The Bisto Roast Part 1
Word up, cunts. Baxter "Bisto" Bistock here, and let's make it snappy. The economy, eh? What's that all about? Apparently, the official national debt is set to pass the trillion mark this month. Blimey! Why don't we just borrow another trillion and invest it in the space programme, so we can stick all that debt in a space rocket, and send it off to MARS, then we can all skip around the planet like HAPPY LITTLE TROLLS. No we can't fucking do that you complete moron, you know absolutely jack about the mother-rimming economy, and neither does anyone else - including, it seems, the 'economics' correspondent on my show, The Bisto Roast, Frank O'Filler. The clueless Irish cunt.
FOR THE LAST MINGE-SLAPPING TIME, FRANK, TELL ME WHAT QUANTITIVE EASING MEANS FOR THE CITY
Baxter Bistock declares WAR – on making up stuff about wars
THIS IS WAR CUNTS. And it's a very "winnable" war, with specfic, measurable and achievable objectives at that. I am going to hunt down Defence Secretary Bob Ainsworth with a pitchfork and plunge it repeatedly into his pleading, buggly eyes. Imagine that! He won't be expecting it, of course. I'll creep up on him in the dead of night, when he's watching Desperate Romantics with his pants down his ankles, and kaa-bam! Ainsworth Blood Pie all over the living room walls. Yes, I will be his personal Angel of Death, and it will be a mercy killing.
And why, you whimper, will I be signing up to this worthy military campaign? Because I am sick to the back testicles of Dildos in Suits telling Joe Voter that we are nanoseconds from definitively winning overseas wars when in fact we are very much engaged in their humiliating loss. This week, Ainsworth - whose facial expression perpetually reminds you of Mr Potato Head being disfigured by a cheese grater - was on the Bisto Roast, patiently explaining to me that the daily roll call of young men exploding in a gruesome firework display of dismembered limbs by the roadside is somehow a GOOD THING and that if we only just FUCKING BELIEVED THE MORONIC TWAT, we could secure everlasting peace in Afghanistan, and have our boys all back by Christmas, mission accomplished.
So what was the purpose of the glorious mission? Anyone remmber? Oh yeah, there were two main things we needed to achieve: 1) catch Osama Bin Laden and prevent terrorism thriving there and being exported here 2) having secured peace, install democracy and re-build this shattered nation-state. So what of the first? WHERE THE FELCH IS OSAMA BIN LADEN? Whoops! We screwed up a bit there didn't we Bobby boy? After EIGHT YEARS you don't have a shitting clue where he is, do you? Meanwhile terrorist threats break out uncontrollably over the place like herpes. And secondly, as the Afghans go to the polls on Thursday, in the first "free", "open" democratic elections held in the country, to vote for a possible 764 candidates who are all standing on a platform of letting husbands starve their wives, the Taliban have identified each and every one of them as a legitimate target to take pop-shots at, and still NOTHING IN THE GOD-FORSAKEN LAND WORKS. Hospitals? Shut. Electricity? Intermittent. Water-supply? Off. Happy trails cunts!
Ainsworth's only the messenger of course, but he'll do. He can take one for the team: a succession of barely sentitent imbeciles reciting the same script that we had to stay the course because certain victory is in our grasp; that the hearts and minds of the Afghans are almost locked into the liberal Western mainframe, and now the very fact that we have passed the 200 mark in the British death-toll, that more British soldiers have died in this war than in I-cunting-RAQ, and that we, the Russians and virtually every other advanced military state has had a pop at this wretchedly hostile country over the last couple of centuries and UTTERLY DOLPHIN-FISTING FAILED, is only proof that we must try a little bit harder.
Well let me try a bit harder to get it through your inpenetrable cranium Ainsworth, you moustachioed cunt (and as a side note, how can you *ever* trust a man with a moustache?): We are F-U-C-K-E-D. We are being slowly and painfully gang-raped to buggery in Afghanistan. We will not win this war before hell itself hires an ad agency to give it a makeover as a "relaxing family holiday resort with a wonderfully temperate climate". Bereft of fully-functioning helicopters, bomb disposal equipment or indeed ammunition, and completely scoobieless about the historical, religious, socio-cultural standpoint of our enemy, we have as much chance of winning this war as General Custer had at the battle of Little Bighorn, at the moment he was being encircled by 2, 000 livid native indians, and vigorously skull-fucked by Crazy Hourse. Is that what you call winning Ainsworth? Is it? Is being vigorously skull-fucked by the natives a "winnable" situation? Get out of here Bob you pathetic excuse for a defence minister, before I ram an IED up your flabby posterior and set wild dogs on you before I detonate it, you has-been cunt.
CUNT OF THE MONTH: Boris Johnson, for calling time on bendy busses in London. It was only an eye-catching manifesto promise! You didn't actually need to throw shed-loads of good money after bad, you incompetent foppish twit with hair by Wurzel Gummidge.
Holy Fucking Crap! Bisto’s Back
Rolling up his sleeves to take out the News trash. Aaah...Bisto!
