AFTER THE BALL IS OVER

But the bottles are done, we've killed each one And the table's full and overflowed....

Well, save for there being some wog children still alive and unmaimed in Gaza, Guido von Fawkes's life's mission is all but accomplished, anti-politics is triumphant, all the expenses dirt is right out there, for all to see, some members criminal, some, dancing on a razor's edge, nit-picking their guilt; a lot of them - as the IT paedophiles knowingly smirk - barely legal; all vile and venal, but we showed them. What a binge it's been, lads, who was the one with the duck pond, the oak beams, the gardener, hasn't it all been great? Such scalps have we taken .......... a shame that, like Mr Hain's, they have all grown back.

And just see the kicking we gave them, they won't get over that in a hurry.
Except that they will. They are already over it. Hasn't the prime minister, stuttering Uncle Snot, put in place.....sol-you-shuns....trans-pair-ency.......hasn't the revolting Bullingdon Boy stage-managed the retirement of a few old codgers and look, fuck me, the shadow cabinet are giving up their main jobs, working for the vile bugger Murdoch. But not 'til Christmas, when ministerial salaries and bribes are in sight. No-nonsense Dave. Just the kind of Old Etonian gangmaster we want running the country. Lets all row together. Some of us have even promised to think about paying back the money which we claimed, as a very genuine mistake, if only for a dismissive moment or two.

And look, Question Time and Any Questions and Newsnight and Today are a-swarm with ordinary, decent people, hardly a politician to be seen, such a clear-out there has been.

And those bankers, look how we sorted them. Not standing any of their nonsense. Gave them all the money there is, and even some that there isn't. And we managed to allow ourselves a couple of generations in which to pay ourselves back. It was essential, all are agreed, from the depths of their financial and economics wisdom, that the system had to be protected. Oh, fuck me, old chap, couldn't have the banks fail, I mean, if the rich lose their position we're all fucked aren't we. You know, Guido's right, trickle-up, that's the thing, the taxes of the poor simply have to flow upwards to the rich, who, of course shouldn't pay any taxes, or else we simply wouldn't attract the right sort of organised global criminal to London.

Some will lose their seats and be forced, poor lambs, to exploit, like Blind Boy Blunkett, the horrible bastard, contacts made whilst in our pay, not all will be former health secretaries and like the ghastly Hewitt and the gobby thug, Milburn, appointed immediately, post-sacking, by PharmaCorp to help it more efficiently milk the NHS but none will know the chill family-rending finality of a shut steel works or carplant, their lives and dignity, once bouyed-up by phony assurances from a stuttering, closet pansy nutter, now buggered by some smarmy shit in a suit, their plight grist only to Mandy's EuroMill; such are the triumphs of the bloggers' revolution of 2009, the poor being told Open Wide, We Are Just Going To Shit In Your Mouths. Again. The Wogs told We Must Napalm Your Playgrounds For Your Own Good; the Army told We Honour Your Sacrifice, Look, We Read Your Names Out, before Moving-on to Important Shit With The Tossers Opposite.


Some, painlessly despatched by bloggers and Brogans, will be further punished by being forced to accept severance payments in six figures, unlike their former constituents who, lives ruined by Westminster-friendly spiv-bankers, will know now, afresh and not as folk memory, the dignity of belt-tightening, of fuel poverty as the Knights and Lords of privatised EnergyCorp fuck their arses ragged; of unemployment and repossession --- Ah, it's good for the soul, built this great labour movement of ours, the movement which elevated the vile, cock-waving, pie-gulping, stupid illiterate thug-bastard Prescott to riches and nobility, I were only a steward but look at me, now; the movement which thrust on the nation the unspeakable windbagging famille Kinnock; but few, if any, will go to jail, where they belong, braying, arrogant Tory spivs; furtive, shifty Who-Me never done a days work in their lives, Labour apparatchiks, lawyers, lecturers, layabouts and ree-surchers. The worst that will happen to them is, well, nothing. Nothing will happen to them.

