WHO RAPED GEORGE SMITH?

Calling all gossip voyeurs everywhere!

Latest on the Paul Burrell Palace rapist scandal!

Italian newspaper La Repubblica yesterday named the man alleged to be the gay rapist of George Smith. Although the tabloids have made it obvious who the alleged rapist is you can confirm your suspicions by following the link below. Being able to speak Italian is helpful but not essential.

There will be no knighthoods for the tattle-tale who fingers the royal caught canoodling with this creep but my money is on....Prince Arrggle (sound of legal gag being enforced)

And the name of the alleged bum-bruiser is...

O.K. it's time to hose down all this anti Royal rubbish that is being spewed all over this site.

I suppose you crypto-pinko-lesbian-poofy set on this blog think it's clever and funny to chuck shit at all the time honoured institutions that have served us well. You've obviously got nothing better to do than sit around staring at their filthy lint filled poisonous navels and slagging off at your olders and betters. Shame on me if I suggest you get off your hairy cellulitic arses and get a frigging job!

The Queen has done more for Britain in her lifetime than you pack of lice infected mangy pinko dingoes could do in ten lifetimes. (Or the lifetime of the Queen Mother, which ever is the longest.) Not only has she bestowed her kindness on the British people but she's gone out of her way to extend a helping hand to Australians from all walks of life. She didn't have to do that, but such is the greatness of this lady that she finds time in her onerous duties to include in her considerations a humble race of people thousands of miles away from her.

Her task is not been made easy by the appalling behavior of some of the staff of the Royal Hicehold. It is an index of her compassion that they have not been transported to Tower Bridge for a bloody good flogging or at the very least a hangin' and a drawin' and a quarterin'.

That frigging Paul Burrell! Well, why Prince Phillip didn't arrange another of his one way ticket to the tunnels of Paris for the snake in the grass I'll never frigging know. Gratitude?! Her Ma'amship snatches him from the jaws of looking down the barrel of the abyss of sharing 20 years of porridge with Jeffrey Archer after she had managed to save up her guineas for a consultation with the Palace's repressed memory syndrome advisor and what thanks does she get for it? Sweet frigging Fanny Adams! Oh no! Mr. frigging Burrell, not satisfied with merely selling his arsehole to the devil, pockets a squillion from the gnomes of Fleet Street in return for spilling the Royal legumes. I sincerely hope he is stripped of his Order of the Garter. How appropriate the motto "Honi soit qui mal y pense". For the benefit of you pinkoes who thought that the education system was a bourgeois conspiracy (give me a frigging break!) it translates as "Any swine who merely ponces". (Eat you heart out Mr. Byron "Puns-R-Frigging-Me" Hughes!)

Well at least one of our Australian poofs is making short frigging work of his credibility. Not that it excuses that pansy's preverted lifestyle one iota. Let me tell you right now, if that shirtlifter shows his poxy face within a 100 miles of Kalgoorlie he won't know what's frigging struck him. He's in for the mother of all poofter bashings. We'd frigging tar and feather the bastard but he's just as likely go straight (no, you smug little smartarses, that wasn't a frigging "no pun intended", which again reminds me, that frigging Byron Hughes ought to take a good hard look at himself!) to the Sydney Poofter Mardi Gras and win "The Most Novel Costume" prize.

I don't suppose you lot have one jot of sympathy in your bilious hearts for the plight foisted upon Her Ma'amship. How would you feel if you had to do your own butling, wipe your own arses and first thing in the afternoon face a breakfast of toast and Vegemite that hadn't been given the all clear by a trusty food taster? Pretty bloody pissed off if I'm not mistaken.

I honestly can't say that I agree with her policy about employing all those nancy boys but I grudgingly admit that she is a kinder and slightly more tolerant person than me, but in moments of silent contemplation even she might have to admit that she is now reaping the whirlwind. To give her her due she did keep them off the street where we didn't have to see them poncing about like paisley and leather clad Barbie dolls and they were at least stopped from carrying out predatory nocturnal missions that entrapped passing members of the Tory shadow cabinet who were innocently popping out at 3 a.m. to borrow half a cup of fishnet stockings from young Jeremy at No. 54.

I don't know where she is now going to find trusted servants. People who know their place in the pecking order. Footmen who know that their nightly thrashing from Phillip is character building. Butlers who appreciate that the scars they bear from their near death mauling experiences at the paws of the Fifth Light Corgis are badges of honour. Scullery maids who don't turn a hair when Charles pops into the kitchen to chew the fat with the courgettes and the broccoli.

