Monday, 17 August 2009



General Sir Richard Dannatt, the outgoing head of the army, said today that his troops were facing a "difficult and dangerous operation" in Afghanistan, but insisted: "We will succeed, we must succeed."

Not the same thing, Sir Dick, will and must: the one is an assurance, the other a hope.

Speaking at the official opening of an army recovery centre in Scotland, he added: "It's a war about the people in Afghanistan. In particular we need to persuade the people in Afghanistan to support their government."

We must hope that Sir Dick doesn’t bring this concept to the UK – that the army must persuade the people to support their government.

Human rights activists, meanwhile, are calling for the humane destruction of Mr Bob Ainsworth, the pretend Defence Secretary. They keep pushing him out in front of the press, and the poor creature hasn’t a fucking clue what he’s talking about. It’s embarrassing for him and painful to watch, only not as painful as getting your guts blown open in this fuckwit war. They should just make a deal with the Talimen and at the same time decriminalise drugs, they’ll do it sooner or later; you know they will, they know they will, and in the meantime poor Ainsworth suffers a death from a thousand cuts. It’s just not fair on him. The prat.

In a plea to be allowed to carry on fucking things up, Brother Ainsworth said testily "I'm afraid it is becoming almost impossible to say anything without it being taken out of context and twisted and me being cunted up hill and down dale," he told BBC Radio 4's Today programme. “Oi never said that the bleedin war’d be over boy next year, just that that cunt, the new General, Wotsisname, was talkin’ shite when he said it’d be gooin on for forty fucking years, people don’t realoise warritis what I’m talkin’ about half the bleedin’ time. Any road up, I’m off for me snap, now, Mrs has done me favourite, faggotsanpeas in a roll. An’ I int talking about that Alan bleedin’ Duncan. Up the Villa.”

On the bright side, some more squaddies have died, so this proves, according to Field Marshal Snot of the Queens’ Own Rocking Horse Cavalry, that we are again winning the war on whatever it is and their sacrifice on behalf of Mr Khazi has not been in vain, even though it has. The fucking moron.

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Oh Dear said...

Along with A-levels in Dance, Paper Napkin Folding, Hailing a Taxi after your 20th Tequila and other such valuable academic achievements, the National Curriculum Authority have recently introduced a new A level in Being a Defence Minister.

We are proud to announce that Mr Bob Ainsworth has, after much hard work and extensive on the job training, gained a pass at Foundation level and is now the proud holder of a grade K A-level, his first, and only, academic qualification.

Mr Ainsworth is now able to use the phrase "in theatre" at least three times in every sentence, thereby demonstrating his complete mastery of his brief.

mongoose said...

Mr Ishmael,

When I was but a small bug, we-ad faggutsanpays f'r uz teas. Helpfully...


With god on our side said...

The Prime Minister today payed tribute to another fallen hero,Corporal Bob Ainsworth,of the parachuted into a job battalian,who succumed to wounds inflicted on his credibility and competence,by an overwhelming attack from the local BBC tribal leaders.
Prime Minister Brown said "Greater love hath no backbench fodder elevated beyond his talents,that he lay down his lucrative career for his leader"
His Platoon Commander,Major Fuckup,said "Bob was one of the lads! Small on intellect,big on pluckiness. Inserted in theatre,in a forward position,under equipped,under trained and undermined,he didn't stand a chance. But he held his post until laughed out of office,by mass ridicule of the mediaheen. He will now join the band of brothers otherwise known as the upper house,and will sit amongst a company of failures safe in the knowledge that at the going down of the sun,and in the morning,we will remember them".

call me ishmael said...

Sorry, Mr mongoose, Brummie is hard to write. Did you see Climate of Insult ?

Good to see that people care about Bob, a decent man, out of his depth, as he is now being described; the fucking monster.

Edgar said...

No, what I mean is you should take a turnip - not one of those tiny, poxy, white Southern turnips, but one of the whackin' big purple fuckers that grow like stink in the bogs around Perth and Callander, huge fucking things they are, takes both of your arms to lift one (if you've still got both arms, some folk haven't). Well, you take one of these massive fuckers, the locals call them 'neeps' because they are so gigantic, and you throw some pigs blood over it: just splash it on, doesn't matter where it goes, anywhere will do, the messier the better, really. Now, you get two bits of badger's arse, torn off with bare hands, a big bit and a little bit, and you stick the bits of badger's arse on the massive fucking neep thing. Hey presto! Ainsworth's head. Now, the Tommy gun again ...

mongoose said...

