got some of the flack from you bastards for once.

Children of a lesser insect sing the Beatles

Found at Hellfire and Dan Mason. Cherie, the New World Order Vera Lynn, strutting her stuff in front of her sliming, sliming, sliming smiling, smiling. smiling Prince of Darkness. .ram file here.

(BTW Cherie luv, you should have figured out that the slow hand clap probably meant it was time to cut your losses.)

Hello Boys and Girls! We've got some news for you today! Apparently the General Synod...they're the sad old men with Alzheimer's who run the Church of England...have decided that young couples are better off living together out of wedlock instead of getting married! Now we think that's disgraceful, don't we Baby Jesus?
Frankly I couldn't give a flying rat's fuck y' fat bitch.
You see Baby Jesus and I believe in the sanctity of marriage as strictly laid out in the Bible.
Speak for yourself whale neck. I enjoy a good romp with a big titted prozza from time to time meself!
It would be a hideous sin to have a child born a bastard...
Your parents 'ud know all about that...
...Or to have sexual relations without having first signed a piece of paper in front of a man in a dress. These vile fornicators and adulterers are always casting their evil seed over every whore and blonde bitch in the district and look where it's got the world today!
There's a damned sight less sexually frustrated blokes wandering about with their balls about to explode for a start...
It's full of misery and abortions and child abuse and paedophiles and rapists and...
I'm lookin' at an abortion right now. A fuckin' fat, hideous one at that!
You might mock and scorn Baby Jesus! The Book of Revelation warns us about mockers and scorners! You will burn in the bowels of Hell for your terrible attitude!
I don't know what you're worrying about y' bloated sheep's scrotum. Nobody 'ud want t' shag an overweight, ugly old trout like you anyhow. Apart from a Mexican cartoonist with an equally distasteful personality and lard-arse problem 'imself perhaps.

Perhaps it's just Britain but have you ever noticed how when the sun comes out the only people to shed their clothes are the monstrously fat and ugly ones? It never fails. The seasonal forty-minute heat wave strikes in the middle of August and suddenly the streets are filled with white and purple giant amoebas of unleashed flesh swamping the horizon and leaving grease stains on the flagstones wherever their obese feet happen to slide. Reinforced bras that could be used to slingshot cannon balls can barely contain their unscaffolded blubber. Boxer shorts stretched beyond endurance are pulled creaking and screaming around buttocks that are nothing more than taut sacks of skin filled with the fatty deposits of fifty years worth of pies, chips and larger. Everything wobbles and sizzles and blisters and shines and stomps about in flip-flops stinking of bacon and Ambre Solaire and sweat and last winter's damp. It's completely disgusting.
And all the slim young things, the pleasantly rounded as opposed to the shapeless t.v. dinner guzzling masses, wrap themselves up tightly in summer frocks and vanish into the shadows created by the towelling clad heffas that clog the town's narrow arteries.
Somebody pass me a bucket. I'm going to be sick.

The bloke who had too far many drinks with "The Bloke in the Pub" writes ...

I trust you’ll enjoy a few laughs as this book progresses because humour is so important. It is a wonderful antidote to fear and puts into perspective all those events and areas of ours lives that make us frightened, control our thinking, and cause us emotional pain. When subjected to humour, most things that we take seriously are shown to be what they really are: utterly ludicrous.

However, in this chapter there are no laughs. Some things are so grotesque, so beyond the imagination of anyone within a thousand miles of mental and emotional balance, that humour does not and cannot apply. In my years of speaking and writing about these spiritual and conspiratorial subjects I have resisted using the word evil. Even now I emphasise that what we call “evil” is an extreme negative imbalance in the consciousness and people in that mode can and do change. “Evil” is not forever. It is for as long as those minds choose to stay in that state of being. But in the light, or rather the dark, of what I am about to outline, the feel of that word evil seems so appropriate. Indeed we are talking the very depths of evil.
MORE ...oh yes indeedy, there's more.

Last week I did a job for a mason...plumbed 'is secret dungeon for 'im what 'ee 'as in 'is cellar...an' got me own ticket f'r the local club'ouse! It cost me an arm, a leg and one testicle mind, but stone the crows I love me golf!
"Whack that ball with your number eight iron y' lanky streak of American piss! Go on my son...in the drink so you'll 'ave t' ruin y'r fuckin' stupid Rupert Bear trousers climbin' in after it! Oy! On y'r bike Sambo! Y' couldn't win the British Open could y', y' thick wog? We don't want your sort round 'ere, ta very much!"
No bleedin' manky ol' bitches t' give you ear ache 'cos you 'ad a bit too much t' drink the night before and left a present in the bed. No bleedin' screamin' kids arguin' over which satellite channel t' watch an' wakin' me up when I'm tryin' t' kip on the settee.
Just yourself an' your mates anna couple o' metal sticks anna ball an' an 'ole t' knock it into! Then it's into the club house for sixteen Boddys, steak pie and chips and a slash up the caddy shed, or through the keyhole if your aim is good, like what mine is. Then another eighteen pints and a rousin' contest of 'Squeeze your Turd into the Eighteenth 'Ole for when that stuck up old cunt 'oo thinks 'ee's a comedian plays 'is round'.
And on Saturday afternoons we get the strippers in. Right dirty old whores an' all they is. All red and white with plasters on their ankles and tits they could tuck int' their socks if they was wearin' any. For an extra fiver they'll give you a blow job an' swallow the result so the missus doesn't find any stains when she's doin' the laundry, like she's always tryin' t' do the suspicious old sow.
That's what I love about golf...the sophistication and comradeship and the smell of old spunk in the snug.