Woman arrested after posting photo of George Osborne at Dominatrix’s flat


Pride's Purge

(not satire – it’s the corrupt UK today!)

A woman was arrested today after posting a photograph on Twitter of chancellor George Osborne at her flat when she worked as a madame at an escort agency.

Natalie Rowe posted this photo on Twitter just two days ago:

rowe osborne

Then today Natalie was arrested by the police for “abusive behaviour”:

rowe osborne1

Natalie’s home was also searched last year by police after she tried to publish her memoirs in which she mentions Osborne took cocaine and used her services as a dominatrix called Miss Whiplash:

Cops raid home of ex-vice madam about to tell all on wild parties involving top Tories

Of course this could all be coincidence.

Or perhaps more proof – if any more were needed – that our police are being used to protect politicians’ reputations rather than catching criminals?


UPDATE: Natalie has posted another photo of Osborne – this time off…

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TreesShe tugged at her hat then put hands in her pockets. He had stood there for ten minutes he knew because he’d checked his watch every five and smoked two king size down to the butt. He rolled another and found his light. He had listened to desolation row he found Dylan uplifting for eleven minutes now. Before him the valley stretched beyond trees and houses and cars to cars and houses and trees to mountains and valleys beyond. Above the sky and clouds expanding beyond him. He saw her coming talking to strangers and coming again a bag in her hand no shoes and no coat the path receding as she swayed towards him, past the hives with their bees and their endless complexities. A red kite hovered above. He turned to face the mountain. Wha’ you doing ya she said why ya? I knew you’d be here. They lay amongst weeds and thistles and wind-scrubbed grass. Arthritic trees, Sheela-Na-gigs. I bought you something you’ve brought me something. Have you? Where is it? I’ll show you later. Zips and buttons belts and laces and hips grinding hips lips tits power. Her legs gripped his back his toes dug into the ground her arms a butterfly circling. Reds and yellows oranges and browns fell about them her nails dug deeper. He looked and saw and touched and felt as her hands clasped his neck and he hoped that she might squeeze harder her thumbs on his jugular he kissed her neck once more. The sheep had their say but she said nothing. What’s my present? She smiled and shifted her weight sideways.

Views from the bridge

Llew thought he remembered knocking the door and the reverb. Stinging nettle knuckles, he remembered those; but why no bell. The bass kicked in, the drums followed its lead.
“One day you was dreadlocks, well dread, next day you was ballhead, clean shave. One step forwards two steps backwards, Jah in a Babylon.” It soundtracked every summer journey in the battered car with the ice cream stains on the scalding leatherette.

Llew put the marker, the outward ticket with the square-torn corners, between the pages, looked up, and heard the heavy dub echoing around the space he gave it. Had he said something? To him? Llew groped for the answer to a question. Had he heard him or was this just some deeper resonance as the bass beat his chest?

‘How…um…are you ok? Been up to anything lately? Are you…?’
Llew wanted to tell him about the low water mark and the wave breaking… Why not?
‘What you chatting about!’ The rasp of sucking teeth. Stewps.
Llew heard him say, this time, ‘Did you know that spectre is an anagram of respect?’
Patterns everywhere, they liked it that way, they always had. Llew had never liked crochet.
‘How are your kids?’ he asks.
‘Your Grandchildren. They have names.’
Nothing. Silence skips and bounces between the walls; break it, or watch the fragile peace shatter. He could sense the rain casting shadows on the dividing wall, reflected by the only mirror into half-formed opacity.
‘They miss you, you know. You can come and see them any time.’
He turned, as if to look at him, but sought safety in the carpet. Llew knew the rhythm. Keep dancing.
The floor was his; his honour. Tony Harrison lay open on the low central table, the middle pages proud. Dust wrapped the VHS collection, next to the DVD player he will never know how to use. Someone else can do it.
‘Cricket,’ Llew said. He had given that to him, on his birthday, a treat that second heady summer. Cricket and C.L.R. James always worked. They defined the ends of the wicket’s twenty-two yards. Llew couldn’t see the boundary rope from the middle. ‘Shall we go?’

The bus is taking him back again. Front row at the Charlotte, he could taste the words, feel with calloused fingertips every chord.
Those three words remained unsaid, stuck in their throats like the shells of prawns.
‘Cheer up,’ he spits into the dregs of his glass, drains it, and looks to Llew’s right, turns, he knows what is there, but cannot see beyond the reflection. Llew wanted to say something, but reopened the book. He wanted to rise, but he’s pinned like in those shared days in that Oxford back room.