Mr Ishmael,

I see no evidence whatsoever of decency in the half-wit. My cat could do a better and certainly a more honourable job.

It is easy to pronounce from the safety of our suburban sofas but if the might of the USSR at its most ruthless - or indeed the British Empire at its most powerful - could not prevail over these madmen, how can a few thousand Tommies and GIs expect to do anything? It is a twenty-first century Vietnam. We kill the odd barefoot peasant and then retreat back to our bases every evening, only to go out tomorrow and do the same again. It is completely fucking futile, a vile PR exercise funded by squaddies lives and limbs.

mongoose said...

And regarding insults, no, I am afraid that I missed "Climate of Insult". In fact, so bad has it become that I can't bring myself to watch much TV these days. It's almost all just crap. And what isn't crap is hidden among the acres and acres of dross - a needle in a shit-heap, if you prefer.

The trouble is that the culture of piss-take and sneer is contagious. It erodes everything and everyone. Imagine if you will, polite and reserved mongoose, not three weeks ago, supping a quiet pint at the bar of his local - a nice, wee restaurant as well as a bar - gentle folk, bemoaning the cricket and wondering if lobster souffle goes with Guinness. Some dickhead insults mongoose but standing behind him and muttering little asides - the cowardly, snivelling little fucker. So bad has it become that even the gentle mongoose, dragged up from the gutter by grammar school and the company of finer folk, turns and rips him a new one. Slit from throat to crotch, a twenty second seminar on how to rip out a man's heart and soul, stomp them and watch the corpse twitch. Half way through the poor little bastard held out his hand. Not to apologise, I judge. No, the coward's handshake, to use my politeness as a means of stopping the pain and the damage. I let it hang there and completed the mission. Complete kill. Horrible. Short, precise words that even he can understand. No shouting, mind. And no swearing. We are not savages.

He fled into the night and now I feel guilty because we are supposed to use this stuff to teach even them - even the filthy, sub-chav, worthless, shit-stained chimpanzee bastards - to teach them that kindness wins. That humour isn't making fun of someone else, it's making fun of yourself. That gentleness and genorosity are the twin summits of Mr Darwin's mountain.

"The Weakest Link", "Deal or No Deal", all those ghastly watch-them-fail-and-slide-back-into-the-mire shows ("It's the hope I can't stand.")... No, we must be spared; we must at least try to spare ourselves. We are, as I say, not fucking savages.

call me ishmael said...

No, not Tv, mr mongoose, Climate of Insult was a post here, prompted by your previous remarks in the above vein.

The Way It Is, A Climate Of Insult, 30th July, in the archive.

There is a mental health factor, or mental hygiene, in the events you describe, you have to do shit like that from time to time or you turn into that Michael Douglas character and find yourself running amok

- even the filthy, sub-chav, worthless, shit-stained chimpanzee bastards - they are all those things and more but by dint of being Thatcher's children, Blair's children, Prescott's children and indeed Noel Edmunds' children.

No need to beat yourself up, I blame the parents.

mongoose said...

Mr Ishmael,

No, I had missed that one but I have just read it now. One does not know whether to be honoured or contrite to have sparked such an onslaught. I suppose though that, as you say above, it is better out than in. Going postal being the only likely alternative outcome.

There is a film, the name of which I cannot remember, which is about Tom Cruise being a hitman and going around town in a taxi one night bumping off various blighters. Not a great film but the notion appeals to me. We could have an annual vote and get Tom to go around and slaughter the ten most, or perhaps least, popular. Straw, the fake, would surely be high on anyone's list. Fuck it, let's have pairs.

1 Blair and Brown
2 Bush and Cheney
3 Anne Robinson and Edmonds
4 Fucking Ant and Dec
5 Bercow and Fabricant
6 Will Self and David Aaronovitch
7 Polly and Harriet
8 Baby P's "parents"
9 Vaz and Straw
10 Adams and Paisley

You see how it goes. Can anyone seriously argue that the slaughter of the above guilty would not add to the gaiety of the nation and redress some of the horror inflicted upon us this last decade?