There’s a double-whammy for the Barclays of Notquite-Sark in this morning’s Telegraph lead: the twins hate giving foreign aid, and they hate the EU. So when Tory Minister Alan Duncan says “we give the EU foreign aid money and they squander it”, the offshore proprietors cream their jeans.
I don’t like Mr Duncan. He’s a lightweight, and part of Dianne Abbott’s fag-hag circle. Of course the EU squanders foreign aid: it squanders everything. So get out. If Mr Duncan wants out of Europe and his boss doesn’t, then he should resign.
As for the Tubbytwins, they don’t pay any UK tax, so WTF has it got to do with them?
Talking of overseas aid, The Indie on Sunday stays close to the Dave Cameo take-me-roughly please Cash for Anything scandal. After accepting tons of dosh from Tony Bamford (Mr JCB) in 2010, Cams has now dug himself another large hole by making a JCB factory visit the jewel in the crown of his Brazil begging-bowl fiesta.
Bamford is said to be in line for a peerage on the next House of Lords list. He and his missus are members of the Tooting Norton tendency. This is all part of Scameron’s ‘leg up’ approach to life: “‘e’s rolled up ‘is sleeves an’ ‘eaded it an’ it’s in the net”. All perfectly fair and above board, just like Jeremy Hunt, two Party Treasurers, G4S contracts, and texting Rebekah.
Dear me, this is all sounding a bit Alan Rusbridger. The Observer headlines the Ed Miller Band, sternly noting that the deputy head of Geography Labour leader has given ‘an ultimatum’ to City: that he will split off casino operations if bankers don’t mend their ways.
There’s really no need for the ‘if’ bit in this non-story: it’s just that, as always, Unsteady Eddie lacks the cojones to say “we will break you up, period”. And in other news, the East Cloggermole UDC (twinned with Ittyoshu in Japan) has delivered an ultimatum to Wen Jaibao: lay off the sabre-rattling – or else.
The Mail on Sunday reveals to a not entirely breathless world that runaway sex-pest and all-round paedo-beast Jeremy Forrest ‘was sleepless for much of his recent honeymoon’, or so his wife says. This is quite normal MoS. This is a tedious story MoS. We’re all really, really bored MoS. Go away.
But the Sun on Sunday (or SOS as the wags have taken to calling it) doesn’t understand this either. In a faint re-run of 300 Argentine deaths being celebrated with ‘GOTCHA!’, the Cu***nt Bun shows wicked kidnapper and totty-teacher Forrest in a woolly hat boarding a plane back to England with the words ‘GOT HIM’. Hurrah: Lolitas everywhere can now sleep safely in their beds, as opposed to the headmaster’s.
The Sunday Mirror does, however: “we’ve got a theme here lads: some blokes like ’em teenage: now let’s play another tune”. Yes, this week it’s Jimmy Squeaky-Clean Saville’s turn to be revealed as a filthy abuser of unwilling jail-bait.
I used to be a regular at Saville’s Beat City club in the early 1960s, when I was 14. Most of the girls in the club I was variously groping and knicker-fumbling were the same age or slightly older. Jimmy’s sole crime was being thirty years older than me, and more experienced.
That they went off for a bit of whatnot after the show with JS was an open secret. Unwilling? Hardly.
I’m still reading the Viz Profanasaurus. ‘Inserting the skin flute’ had me laughing again this morning, as did the premature ejaculation descriptor ‘Coming off at the Milly Billy roundabout’.
It’s a must for every lav, this one.
The Slog 