Let me tell you Peggy Farcus is not sitting back wringing her hands in despair. I won't have the Royal family left floundering, royalfully soldiering on, down to their last couple of faithful retainers. I have submitted a list of Kalgoorlie kiddies whose parents are willing to transport them to the Mother country to be trained as obedient and loyal servants. As I put it to the "Kalgoorlie Save the Queen" committee, "it is only fair that as a country that was founded by transportees from Britain we should return the favour in Her Ma'amship's hour of direst need". There was unanimous frigging patriotic support, which of course you pinko pricks wouldn't understand if it got up and chewed your cods off.

Take note of this too you smartarse layabouts, not that you lot would know a positive role model from an amoeba's pizzle. Even before the vote was taken (and to make sure the ballot was kosher we has members of the Iraqi Electoral Commission overseeing the process, that should even satisfy you pack of Bush-hating Saddam-loving shit-for-brains) some of the kiddies from the Kalgoorlie under 12 swimming team, Kylie-Narelle Stropp, Tarkwin Smith, Bruce Bogon, Skye Blumfield, Sheree Nordstrum and Chookie Fowler were going at it frangerlessly hammer and tong around the back of the Mechanics Institute Library breeding up a storm of future Royal food tasters and spitoon polishers.

Anyhow I reckon I'm wasting my breath by pissing into the wind with you lot. In the immoral words of Setev Lellgain, the cartoonist at the "Kalgoorlie Kronicle", when he was faced with a similar mob of smartarses, "You lot giev me the shits. I'm friggin' out of hear!"

My favorite ranter's year in a nutshell.

The Year 2002

Last year a parking office maliciously gave me a ticket, and then squealed like a pig when I, on this very show, exposed her for being a man-hating lascivious dyke who takes pleasure in interrupting the business of successful people, and stated that we would be a better country if we didn’t have to put up with her kind.

Little did I know that there was an underground of slag sympathisers and lovers, who have spent the last year pissing your hard-earned taxes against the wall in what has been nothing less than a witch-hunt. So what if she was a Salvo and I’d been in the spot for five hours, it happened a year ago and it’s an old story. She’s just jealous I was re-elected to the board of the Melbourne Club while she spends her day sticking bits of paper under windscreen wipers.

And is it just me, or have the Salvos gone to pot? It seems just like a few years ago we all loved the quaint gay, grog and grunge music abhorring god botherers that spent their time helping the homeless and the pitiful. Nowadays they seem to want to run public agenda. Employment agencies, heading up the drug advisory council … I’m no crack cocaine free-baser, but having a prohibitionist running drug policy is like having an alcoholic determining opening hours.

Talking about the separation of the state and the church, this year it was reinforced when it became clear it was okay to accuse a gay judge of pedophilia but not a conservative catholic bishop.

But I digress, what a year. Twelve months ago we were just another palm-tree-rimmed sun-blessed island on the furthest edge of the pacific. Now we're, with the US and England, the preferred target of terrorists. Well done you.

As a nation we were the first to recognise that wasting time at the negotiation table was last millennia’s model and that questions should only be asked after the first strike.

Softcock economists have been bleating on about the wisdom about being belligerent when you lack the resources or infrastructure to back it up, or even to protect your own shores and citizens, but what they’ve conveniently forgotten is that we’re lodged so far up George Dubya’s lower intestine that he’s ready to bomb wherever Little Johnny points.

Saddam Hussein has a 100 per cent approval rating, only eighteen percent more than John Howard. I’m not sure what that means but it was just another fact in this remarkable year.

It was the year the billionaire son of a media mogul flew in on his private Leer jet to warn us that capitalism is the only guarantor of democracy and that the greatest threat to freedom are elites.

And it was the elites that complained when we had to kick in doors and hold guns to children's heads because their daddies had attended a religious lecture, and jeopardised a multi-billion dollar deal with the architect of the Tiannamen Massacre by demanding that the PM should have tea with the Dalai Lama.

2002 was the year we came to the simple fact that university students who burn flags should be jailed for doing so. In the history of everywhere no protest has lead to positive change.

We realised that foreigners are up to no good.

In 2002 we found the enemy, lifted their burkha and looked them in the eye.

We learnt that women can think about four things at once. Four things. Now if just one of those things was useful it'd be a miracle.

It's not that impressive to be able to time the cooking so the vegies are ready at the same time as the chops and mash when you can't solve the Palestinian Crisis, remember to carry the mobile phone that your husband spends an inordinate amount of his wage or even have the ability to urinate standing up.

Don't get me wrong, I like women. I get many letters a week offering sexual favours and unquestioning servitude, but obviously they're dazzled by the ties rather than the ideas.

