BOO! Don’t be afraid, Cap’n Bob can’t hurt you – not while I’m chained naked to this rock and Satan subjects my orifices to eternal torment with the business end of his trident and blistering blasts of raging hellfire.

Please ignore all these spirits of dead journalists that surround me – they arrive every morning at dawn when my blackened body regenerates, slicing my belly open with the sharp corners of their unused pension books and consuming my swollen liver to keep their alcohol cravings at bay.

Apparently this is my punishment for driving them all to drink and an early grave. So let my fate be a warning to aspirant pension thief Iain Duncan Smith – do not follow in my footsteps. Especially if you’re on a yacht.

In life, I was affectionately known as the Bouncing Czech, a morally bankrupt media mogul and incongruous self-centred monster who defined the odious duality of champagne socialism – a dark arts propagandist who blackened Scargill and his ilk’s good names in order to rebuild the Labour Party in my own pro-business image. If you ask the UK Foreign Office, however, they’ll suggest I was a “secret agent of thoroughly bad character almost certainly financed by Russia”. I wish – that cheque must have bounced too!

Despite all this, it’s still the posthumous revelation that I pocketed £460 million from the Mirror Group pension fund that saw me formally accepted into history’s illustrious pantheon of despicable dumps of human excrement. I may have left thousands of my employees without a pot to piss in during their twilight years, but why can’t they just piss over the side of their yachts like I used to?

At least my bereft former colleagues had already penned their glowing obituaries before the news of their financial ruin “broke”! Don’t feel too bad, they were only journalists – most never live long enough to draw a pension anyway.

Making a splash

THE revelations of my misdemeanours made a big splash back in the day – much like my corpse when it hit the water. In death, I had committed the newspaper proprietor’s worst sin by actually becoming the news – dominating headlines just like my daughter Ghislaine’s friend Jeffery Epstein does these days.

Certainly, it’s a dark cosmic synchronicity that the two despicable fiends she loved most both exited this world with much speculation over whether we did the honourable thing – or if someone else did it for us!

Talking of honour, I’m not saying Iain Duncan Smith is a sociopathic empathy-free, self-serving demon like Epstein or me. Absolutely not. I robbed the Mirror pension fund out of arrogant entitlement, while Smith is simply following orders – buoyed by his party’s swing to the far right and progressing full steam ahead with a social eugenics programme which ably operates in plain sight exterminating a perceived parasitical underclass – gleefully enabled by a fresh cabal of entitled headbangers and comedy fascists who now have their clawed hooves on the levers of power.

For the record, I always hated Tories – not because Rupert Murdoch was rather fond of them, but due to their failure to understand the necessity of keeping our dirty-faced proles healthy and happy with benefits and a free NHS. History shows a buoyant proletariat with positive mental attitudes willingly serve as cannon fodder for their financial masters in any wars we instigate to line the heels of the military-industrial complex – to which all Western governments are enslaved until the day our species’ own toxic fumes asphixiate our parasitical existence for good.

The Smith

DESPITE clearly enjoying a Vesuvian torrent of erotic pleasure each time he inflicts pain on society’s most vulnerable, we should perhaps note IDS once took a brief break from targeting the parasitical lower orders – claiming he suffered a “crisis of conscience” in 2016 when tasked with cutting off disabled people’s benefits.

Rather than throwing himself off his yacht in shame, he simply resigned – before returning triumphantly in Boris’ bats**t-bongo new administration – having clearly refuelled on hate for all citizens unfamiliar with niche periodical Moat Monthly.

Yet, for some reason, his moral alarm failed to sound when he slashed the Personal Independence Payment (PIP) which allows disabled people to live with basic standards of dignity. Or when he forced people with terminal cancer into work because of faulty sickness assessments. Or blocked information on how many benefit claimants had died since his new policies were implemented. Or when he increased “sanctions” for vulnerable people on sickness benefit and capped the successful Access To Work scheme which helped disabled people into work.

