If Mrs Ishmael was suffering so much that she required me to help her pass away, well, that’s what for better or for worse means, in sickness and in health, and I should just have to take my chances with a jury or with one of these nice grasping bottom-feeders from the CPS, not that it would then matter much; what sort of a wuss is Mr Debbie Purdy?
La Purdy, one of les victimes gobby de nos jours, wants the law changed so’s hubby - English not his first language, she wails - doesn’t face prosecution should he accompany her to the Swiss Topping Shop, Dignitas, not that he would, anyway, face prosecution; how we are spoiled for things to worry about, now that we inhabit consumer Heaven.
Purdy’s whining has attracted the support of the Lord Falconer, set over us in recognition of his friendship with Cardinal Blair, and a horrible fat bastard;
TOAD OF TOAD HALL, QC.
can’t really see him cottaging around Northern shithouses with Miranda but here we have little knowledge of, certainly no expertise in such goings-on, if go-on they do. Do men really stick their organs through toilet walls at complete strangers, are they raving mad? His Lordship, anyway, with nothing to do now he is not Lord Chancellor, seeks an extra-parliamentary revision of the law against assisted suicide so that, doubtless at his wife’s bidding, the mousy Mr Purdy can accompany Gobby Debbie to Death’s ante-room, comforted that he won’t face prosection, not even for his awesome, unmanly timidity, heedless that such changes, effected without debate, will ultimately ensure the swifter than natural but economically desirable departure of countless, less pushy than Purdy herself for a heroine's shroud.
Older, weaker, the halt, the lame, the defenceless will be herded to some Dignitas-equivalent, the beneficiaries of their death – the state, the families – secure in the knowledge that the sanctity of life is all very well but it can’t buy you money.
Multiple sclerosis is what ails Debbie Purdy; nowhere near bad enough, I suggest.
Falconer, The Fat Lord, is beyond contempt, probably spend his decline like Roy Hattersley, spluttering on local radio programmes and the occasional Question Time but the whole idea of Celebrity Terminal Illness, the marketing of Death, as personified by the hitherto deservedly anonymous Purdy, is a remarkable phenomenon of our Ruinous times; I don’t remember the insufferable Roy Castle mentioning lung cancer in his dire act, until he got it and then you couldn’t shut the trumpeting bastard up; Bob Monkhouse's stolen and sadly recovered books of see-them-coming-a-mile-away gags contained little, if anything, about prostate cancer, yet now, from beyond the fucking grave, the cheesy, warty bastard still gives us ballsache. Who was it, that WATO toad, Nick something, Clarke, simply had to, owed it to us, to take us on his journey as he lost a limb to cancer and died anyway. Terry Pratchett has Alzheimer's and now his whole fantasy-idiot readership must join him in banishing it, by spell and charm if necessary, and serve them fucking right. Smirking these decades at his own genius, Pratchett has never had a moment for the demented, now he rages at us on their behalf. These celebrities have no sense of decency. I dread to think how we shall suffer if ever God decides to call Professor Greer to his bosom - not that He would - Germaine not existing outside the view of a TV camera, poor, sad iconoclast and drunk that she is. Heaven help us all if the old bat gets notice of what's going to finally shut her the fuck up.
Keir Starmer, in any event, the DPP, has succumbed to Falconer's and Purdy's and others' entreaties and quasi-legalised the assistance of suicide; what was once quietly tolerated but not encouraged now a more or less legal option to those who presently seek it in good conscience, in future, by precedent, to those who seek it for others, for convenience or gain, or just out of Oh, Mo-ther ! impatience.
We must all ready ourselves for Death's grim sergeants' approach, they will summons us or perhaps worse, those we love, soon enough and Mr & Mrs Purdy have no monopoly on their services; that the posturing of those hungry for celebrity might hasten convenient departure among those too weak, too proud to resist is a celebrity indulgence too far. Her efforts, her martryrdom, herald a humanists' triumphalist delight and an early death for the rest of us; fuck off Purdy, fuck off and die. Quietly and on your own, as must we all.