Seven years ago, Baxter Bistock, late night newshound on the Bisto Roast, shot his guest in the head live on air, and was promptly sectioned into an institution for the mentally enfeebled. The transcripts of his show, reproduced on the now sadly deceased www.asliceofpie.co.uk, testified to the vacuity of modern life, the empty cult of celebrity and the moral bankruptcy of the political class. Now, more than ever, his formidable talent for calling a cunt a cunt is needed again, and the producers of Empire FM thought it timely to revive the format, and re-hire the patient. Whether Baxter's fragile state of mind was up to the challenge was hardly considered, and naturally HI was on the scene to demand a slice of the news-pie. Bisto agreed to publish a monthly update for you lovely fans, and be damned. Which he undoubtedly is. Welcome back to the still very slightly insane world of Baxter “Bisto” Bistock.
“Morning cunts!
I was delighted to be re-hired to present my award-winning show [did it ever win any awards? - Ed] on Empire FM, and amazed that seven years and thousands of volts of electrotherapy later, my guns have to be trained (not literally of course you imbeciles) on the same arse-waving targets. I speak of course of one Anthony Charles Lynton Blair, QC, our glorious former fucking leader, who this week called up Gordon Brown to ask him to hold the forthcoming independent inquiry into the Iraq War in private. Hold up there, re-re-wind, what the fuck-a-diddly-doodle did I just write? Oh yes, the very same self-aggrandising total testicle of a man who took us to a completely unnecessary colonial war in the first place got on the blower to his old mate, who happens to be running the cock-sucking country, and asked him to call off the dogs. This is akin to me and you being police officers who were bosom buddies back in the day, and one day me holding a gun against your head (which let's face it is a distinct possibility) and ordering you on pain of painful death to bury a body under your patio; then, six years later, calling you up and telling you you could only exhume the body at three in the morning, in a thick fog, using a feather duster for a shovel. What would you think of that request? You're dead right, you'd think it was the most cuntish thing you had ever head coming out of my smarmy, shit-eating mush. And you'd tell me to fuck off sharpish.
So what did our cherished current leader do? He said “OK.”
Say what? He said OK??! He had the opportunity to take that American-arse-licking celebrity-sniffing weasely little turd-eater to the cleaners and he let him off! Can you think of anything more despicable, more craven, more utterly rotten-to-the-core abysmal than that response? Brown you are without a doubt the weakest Prime Minister. Do us all a massive favour and fuck the fuck off before the next fucking election when we'll make you. And Blair, get the fuck out of here you snivelling excuse for a member of the human race, before I do what I should have done seven years ago: get out my semi-automatic, hunt you down and execute you, and have your cheshire-cat features stuffed and mounted on my living-fucking-room wall, you cunt.
This Tuesday I was heralding the number 141 to London Bridge and shoving a senile old fuck-wit out of my way, when my gaze met with the latest advert on the bus-stop hoarding, courtesy of responsible cider-drinking muppets Magners. So dumb-struck by the length and breadth of their stupidity was I that I forgot totally about the double-decker honking at me to board, and allowed the time-ravaged octogenarian cunt to get on instead. I think I was still frozen to that spot an hour later.
The new campaign is not for their cider at all, but for a very different drink which is actually made from pears, and is called 'Perry' by those who are in possession of at least a quarter of their faculties. Calling it 'Pear Cider' is like calling a Pina Colada a Coconut Tequila Sunrise, but let's just pass on that particular misnomer. Instead let me outline the key messages in this ad. Apparently, the contents of this beverage, whilst re-named with its eponymous ingredient to make it easier for its brain-dead customers, may still be a little confusing. If they had chosen another fruit as its sole ingredient, the ad patiently explains, we might be a little 'disappointed'. What fruit might it contain, one wonders. Apples? No, that would be Regular Cider. Raspberries? Not even close – that's probably a Daiquiri. Blackberries? Freezing cold, that would be a Bramble you're imbibing. Sharon fruit? Now you're just being silly.
IT'S PEARS IT'S FUCKING PEARS FOR CHRIST'S CRAPPING SAKE!!
But no, Magners have felt the need to take out a major national advertising campaign to remind us that they have remembered correctly to use the one mother-loving ingredient actually required to make Perry, so as to avoid our disappointment. Would you be disappointed if you ordered a nice cold beer, only to find out that some numpty had made it with chocolate sauce? No, you would be completely fucking livid, and if you were me you would do the only sensible thing, pour it over the head of the numskull bartend who had pulled it, and glass him viciously in the face to make your point. What do you want Magners? A fucking medal for your selfless heroism in the face of a potentially fatal choice of ingredient? Why don't you fuck off our billboards and TVs for good? You, and all the pathetic twats who drink your shitty product are not merely cunts of the highest order, but a stark reminder of the futility of the human endeavour.
I'm fine really, thanks for asking, I'm remembering to take my pills most of the time, and my doctor tells me that every day, in every way I'm getting better and better. The quack cunt.
CUNT OF THE MONTH: The O2, which this week brought a musical legend to his knees. Well, those cunts or a wheelbarrow full of painkillers that could have floored a hippopotamus. Ok, maybe it was the painkillers."