I have been hacked once again, this is the third time. Some idiot(s) has (have) tried to do this but this time it does not have the sweet smell of incense about it, this time it has all the hallmarks of a Jock. That faint leathery, sweaty, ammoniacal odour that comes from the crotch of a Jockess on heat.
My internet investigators tell me that my IP address was targeted causing me to lose my e-mail system and certain alternative media sites that I share an interest with. By asking around I have found out that this has happened to other sites concerned with the same quest as myself, freedom of speech, the wish to seek vengeance on the heartless Scottish legal elite and in particular the doing down of that criminal, lying, scrawny arsed Govan bitch, Elish Angiolini. She who was Scotland’s premier legal bod; she who has a face to match her arse, so sharp you could chop sticks with it; she who was forced to resign her position two years ago due to mounting external pressure and seek refuge in the hallowed, ivied halls of St Hugh’s College, Oxford.
However she still has some friends left in the Crown Office in Edinburgh and they are fighting like mad to ensure her virtue or what is left of it remains as intact as it is ever likely to.
Robert Green, the pensioner from Warrington and champion of children in Scotland and in particular Hollie Greig, the Downes Syndrome girl who was horribly raped over a number of years by a cabal of Scottish bigwig paedophiles, tells me that his case in Edinburgh this week has morphed into a civil case of defamation, with Angiolini’s sniffers using every legal Scottish trick in the book. This morphing has stopped Robert, a pensioner with no income, from seeking legal aid to navigate the vagueries of the Scottish legal system and makes it certain that he will have to defend himself against the might of the now thin legal protection Angiolini still has.
It strikes me that the allure Angiolini had in opening up the mouth of her birthing canal to any jock with a wig, for them to savour the rancid depths of her inner being, is now not as enticing as it was when she ruled the roost up there. Before she, her with the scrawny arse, a face to match and one that you could chop sticks with, started opening up the mouth of her birthing canal to all and sundry, the bewigged jocks just got on with their job of raping the Scottish economy, the legal system and the children of the parish and nothing was ever said. Somehow or other it seemed to have been alright. But Angiolini arrived with her lying eyes and made it obvious to all and sundry that what was normal about Scottish legal behaviour should not be tolerated by the rest of the population.
First Robert Green stepped up to the plate, then Tim Rustige and now she seems to have taken a shine for me. What is it with her that she fancies old men from the North West of England, admittedly past their raunchy best, to fix her dripping loins to. Can she not get enough satisfaction out of the sleek, thrusting young muscle of legal Caledonia? Or is it that she herself is past her best, her attraction has waned, her feistiness has foundered in that putrefying pool of Scottish Paedophilia.
Writing this piece I have felt guilty at damning the fair sex with this monstrosity Angiolini, so I questioned my dear wife of 40 years, the brave Helen. Without pondering on the subject she said that it was OK as Angiolini has proved herself not to be a woman. As they say about ducks, if Angiolini does not look like a woman, does not act like a woman or talk like a woman, she obviously is not a woman but some evil looking android built by sheep shagging jocks to take their burden.
So any of you within spitting distance of Edinburgh on Wednesday, the 1st of May 2013, try to make your way to the Court of Session, Parliament Square at 10.00am to support Robert in his hour of need and make it obvious to legal McTavish and aging scrawny arsed Angiolini that we of richer blood do not need this nonsense.