Jeff Tipton,The Voice of REASON

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 cack-suppositories 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 Lloyd-Webber'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...

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 Paté, 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 that's why I Voted No.

GOES TO THE PICTURES!

Firth: Lacking in jowl.

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.

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 parolecard.

So what am I trying to say?You figure it out, I don't fucking know. I've got my own heart aches.

The Meadows was ho

st to a crowd of 2

25,000 in July

2005 for the Make

Poverty History ca

mpaign. They

then went home, ha

ving successfully

abolished

poverty.

In 1886 they hel

d the Internatio

nal Exhibition o

f

Industry, Science

and Art to celebr

ate the GLORY OF

THE EMPIRE. When

they left, the

y forgot to pac

k

their whale jawb

ones, so they w

ere stuck over

a

path, and the path

became known as J

awbone walk.

Here once lay th

e Burgh Loch, fr

om which Edinbur

gh

drew some of it'

s water supply,

until it got too

full of poo. To

the south of the

Meadows was the

Burgh Muir, common

land to graze y

our coo and dance

wi' yer goose.

The Ross House m

ansion once stoo

d on the site of

McEwan Hall, own

ing all the land

down towards th

e

Meadows. A Mr Jam

es Brown bought th

e lands, and in

1766, taking a

break from proto

-soul singing, h

e

started to build

his 'great squ

are'. The landlo

rd

next door started construct

ion of Middle Meadow

Walk, the first

path across the

Meadows, and line

d

it with trees. Tha

t's nice, innit.

It was originally

called Hope Par

k, after the guy

who ordered the

draining, Sir Th

omas Hope, who

probably did nothi

ng but sign a pi

ece of paper. If

history was fair

, it would have

been called 'Swe

at

of the Lower Class Poo Movers Commemora

tive

Marshland'. But th

at has less of a r

ing.

DID YOU KNOW? WELL? DID YOU?

The Meadows was ho

st to a crowd of 2

25,000 in July

2005 for the Make

Poverty History ca

mpaign. They

then went home, ha

ving successfully

abolished

poverty.

In 1886 they hel

d the Internatio

nal Exhibition o

f

Industry, Science

and Art to celebr

ate the GLORY OF

THE EMPIRE. When

they left, the

y forgot to pac

k

their whale jawb

ones, so they w

ere stuck over

a

path, and the path

became known as J

awbone walk.

Here once lay th

e Burgh Loch, fr

om which Edinbur

gh

drew some of it'

s water supply,

until it got too

full of poo. To

the south of the

Meadows was the

Burgh Muir, common

land to graze y

our coo and dance

wi' yer goose.

The Ross House m

ansion once stoo

d on the site of

McEwan Hall, own

ing all the land

down towards th

e

Meadows. A Mr Jam

es Brown bought th

e lands, and in

1766, taking a

break from proto

-soul singing, h

e

started to build

his 'great squ

are'. The landlo

rd

next door started construct

ion of Middle Meadow

Walk, the first

path across the

Meadows, and line

d

it with trees. Tha

t's nice, innit.

It was originally

called Hope Par

k, after the guy

who ordered the

draining, Sir Th

omas Hope, who

probably did nothi

ng but sign a pi

ece of paper. If

history was fair

, it would have

been called 'Swe

at

of the Lower Class Poo Movers Commemora

tive

Marshland'. But th

at has less of a r

ing.

CHORUS:

ANDREW LANSLEY COMEBACK RAP(DJ RASCAL DUBSTEP REMIX)

I can't hear your raps in my gold-plated car.

Silly sentiments falling on deaf ears.

Certain to stay deaf when the NHS disappears.

Couldn't you just send me a fax?

No, you pleb-ned, had to resort to rap.

You socialists are stuck in the past.

The new age is fast.

I've a mandate to think slick and demolish quick.

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

NHS Direct was just the beginning, It's the Tory parting stinging,our coffers are blinging.

Aneurin Bevan, you're dead but you ain't in heaven.

Come visit me some day in my 36th house in Devon.

We're gonna bury your ideals before the end of twenty eleven.

Stop hassling A+E, just put on a plaster,Allowingthepastpseudosocialistlevelof80%investmentwithoutefficencysavings,now a disaster.Impact is space divided by time.

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

CHORUS

Spirit Level: haven't read it -Wipe my arse with Marx - And who the foggy is Foucault?

CHORUS X3

So here it is, this delinquent called NxtgenReplacing solid facts with ad-hominem attacks.You are clearly no Eminem, I will not bow to lesser men.Cut the flim-flam before you get cappedLet's reach for the axe on income tax.

stylishlovely

Andrew Lansely,

Andrew Lansely,

I'm the doctor with the cure for your public sector virus

This is an official government response to Nxtgen's Andrew Lansley Rap.

YOUR MONTHLYNOSTALGIA COLUMN

eghf

NHS Direct was just the beginning, It's the Tory parting stinging,our coffers are blinging.

I cu

t off m

y finger to

sho

w you I cared. Bu

t I fo

rget w

here you lived

. I'm

sorry th

e po

em doesn't rhyme. cd Police line-ups are when I feel closet to you.- a selection of the fine romantic poem

s of Mr Jam

es Anderson.

- a selection of the fine romantic poem

s of Mr Jam

es Anderson.

R

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

Nick Cl

egg's

Crying

Playlist

Every tim

e this

little ditt

y came

onto the w

ireless

over Chr

istmas I

would find

myself

sinking i

nto a

tender tu

rkey cutl

et,

my tears

infusing

with the p

ungent

stuffing,

roasted

potatoes

warmly

soaking a

t my ears

..

'And now

you do

what they

told you',

sang the

children.

R

uvxtw

Many ho

urs I w

ould sp

end cry

ing toge

ther wi

th our

erstwhi

le form

er lead

er, Charl

es Kenn

edy, on

ly for

him to

crack o

ut a cou

ple of

bottles

of White

Thunde

r and s

ing me

this lov

ing lam

ent. It's

a less

on

I still

keep w

ith me.

'Many Livers

to Cross'

'Billing In The N

ame Of'

'What's My Na

me?'

I often sing along, tears flowing,

to the famous chorus 'I'm picking

up pragmatic consolations, she's

giving me disinflations', you know

the words!

'Good Prostrations'

Back i

n the h

eady d

ays of

2010 thi

s down

-with-t

he-

kids ro

otin'-too

tin'-bar

nstorme

r alway

s used

to get

the

eyes w

atering.

'Why d

oes no

body k

now wh

o I am?

', I'd

cry to M

iriam a

s she

listene

d intent

ly, selec

ting my

underw

ear for

the day

. Alas,

now it

makes

me wel

l up

with n

ostalgia

for sim

pler, e

asier ti

mes.