YES, YOU.
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.
22 comments:
And Gordon Brown has recently written in support of the Parkinson's Disease society.
Gordon Brown's letter
In his letter, Mr Brown says:
"I would like to thank the Parkinson's Disease Society for highlighting the variation in access to services across the country, as this is just another example of how I've managed to prudently burn all the money and fuck up all the services - in one postcode Parkinson'sees can go down the local hospital and get put in the stocks and pissed on and in another they get drugs made from gold dust and truffles - and for the important work they have done over the years in raising awareness of the condition, wahteveritis.
"Officials within the Department of Health are currently working in partnership with stakeholders to develop further plans to progress implementation of the National Service Framework for Long-term Conditions which will ensure at least some jobs for our friends and absolutely no disruption of the status quo.
"We have commissioned the Long-Term Conditions Delivery and Support Team, more jobs, see above ... to deliver a series of regional events that bring together commissioners, the voluntary sector, carers and service users (the nutters and spatics themselves) to improve communication and ensure better partnership working in the commissioning process. Better partnership working in the commissioning process, that's the thing we need to invest in, unlike the party opposite and to my right who wouldn't invest and if they did invest it would be in worse partnership working in the commissioning process.
And finally I would like to take this opportunity to ask all you nutter specialists if there's anything you can do for me, your prime mentalist; it's my biting the staff, you see, that's causing people some concern at present, even though I don't.
The thing is, the thing we value is that people like you set up pressure groups to advocate for your particular groups, be they cripples, nutter, spastics, whatever, rather than us as a government sorting this shit out as best we can from the money we take in taxes. And I normally burn"
" If only we could manage to get enough of you charity bandits all filling the High Streets begging for money off every passing Tom, Dick abd Ahmed, or raising awareness, you, too, chief executives, then people might just say Oh bollocks to all this shit, I don't give a fuck about all these sick and deformed bastards,let them fucking die. Which is exactly what we think."
Read Gordon Brown's letter (PDF, 398KB) to see his full response.
She's got that Harriet Harman look of slightly impatient reasonableness, as if anyone who doesn't see it her way is being just too too silly for words, not to mention insensitive, as She Is Not At All Well and therefore not to be upset, especially by patriarchal males telling her what she can and can't do.
Mind you, if Brown or Harman want to top themselves, there will be queues lining up to help them.
What is Parkinsons "care?" An untreatable disease, fill the poor bastards with pills that make them fall asleep in their dinner and give them an appointment with their "specialist" once a year if they are "lucky"? Top notch stuff that.
Believing, as I do, that individuals have a right to dispose of their bodies as they wish (with the proviso that they only kill themselves in the process), what intrigues me in all this is this fetishistic need for suicide to be delivered in a professional and clinical manner. As Seneca said, death can be found on every tree branch. It really isn't so very difficult to die at one's own hand, at a time of choosing, in a manner which is largely painless. And yet this capacity has come to be seen as something granted to the individual, not taken by them.
There is some curious amalgam of pilgrimage and Swiss precision in this Last Journey, an absurd romantic gesture in which death is tidy, clean and quiet. So remote are we now from our own and others' mortality that we have to manufacture a demise as far away from home as possible.
If campaigners were granted their wish, Dignitasesque snuff clinics here in the UK, I shudder to imagine what they would be like. Waiting lists, cancelled appointments, botched procedures, lawsuits, a bureaucratic nightmare in which death is rationed NICEly (yes, that drug is better, but it's not cost effective, since death can be delivered pretty reliably with an axe or a golf club and at lower cost).
If (when?) I choose the time of my own death, it will be done privately and with the minimum of inconvenience to other people. The notion of my own death as a tourist commodity, let alone a cause celebre, is anathema.
And Mrs Lilith, in some places, in our health lottery service, Parkinson's care is more than pills. It includes physiotherapy, occupational therapy and general psychological support for patient and carers. But only if you shout loud and long enough.
Mr PTB,
"My grandma died before she got her appointment!" Yes. the waiting lists would be the death of us.
It is that very denial of our ability to-self slaughter,thanks, Mr PTB, which, among other things, so repels me about Purdy, her insistence that such should be commodified and as you say, fetishised.
