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Jeff Tipton,

The Voice of

REASON

GOES TO THE PICTURES! With a few honourable

exceptions (James Bond films, Fierce Creatures), I consider "cinematic art" to be a by-word for "visual-excrement", thrusting out at you in a large stale room full of sweaty, farty oiks, wolfing down stomach bloating prole-millet and alternately guffawing and cooing at the most banal expressions of human mediocrity (witness any of Ken Loach's slack-jawed prole-centric "work"). HOWEVER... Recently I was cajoled into going along to The King's Speech by my good friend Duke Flacjacket St John-Shitbag of Tosscaster. I was exceedingly reluctant at first. The thing that really put me off my game was the fact that it seemed to be exciting positive reviews, and some of the aforementioned cacksuppositories were quite amenable to it. How could something widely popular appeal to a man of such refined tastes as myself? I mean, who but Jeff Tipton can rhapsodise so eloquently on Ratigan's vivid use of metaphor, or on LloydWebber's mastery of the augmented fifth? Still, I couldn't rightly put off

Tosscaster, a good friend of mine ever since we first shared a soggy biscuit all those years ago, both aged 13, swathed in shimmering moonlight...

Firth: Lacking in jowl. I sent myself into a reverie with some of Mama's valium pills, washed down by an acceptable draft of cognac. After contemplating the swirling of my skull for a number of minutes, humming "Jerusalem" and polishing off the last of the Badger PatĂŠ, I heard Tosscaster's arrival, tramping up my steps, jowls wobbling vigorously, anxious to be on time. We left soon after, chauffeured by a charming Lybian chap named Moussa. In advance of the film, there was a sense of expectation. Perhaps it was the brandy, but could this be the moment where the people realised the superiority of a rigid, hierarchical society? The place didn't smell too much of Pork Scratchings

either, which I took as a positive omen. We took our places. WELL? cColin Firth: in my opinion not Regal enough (very little research devoted to jowls, I'm afraid), but articulated the dignified British constipation of George very powerfully. cCertainly needed more flags. If I were director, there should be an assembly of Union Jack waving redcoats every five minutes or so, skewering the Hun. cVery fine recreation of early 20th century carpeting; a fact pathetically ignored by most modern critics. They are probably Northern and ignorant of such nuances of life. I shan't be going to the movies any-time soon though. Tosscaster was caught out exposing himself to a young child in the toilets afterwards. Rather than accept a rather generous pay-off, the cinema and the lad insisted on making a ruddy awful scene. God.... these plebs.....

And No. that's why I Voted


Many of you dear Rascal readers must be pondering how to obtain a bohemian dandy's heart. This is not a simple task, as our hearts are at best fickle if not downright whores. First you must find us when we are not indulging in a melancholic mood, which is to be fair rather difficult, since during these frequent bouts of moodiness we will be languishing in our dens listening to Noel Coward records. When not in one of these Morrissey huffs, we can fall in and out love quicker than a Lib-Dem can back pedal; partly due to the fact we cannot distinguish between love and lust. We enjoy the women that dress like us, in an archaic way (Dandy's are the Amish of the fashion world). We purr over class like Audrey Hepburn, Diane Keaton and, if the mood takes us, Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot. We detest the free love syndrome. In the end we are old romantics, and leave the free love for plebs. That is not to say we won't try and hump your Mrs, we just do it with more heart and verve. We see love for what it is: a vile disgusting dance macabre. This leads purposely to the main point. A doomed romance is the best, the inevitability of it ending makes us feel safe and bestows upon us emotional baggage to write about at a later date. We got all of our relationships from Wuthering Heights. We desire indifference, “the cat that is hardest to catch is the greatest hump” as they say, and you can't go wrong with a parole card. So what am I trying to say? You figure it out, I don't fucking know. I've got my own heart aches.

ALTERATIONS TO THE RULE$ OF MONOPOLY Replace Community Chest with Big Society. These cards do not come with the game though so you will have to make them yourself. Now that’s empowerment. 'Go' has been cut. Do not collect £200. You were probably a Go-scrounger anyway. Train stations are half the price and earn you double the rent. Thanks Thatcher! Play as the bank! Make high risk investments (why not buy Free Parking? Or the dice?). If you think you might be be close to bankruptcy then demand a bail out: £500 billion from the other players. The yellow set has turned blue.


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ANDREW LANSLEY COMEBACK RAP (DJ RASCAL DUBSTEP REMIX)

CHORUS:

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CHORUS

Me and Cameron, pushing bills, sitting on window sills, writing in quills, popping PFI pills, No decision about us Should be made without us.

NHS Direct was just the beginning, It's the Tory parting stinging, our coffers are blinging. 't in heaven. e dead but you ain Aneurin Bevan, you'r e in Devon. day in my 36th hous e m so e m it vis e Com of twenty eleven. als before the end ide ur yo ry bu a nn We're go Stop hassling A+E, just put on a plaster, Allowingthepastpseudosocialistlevelof80%investmentwithoutefficencysavings,

now a disaster. Impact is space divided by time.

CHORUS

I honestly don't want But think of efficiency to kill your granny, I'm the terminator sli , stability, economic sustainability. You'll be in need of Buced with Donald Trump and Enron. pa when the boys in blue shoot ya.

lated car. raps in my gold-p I can't hear your falling on deaf ears. . Silly sentiments deaf when the NHS disappears Certain to stay Spirit Level: haven't read it Wipe my arse with Marx This is an official govern And who the foggy is Foucault? ment res ponse to Nxtgen's Andre w

Lansley Rap.

3 X S U R O CH


I cut off my finger to show you I cared. But I forget where you lived. I'm sorry the poem

- a selection of the fine romantic poems of Mr James Anderson.

doesn't rhyme. cd Police line-ups are when I feel closet to you.

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uvxtw The Edinburgh Rascal is brought to you by a motley opensource tools. We delight in the whimsical and revel crew; a bevy of fools with in the cynical. If you wish to join us, join us. We await your submission, forever in perdit For we are the rascals. See us creep, hear us weep; watch ion. - loose, for we lack a stapler. Await declarations, abate our outpourings on paper rational inclinations. See ya around, Jimmy.



THE EDINBURGH RASCAL - ISSUE 4