More than £8m of the money saved, however, was then spent sending a cuddly mascot called ‘Workie’ around the country to promote pension changes. Clearly getting an appetite for societal destruction at this point, Duncan-Smith then implemented the infamous ‘Bedroom Tax’ – forcing many disabled people to move out of their childhood council homes and into tiny, dignity-free hovels that mitochondria would find cramped.

And finally, with an act of breathtaking cruelty that even left we evil b******s disgusted, he scrapped the Independent Living Fund entirely – taking £300 a week from 18,000 severely disabled people and replacing it with a single raised finger. None of the journalists I robbed were disabled.

New Labour of love

PERCEPTION’S a funny thing. A few years after I died, the UK’s first legal, official robbery of pension funds was carried out – without any of the headlines my so-called crime generated. The culprit? That ever-prudent Son of the Manse, Gordon Brown. The plan had long been in the making. As shadow chancellor, Brown had met regularly with wealthy Labour MP and businessman Geoffrey Robinson – an old friend of mine who just so happens to be shamed and politically shunned.

Up until this point, company pension funds had enjoyed tax breaks on the financial investments they made, building up decent retirement pots. By long tradition, no tax was paid on these hard-earned dividends for millions of workers.

The view of Brown and Robinson was that this concession had to stop. Brown’s own pension fund later benefited from a suspiciously cheap flat he bought from Robinson, later sold for a tidy profit.

Robinson – who along with me, helped bankroll and shape the formation of “New” Labour – wasn’t always filthy rich. His firm TransTec was in financial trouble in the early 80s until I made him boss of Hollis – my engineering company. Not the best move because four years later, Hollis was on the verge of bankruptcy – as was I.

To save myself, I was dipping into the Mirror pension funds and using Robinson to shift money around my empire – some share transactions which somehow ended up enriching us both! In return for his efforts, I gave him £200k – which he failed to register in the list of parliamentary interests. For concealing this and his intimate relationship with me, he was forced to resign – not long after being crowned Paymaster General by Tony Blair – who was always a great judge of character.

Of course, he quickly spotted the potential in my old Mirror pal Alistair Campbell, whom he allowed to rule the entire New Labour project with an iron fist clenched so hard that it was rumoured to be the only object in the universe other than black holes that light could not escape. This was clearly a guy who learned everything he knew about people management from studying me up close – even once, admirably, defending my honour by assaulting a colleague who had the audacity to celebrate my demise.

Another member of the New Labour elite – the thinking man’s Nosferatu, Peter Mandelson – actually ended up getting an interest-free mortgage from Robinson, which eventually led to his resignation. Before he was brought back. Then had to resign again over something else. Before being brought back again as First Secretary of State. He is now a Lord of the Realm. If life taught me one thing, it’s the bigger the crime, the higher you’ll climb. And that the biggest piece of s**t always floats to the top. Ever wondered how they found my body so quickly?

And finally ...

IAIN Duncan-Smith says his suggested retirement age of 75 would motivate people to work longer, so they’re not sitting around idle letting Lorraine rot their minds. Yet in Glasgow, the average life expectancy for a man is just 73. Or 33 in some parts of Coatbridge – the same age as Christ, who, I think we can agree, managed to live rather a full life in that space of time.

And thanks to me, Duncan-Smith and his ilk will never have to worry about facing any Earthly justice for their sins. In any potential future trial – perhaps at The Hague – IDS can simply contest or reject the evidence of any wrongdoing with a legal process known as “Maxwellisation”. This allows politicians who are subject to official inquiries to view all evidence against them and then contest the findings before the public sees it.

Why is it called “Maxwellisation”? Well, back in 1969, I was declared unfit to run a company – yet successfully argued in court that having this surprise sprung on me was unfair. Since then, anyone criticised in an official inquiry can contest the findings in private.

And it's also the reason why the Chilcot Inquiry on Iraq was delayed for so long – everyone involved in that whole mess got to review the evidence against them and suggest another narrative that would perhaps have been more favourable to them.

Certainly, in his heart of hearts, Tony Blair knows he has me to thank not only for birthing New Labour, but for his legally-sanctioned power to take a shammy to any dirt he may possibly have spotted on that report. One day, down here, he can thank me in person.