His mam walks in, two cappuccinos, a double espresso, saltfish, yam, and dasheen. The lights, always on, rebound off her best china and the room opens. A bead of sweat runs down a stray titian lock, and falls to the ground between them.


She looked out from Westminster Bridge.
She’d woken in last night’s make up, eyes glued. Her mother would say it was too early for the dress he’d bought her, but no bother. The tortoiseshell-peep-toe-Louboutin heels made her taller, she liked that. None of it mattered now. She had left without a word, eyes front, squinting.

It was eight-fifteen and all life, no life snaked past. Marched past to its tribal rhythm. No-one looked, but she did, staring straight at them, every face defiantly familiar. She was invisible to them, their heads down in reverence to the morning, locations locked in. Spat out to be digested later, pulled towards the centre. Deja du.

Where the fuck is he? He’s always fucking late. For fuck’s sake. She didn’t want to doubt him; he’d promised her before, and for once, she’d believed him. She had to. She flipped the lid and pulled out her lucky Lucky, checked her pockets for her lighter – he’d given her that casual souvenir of a Thursday night out.
The greying clouds swam, before meandering past. It hadn’t been like this the last time, but that was Putney Bridge; he was there first, wrestling with Araucaria – it was Wednesday.

‘Excuse me?’
‘Have you got a light?’
She had missed his face, caught in thought, but had seen a whir of brown: suit, shirt, shoes, no tie, and square rainbow cufflinks. An offbeat distraction. Liver-spotted hands clutching a roll-up in the left and a book in the right. It looked like de Maupassant.
She had just found it and could hear the zip of the wheel, feel it gouging, as the light glowed orange and red and her face ashen.
Why was he wearing a brown suit?
‘Yes, you have.’ He was still there and even that look hadn’t shifted him. He smiled, mugging to some unknown audience, and started to head on past.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘A light’
‘Oh.’ She handed him a drooping, moistened butt. He took it and flicked it into the Thames; that ubiquitous, ever-changing splodge sketched by a pre-schoolers fist. It was so close, she could touch it.

His unlit roll-up, now, in the corner of his mouth, he looked at her a second time.
‘What’s wrong with your lighter?’
Why would he ask that? She ignored the question and said, ‘That was like my last one.’ It wasn’t, but it might have been.
‘You look freezing, do you want a coffee?’
‘I don’t see no ice and coffee wakes me up.’
‘There’s a shop just over the bridge. Do you want to go and get some?’
She knew she couldn’t go back, but inching towards her future chilled her more. Her toes the same colour as the polish. She saw him now, and saw the bridge and saw the sun and saw the river and finally she got it. It all seemed so obvious, as she slipped off her shoes and took a step towards home.

Back on it

I’ve never been so far away he said as she stroked his left thigh. Was she listening? Her eyes focused on her hand stroking his other thigh now with the back of her left hand. Everything pulled back, her hair, his hair, the curtains, the blinds and he felt himself going too. He was still there she was still there so was she and the sun played in her hair as her breathing became deeper. His remained steady.
I don’t think I want to stay in this room, but he wanted to be with her. He’d only just met her and she was stroking his thighs as he looked towards the door. He reached for his pint, she had bought him it, but didn’t drink, swilling it as he hand swayed left and right as the light danced and the colours merged.

Off the wagon

The door clicked behind him, he gave it a kick. ‘Fuck it, I left my fucking keys again.’ He had his tin he walked to the end of his street. It wasn’t far. The light had gone; the children and stars were elsewhere. The streetlights winked, throwing shadows. She wasn’t there. She might be soon. He could turn back or wait. He crossed the road and up an alleyway, took a right at the end and an immediate sharp right into another. They had collected the ashbins that morning, he had heard them, but they hadn’t gone there. Meander for twenty and be back again. Skin up first. He had left his headphones on the table, yet his ears rang and the gig sweats ran hot and cold.
Beyond the minutes and hours of days tripping into nights, they were back again, sharing the same space. He looked up for the first time, above the shadows, and she was there, not wearing her ring. “You look cold,” he said. “I’m ok,” she said. “You’ve got goose bumps you must be cold!” “They’re not goose bumps.” “I’ve bought some tea and some cake. I made it yesterday. It tastes all right.” “How do you know?” “Which one, the tea or the cake?” “Do you want some or not?” “Maybe,” she said. A car slowed and broke their shadows. He left the cake but didn’t go home.