3593 days ago
Check out twitter #LeonBrittan. The former home secretary covered up Westminster & Elm House paedophile activities but was also widely believed to be an active nonce himself.
Fleet Street has known this for decades. It has been all over the internet for years. Now the fun starts. I wonder what tributes will be paid to the man by the politicians of today? How many of them are implicated in the cover up, in the rapid departure of Brittan from front line politics here, to a sinecure in Brussels where the money grabbing toad could coin it in big time.
What of the other politicians involved
3793 days ago
Everyone on Fleet Street or anyone who can use google knows the answes so why won’t David Cameron allow a full public enquiry to ask the questions relating to paedophile activity and cover-ups at Westminster in the 1970s and 1980s?
In that vein I ask you to post suitable captions for the picture of former Home Secretary Leon Brittan in the comment section below. Deadline Friday close of play.
For what it is worth my entry is: “It’s just Jimmy Saville’s address book, Cyril Smith’s police record and a few sketches of young girls by Rolf Harris…can you file these documents for me in the usual place please?”
3963 days ago
Last week instead of a caption contest I asked you to name the odd one out and say why from the four gentlemen pictured below. It was so simple yet no correct winner emerged. The four men pictured below are of course: Jimmy Saville, Cyril Smith MP, Sci-fi writer Arthur C Clarke and former Tory Minister and European Commissioner Leon Brittan.
The correct answer is of course
4082 days ago
Thanks to Darren I managed to get away early and so avoided the 11.35 drunks express from Paddington. On the 10.15 I thought that I could sleep soundly, manage a new high score on word mole and attend to other matters. What I forgot was that by the time we arrived at Swindon it was 11 PM and that made this the drunks express for those leaving the town that gave us Melinda Messenger.
Hence, at 11, about 15 lads joined our carriage. I say lads, but a couple were older than me and within a few minutes as they shouted loudly in broad West Country accents it was clear that the collective IQ of the 15 was barely into four figures.
To keep themselves entertained they started playing a game “the gauntlet” which seems to involved 14 of them kneeling on their seats looking backwards while the 15th had to run past them. Those kneeling simply had to either hit the runner as hard as possible or to try to rip his underpants down by sticking their hands down his trousers. At the same time they has to shout abuse at the runner. The three most popular shouts were “you gay cunt”, you “fucking lesbian” or “you Leon Britton.” Or was that “you Leon Brittan.” Was it a reference to the Swansea midfielder or the former home secretary about whom so many interesting rumours circulate. I did not feel like asking about this cultural metaphor.
However, the irony of a bunch of men shouting homophobic abuse while try to stick their hands down each other’s trousers was not lost on myself or the small group of fellow passengers.
Occasionally the insults got too much and in our short 45 minutes together we enjoyed two real fights where a couple of the drunks beat the crap out of each other. Apparently this all harked back to a row about a pair of sunglasses lost at Butlins. Whatever.
My back was turned to this spectacle but – like my fellow passengers – I could not help but watch. I felt rather like a Victorian paying to go and watch lunatics humiliate themselves at the asylum, but – feeling a little guilty – I watched anyway. The late night trains to Bristol are a true gin alley