The claim that MS advances to a stage where the patient must needs involve a third party is indecent and offensive - I wish to remain alive beyond the point where I may end my own life, but after that I want another to end it for me, this is grotesque cowardice.
Whining is a good way to describe her. Every time she comes on the telly I switch it off - silly cow. It's her 'human rights" innit?
When the time comes, an animal’s instinct is to go off quietly to die, its natural. Humans seem to make such a meal of it.
A civilised death. If I can find a way to top myself before I reach the stage of someone having to wipe my arse, I’ll do it. Last week my invalid father of 82 was left sitting on a toilet in a care home for 45 minutes shouting will someone come and wipe my arse. It sounds funny, but not to him.
MR Ishmael,
"Is there anything you can do, Doctor?"
In the old days, a syringe with a tad too much juice, lower the head, raise the feet... Not a word and he'll just slip away, a good innings... Doctors, I am sure, have been doing it for centuries.
And for those who find the struggle too much but need to bring the finishing line nearer, well, Boots is full of stuff that with a bit of wit will bring an eased and unbeastly end.
I shouldn't laugh, but I did.
Feel free to laugh. I did.
I liked this story (by blogger Sackerson?)
Very good point Mr Ish. Why does she have to wait until someone has to help her? Are we going to have to listen to her until then?
More than just her motor brain is abnormal so she really ought to be treated like a patient and not an agent.
Same goes for Brown, yet his courtiers fail to see deposing him would be kindness not regicide.
It is extraordinary, incidentally, that foreign powers understand the significance of his being on a monoamine oxidase inhibitor and yet his own people do not. Would any other nation on earth (except the americans who are fucked by the executive being the head of state) tolerate a political leader on Aricept, say?
I think we suggested the swift kindness of coup about eighteen months ago, maybe more, that such would be the hand of kindness, rather than ambition; that none have acted is inexcusable on grounds of his personal neglect by his coterie and on the greater grounds of the consequent national disaster which has followed upon his unchallenged delusions.
On reflection, though, I feel that he cannot be entirely unaware of the calamitous result of his cklinging, unfit, to office and limted power.
I guess, on the other point, that Purdy, like Brown, would be insufferable healthy or not, one of a horde clamouring in one way or another for special treatment.
Tis a curious thing, the permanent silence of Mr Purdy. What would he say if he did speak? And is he kept silent, by design or default, by Madame Purdy? After all, he and his legal immunity is ultimately the subject of her campaign.
Silence does not, in my book, signify consent.
In an existentalist/Warhol parody,does my life really happen if it goes unrecorded? Being a nobody,i'll pass on unremembered,apart from NI contributions,and a few loved ones. Who remembered private A Harrison,until you recovered his short life from a skip? Far better to enact a TV appearance,and become a Z list celebrity.
If you see my mummified corpse on the GMTV sofa,you'll know i lived.
When the time comes, an animal’s instinct is to go off quietly to die," Or a seat in the house of lords.
could it be that Purdy's 'hubby' is an illegal and he's got her on this lark just in case the immigration get on his case when she croaks it?
With all the publicity and him pushing the whining twat around all this time the govt would be forced to make a concession in his case
Oh, having spoken too soon....
Mr Purdy, Omar to his intimates, has an interview on the BBC website. But then he has his first solo album coming out. So he would, wouldn't he?
Driving down the Great North Road, I heard her on the Eddie Mair Show, today, or, now, aalmost yeaterday. Aren't you just a little bit proud, enquired His Smugness, now that you've changed the law ?
Oh, I never thought of that, she whimpered before commerncing a catalogue of conditions she imposed on Life. Turn the fucking thing off, mused I, in a Mrs B moment.
Sometimes we all say things in the heat of the moment and wish, later, that we might take them back, yet although others here have more objectively voiced their distaste and/or disquiet at the Purdy affair, I don't regret a word of the original post.
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Yes, mr with god on our side, it is curious, isn't it, our declining anonymity, the possibility of universal celebrity. I warm, still, to Grey's Elegy - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil.....the short and simple annals of the poor...and to Shelley's Ozymandias. Forgive the truncated quotations, I am in the foyer of a Birmingham Holiday Inn Express, one of Mr Satan's ante-rooms.
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