The caravan has moved on, the horde is Broganed-out, weary of Will Hutton simpering drunkenly his Guardianista apocalypse, useless, pissed-up prick, ranting, breathlessly, like some despairing itinerant bard of doom, some Ancient Mariner nouveau, too late for the Wedding Feast; the audience is nailed to the fucking wall with boredom by the fox-trotting nitwit, Cable, another who never actually told-us-so. A thousand voices clamour at order-order dotcom to some insect purpose known, presumably, to themselves; each, in his own mind, a one-liner-smart-ass, a Bagehot, an absurdist stanislavian; many Mussolini Incarnate; many, their finer ape instincts liberated and orchestrated by Totty Watch, truly sorry-assed women-haters, waiting to pounce on any split-arse who dares to hold an opinion; many, whining illiterately of Hard Times In Old England, really just junior members of KKK-lite; women-hating and wog-bashing, the authentic Voice of Freedom, Guido-style. The toilet wall of the Internet.


Those who thought formerly that right-wing Libertarian blogger was a long-winded way of saying Nazi can stand themselves down, for catspaw and stoolie are actually closer to the mark, as the cyberstooges jostle to be on the BBC, on Adam Boulton's skymadeupnewsandfilth's blogroll, as the outsider craves insiderness - as the revolting old fag Hattersley joined the House of Lords Free-dinners club only so's to abolish it , so the blogger dips his toes in TeeVee.....

The endless chorus of fucks and bastards resounding round the Cyberhalls of Resentment sings now not of the Smith Institute, nor of the Jewboy fixer Levy, who, we should not forget, was to be meat for Guido's grandiose private prosecution service, nor of the imminent departure of almost everyone in public life, none of whom would survive a month, once under Guido's bibulous scrutiny, and who all, remarkably, have; no, the tumult of fucks and bastards is now retargeted at Helicopters, service personnel for the use of and their lack.

A Virtual Dad's Army assembles, now, belatedly; now, after millions dead, made refugee; after the slaughter of Palestine's infants, the sustained, institutionalised torture of hapless, harmless youth, shackled, battered, sparked-up, raped to death by Uncle Sam's finest, prompted, offstage, by MI5; after the fragmentation-bombing of old people's homes, the Guernica-style deployment of British personnel and munitions, as Shock and Awe blitzed the cradle of civilisation in an orgy of BushBlair greed and bloody hypocrisy.......after all this shit-in-our-names a pantomime paper-clip counter's morality engulfs us, there are not enough helicopters, service personnel for the use of. Oh yes there are, oh no there aren't.

Helicopters, the new outrage; once it was slush funds, misuse of charitable status, misuse of secretaries bodies, misuse of seats in the Lords, misuse of expenses and Visas for the Fleet Street bicycle-slapper's nanny; once, where an unfocused cyber-rage engulfed all in oublic sector employment, the back-breaking six quid an hour arsewipers happily, stupidly, ignorantly conflated, by tub-thumping expatriates, with the thieving-bastard hundred grand a year chief executive of Merthy Tydfil Council and a thousand other mini-Ruritanias, satraps to Westminster. Now the beady eye of the professional, egotisitcal, name-checking, blog-rolling cyberwhiner fixes on this or that red-tabbed brasshat, mandarin or mouthy, indolent don; the insufferable General Jackson or the mythically, fabulously, catastrophically incompetent Bob the cunt Ainsworth, each and all the others, trumpeting their own special brand of I-Know-Bestism. If only Guido Fawkes was in charge of the Army, eh. We'd cuss them Talimen to death; shout at them from a thousand miles away, that's what we'd do, anonymously of course.

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This writer, as a young polish plumber, spent some time, hung-out at order-order and - until the great Pizza kiddy-massacres and the smell of blood - had some admiration for Guido, for the site and for many, many of its participants, some, but too few of whom foregather here, or track my dear stanislav elsewhere. But the pornography of war is revolting, inexcuseable and Guido's fatuous, infamous, inebriate celebration of the vile cast a jaundicing light over his whole ouevre and by extension that of all those who applaud and ape his belligerent stupidity; being an Internet Expenses Monitor whilst we are allied to torturers, governed by war criminals, seems to waste a platform built, in part, on others' support, others' writing. But more important than mere ill manners is that one simply cannot even pretend to an understanding of recent, tumultuous political history without including the events of September 11th and the invasion and occupation of Iraq - Guido says in what he must take to be a withering manner that he doesn't do Nine Eleven "troofers" and that he "doesn't do" Iraq; MPs expenses, yes; World War Three, no.

