Friday, 16 October 2009

THE DEAR OLD BATTLEFIELD

WHO ARE YOU CALLING A BIG GIRL?


Safe from harm, guarded by circling jets, by rings of steel, chaperoned by grim-faced, psyched-up protection squads, fawned-upon, pampered, dishonest as the day is long, these two chancers swing handbags at each other as each milks the dead for all they are worth, both inextricably committed to this bestial police action in Afghanistan; the slaughter of wedding parties and in school playgrounds; the young men casketed home, the companies of amputees, stumping and swinging their way through Selly Oak hospital, beyond, to crippled lives, truncated that Karzi the Pimp might enrich more of his chums, do down more of his enemies and that Gordon and Dave might tramp over their severed limbs, their blinded eyes and melted young faces to electoral glory. It is the right thing for the country, he sermonises, this desperate bloody nonsense.

The Red Army, not noted for its kid-glove approach, couldn't hack it but Gordon and Dave, two cowardly wankers, know how to do it. Supporting the government of Mr Karzi, that's what Tommy's dying for, at least until Obama has second thoughts, and then it'll be some other bollocks.

This guy is Peter Galbraith
former UN Deputy Envoy to Kabul,

former UN negotiator to the Balkan killing grounds and a man steeped in that diplomacy shit that we never hear about. A serious man of great confidence and intelligence and dignity. A man you would believe.

Galbraith broke the customary silences on the BBC's HardTalk, see it if you can. Indifferent, I guess, to the miscreance of Westminster, Galbraith, then on the ground, inspecting, insisted that the Afghan election was massively rigged in Karzi's favour, fifteen hundred imaginary, non-existent voting stations had been invented, to be stuffed with votes for Karzi; these rigged-in-advance ballot boxes were supposed to be in places where for reasons of topography and mainly because they were entirely within Taliban-controlled territory, they simply could not be. These were phantom polling stations. Elsewhere forests of ballots were bought and sold and tribal elders intimidated the voters, Karziwards. This Forty Thieves Farce is what Gordon Brown extols as the Afghan people voting for the first time. This comic opera with Kalshnikovs is why, around South-West Birmingham, lots of Tommies are walking funny, or eating funny, or bumping into things.

Gordon Snot, the horrible fucking bastard says we are there to support the Afghan government, yet we are not. NATO supported also by a UN mandate is there to fight the Taliban and support the creation of democratic structures - not, specifically not to support the bandit Karzi. This is not mission creep, as they call it, this is bare-faced lying from a man completely devoid of personal or political honour, a man so shocked and horrified by the monumental extent of his personal fuck-ups that he dare not look Truth in the face, lest he tumble into an emotional abyss of failure from which he will not escape; instead, in the most grievous, potent and serious of his responsibilities - the sending to war of our fellow-citizens, he lies and lies and lies and lies; that he does so whilst hollowly reciting the latest entries in his butcher's bill and that he is effectively unchallenged in this bleak skullduggery makes knaves of all in parliament.
But then we knew that anyway.

They are all so steeped in worthless cliche and the cheesy soundbites of self-interest that they, too, are permanently, irreparably estranged from the truth; more merit in a SpeakYourWeight Machine than in a member of parliament; liars, cheats, thieves, bullies, pimps, ponces, slags, whores and degenerates, they start their daily ruinous endeavours, I understand, with prayers. Fuck me, Jesus, they have no shame.

So, here in New Presbyteria, both main parties, one of them claiming to be Christian Socialist, vie with one another for who can most severely punish the poor for the sins of the bankers. And why not, people are just queuing-up to get fucked. Oh, we know cuts have to be made, we bleat, otherwise.......well, just otherwise........innit.

I'm a fighter, not a quitter. But not real fighting.
Fuck that.

And abroad, Gordon's Army stumbles about, misdirected, ill-equipped, marching to his madness, its mission changing with his every fresh paranoid imagining, every perceived electoral advantage, every nuance calculated by the vile Mandelstein, beloved anew of MediaMinster, master of all and doubtless, too, in his own mind, a pink Clausewitz, a gay cabal of blackmailers and unelected, incompetent charlatans, playing ducks and drakes, playing soldiers.

And when they were up, they were up
And when they were down they were down
And when they were only half-way up,
They were neither up nor down.
.


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4 comments:

spark up said...

But then we knew that anyway.

yes, but thanks for the reminder. anyway.

richard said...

thanks for this post. my boy wants to join the Army, i'll let him read this. i was in the Army myself, but this isn't normal, if warfare ever is normal; there's no definable enemy, no objective, no threat to what's left of the Realm, and no excuse.
when GB read those names out i felt enraged at his hypocrisy. he is not a normal man.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mr richard.

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