When you hear whingers banging on about research and development funding being cut, you must realise that the problem is with the scientists not concentrating on things that will pay for themselves.

It's all good and well trying to find a cure for arthritis, but you’re hardly going to pay the mortgage curing rickety old people who are dependent on government handouts.

Find a solution to traffic jams, democrat voters and crap fast food and you can justify the wages.

Invent a baby that comes out of the womb fully toilet trained and you'll make a mint.

Then you can waste as much time and money as you want trying to prove the improbable theory that women have a worth beyond propagating the species and making sure they've set the table before serving the risotto.

It’s obvious, if women could think of multiple things simultaneously, they wouldn’t waste their and everyone else’s time, handing out parking tickets.

You know it makes sense.

I’m Sam Kekovich.

BOOK NEWS!

Yes...the long awaited release of Patternoster Row (exclusive to Scrag End Books) has finally arrived...so long as you don't mind it having a buckled spine. After spending all day adding the finishing touches to these otherwise perfect volumes (which is why, I should add, I haven't had chance to write out one of my usual rants) I then took them to a place with a big guillotine to have them trimmed. At which point the guillotine proved so industrious that it squashed all the spines and they came out of the other side resembling Thora Hird on a damp morning. So...production has gone back by another month. Please bear with me. Not that anybody's actually waiting for them to arrive or anything. Sure...buy Harry Potter because everybody else has bought it. Buy Ulrika Johnson's biography because she's a talentless slapper and there might be something about the size of John Leslie's knob in it. Buy Paul Burrell's boring tale of life in the palace if you makes you feel richer for the experience...but try and get anyone to buy my books and it's like trying to get Quentin Crisp interested in women. Mind you...even if you do want a copy, you're going to have to wait now for the reasons mentioned above. So tough shit. In the meantime, however, quite a few people will be getting copies of Patternoster Row with buckled spines for Christmas this year.

While Dubya has his sights set on freeing the innocent oilfields of Iraq, other vested interests are poised to make a killing by removing certain herbal and folk remedies from the public domain.

A major target is Echinacea (Purple Coneflower), a North American plant whose root extract helps to overcome microbial and viral infections. It is also taken to maintain a healthy immune system. Its cheapness and availability is harmful to the wealth of pharmaceutical industry profits and therefore must not be available, over the counter, to people who believe standard cold remedies are outrageously over priced and completely useless.

These bastards put wealth before health but most people are too busy pickling their brains in aspartame to notice! Maybe if I put it about that Princess Diana’s fragile mental stability could be linked to her addiction to Diet Coke, people might finally realise that they are being poisoned for profit.

As Christmas approaches the hard working contributors ROTW will be publishing a wish list that our thousands of faithful, loyal and generous visitors might like to take on board. Of course donations of money are always welcome and can be forwarded to the ROTW Swiss bank account (#214-549-3041).

Twisted Sister has been throwing hints around the office about how much she would like a set of these.



ORDER HERE.

While Bush and Blair prepare for a pre-emptive strike upon a country that does not have the capability of waging war on either Britain or America, let alone both together, the wonderful Brit media have sunk to new levels.

Gone are the longed for days of navel gazing, where the TV and newspapers pried apart the belly fluff of celebrity gossip and regaled us with snippets of inconsequential crap disguised a news. They have now de-evolved into a lower form of life, namely scum-sucking bottom feeders that are frenziedly tongue washing the colons of the Queen’s faggots.

The leading news story today is not about Bleughh preparing twenty thousand British troops for war, it is about the Queen’s faggots handbagging each other via the tabloids (Surely you mean servants of the Royal Household revealing more shocking disclosures about Palace life? – Ed. ) (No. – TS). Also of the deepest national concern is whether or not Sven the Svede is going to quit as England’s manager (For fuck’s sake make it quick you prick!).

The irony that today is Armistice Day is not lost upon me. Today of all days we have a timely reminder about what war means – death, deprivation and unconscionable waste. Thatcher went to war to protect the British sovereignty of the Falkland Islands and gave Argentina a bloody nose. Major went to war to protect the West’s interests in Kuwait much to Saddam’s amusement. Today we have Bleughh selling out the sovereignty of the Gibraltar against 99% of the Gibraltarians wishes and mobilising against Iraq whose yet to be proved “threat” interferes with Bush’s plans to take control of the world’s second largest oil field.

So, here we are being bombarded with Royal revelations that are hardly a surprise to anyone while the northern hemisphere begins to slide into the abyss.

Isn’t freedom of the press wonderful?