I used to argue that if you let 'em away with illegal wars and torture and shit like that in the first place, then, of course, they will rob the petty cash and the war, lacking a moral impetus, will be under-resourced. Too crafty a synopsis and undermining, probably, of the daily force-feeding of new scraps of outrage, down there in Lilliput.

Questions of taste and ethics, as they must, in Guido's case be, set aside, perhaps for adjudication in future by his own children, there remains a judgement to be made as to the impact on the body politic of the blogger and his insect horde; is this, this twenty-four-seven twittering-noire is it, in short, a non-political political movement, an impeller of reform?

Mr Daisy says he writes here because here is a minority place and yet it is his helicopter writing here, genuine and cogent, which is picked-up and Hosannahed by the the Great Gabshites, elsewhere. It is difficult to believe that his flowery voice would be heard among the cyber mainstream tabloid which is order-order dotcom, let alone valued. The political blogger in the main has the values of Kelvin McKenzie, the only thing which matters is circulation and whilst he is enslaved to that dictum he is enslaved also to the sytem which he claims to expose and decry, quad erat demosntrandum, as they don't say at Guido's; the wonderful blogosphere brought us, it is claimed, Obama, and may bring us, yet, Cameron, how so cool and reforming is that ?

Things are organised by Power so that those who do it's bidding are all but immune from meaningful censure or sanction; it couldn't work otherwise, organised crime. If cyber ranters could change owt, they would be shut down in an instant. The cyber arena, such as it is, in Anchorage, Turkey, Malaya and Barbados is incapable of combining, marching and overthrowing. Some, Mr Old Holborn, for instance, his hands clean of kiddyblood, bless him, organises a march or two, as if to put flesh to noisy ghostbones, but as many - more - would turn up to an Inverness Presbyterian tea dance. Diffuse, dissipated and diluted by date-line, language and race the Internet's very universality renders it impotent as an engine of political change, it's useage by those who, scandal-mongering, simply trumpet their own bigotry, ignorance and inebriation increases the sense of a potentially wondrous gift, vandalised.

None of this means that we should not try, that we should resign ourselves to some fatalistic, misanhtropic pessimism. Nor should we think that the Guidos of cyberworld short-circuit all genuine dissent, acting, as they must know they do, as Power's lightning conductor, running all to earth. Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, sang the post-plague, Black Death street urchins, some in rags and some in jags, and one in a velvet gown. we must watch that those who plead libertarianism, carry not, in their pockets and laptops, a further, leprous concoction than that which they so publicly, grandstandingly claim to despise, reveal and eschew.

But we must also steal back for ourselves the thunder of righteous indignation, the voice that is, as Saint Augustine said, of God.

Mr Swiss Bob, at The Daily Politics, has taken to chronicling the war, if such it is, as it unfolds in far Afghanistan. Using dates and timelines and statistics and maps it is one of those worthy assemblies of facts and figures which lesser, more hysterical journo-types forget or are incapable of preparing, so much easier to bluster, Queenly, in the third person, than to actually shut the fuck up and do some research, some study. Let us hear more from those who know and less from the gabshite polemicist.


We have seen unfolded for some reason in the Heritage Press a chapter-and-verse explanation of by whom and how we are misgoverned and for all the horrors revealed Power and Money move into their lengthy Summer Recess untouched, reinforced.

The Party is over, we have had our fun, exposing their wicked wee foibles, but come Autumn's cool fingers in our pockets, we and not they, must pay the piper; whichever gang of criminals sits in the armoured limos, they will make us pay for all this. Ruin will scythe his way through our just expectations and not theirs, that we are ill-organised and so easily dragooned to Money's septic cause might be due to so many, instead of organising and resisting, pissing, instead, with the siren blogger and his groupies,
in the cyberwind.