So called stars, scumbags who hide their true selves, are among us and continue to carry out their heinous crimes without hesitation. A mothful of genitalia or a most unwelcome visit up yer arse, nothing is to perverse, nothing will keeep these sexual predators from carrying out their sick acts.

Little Jim liked to molest children, to fondel wee bairns was his turn on and he couldn't care less about what the stupid masses had to say about it, the inert majority of a once great people.

He got away with rape (and not just once), a run-of-the-mill act no more alien to him than the procedure of brushing his rotten teeth in the evening. A throbbing penis and a puckered up asshole was what he adhered to, to be an upstanding citizen with at least half a brain left was never an option for this vile creature.

Rot in hell, engage in a circle jerk with the rest of the silly hoi polloi along side of you, for all I care. I might not get an oppurtunity to clobber a pervert, but before long justice will be served and it will include fire and brimsone galore.

"When your'e Jimmy Savile everybody thinks your'e brill?" I don't think so. Please feel free to expose your scrawny back so the man in charge (Satan) can do some damage. The red and scaly abomination towering on cloven hoofs has an insatiable thirst for fresh souls and your stale one will do just fine.

I might frequently ejaculate on my dirty mattress, I might be hoplessly lost to the act of masturbation, but that's as far as I'll go. Nae frigging way will I live out my darkest fantasies (if I've ever been in possesison of them, wich I doubt) and accost perfect strangers with the intent of teraing off their undies and bugger them.

Little Savile is now just an unpleasant memory in the physical world, but his lust for "untouched" bodies lives on, he cheers on those intent on defiling the pristine few still treading brittish soil from beyond the grave.

I'm a lazy man, but if I ever venture past my cramped comfort-zone I might just pay your grave a visit. Add a chockfull bladder to the equation and you have yourself a downpour never heard of before.

Jimmy Savile, how could you betray us all? You were once a trusted (but ugly) jester on the box, then your dirty deeds saw you falling from grace in a most astonishing way. Hands off our young ones and keep your flaccid pecker in yer soiled undies. I can only hope you're getting buttfucked in hell on a regular basis. Scream like a virgin and act like a seasoned rent boy with a lust fore more, more and more. An eternity in the bowels of hell seeems like a fitting end for you, you dirty bugger.

Cheerio, dear Internet-frieds. I've been busy lately, have been working hard exposing the truth to my fellow Britons. I've produced leaflet after leaflet, focusing on the alien invasion wich is upon us. I didn't forget about the incident that rocked our world either, the inexplicable close encounter in the depths of Rendlesham forest.

The latest bouts taking place on arid excuses for grass, commonly known as footaball, saw United smite the opposition in a most satisfactory way and Wednesday loosing to some kickabout team dwelling in the churches league divison three.

I'm no bigot, I may dislike my rivals, but I don't hate them. A common trait among the dregs of society is unadulterated hate fueled by those pints they probably couldn't afford down at the local pub.

I need some rest, all work and no play makes Bob a dull boy, as the saying goes. What better way to shrug off the hardships of the strenuous life than a visit to the nearest venue where a roundish lump is constantly pummeled by twentytwo eager lads sniffing the gonads of the nearest contender before they even consider giving the ball a nudge?

The football season is still in its bud but gains more and more momentum and might squash you like a steamroller if you don't get out of the way. Better yet, don't clamber for a possible exit, a cowardly way to get out of harms way, face reality and plant your feet firmly on the terrace and sing proudly from the top of your voice.

Meat pie, sausage roll, come on Sheffield (yes, I include my so called bitter rivals) give us a goal! Football is... is feckin brill!

/English Bob