"No, honest, I'm not shifty, I just look shifty, sound shifty and act shiftily; the main thing is that we're all in this together; us, Labour and the media; it'll be hard for us, watching everyone else suffer, but we'll pull through. Vote for us. Any of us. That's the main thing"
8 comments:
it'll be hard for us,"
Read it'll be hard on you, as in fuck you Jack I'm allright.
Anybody notice the backdrops behind the speeches?
A very carefully selected leafy 'estate' behind Ossy.
That look like your place? Vote for us etc, etc
Chill critical impartiality: frigid and pompous, self-absorbed, conceited, and contemptuous.
Glib and loquacious, an unennobling personality whose unblushing iteration is lost in irritable reflections that ring a tone of after-dinner perfunctoriness.
What concomitant events? No more sly reviews of birth and breeding, delivered with superannuated etiquette. Like 'others', frustrated, defeated, disappointed, and thwarted.
Act V
Scene 3.
Snotty Cunt.
Kings Head,public bar,shortly before last orders.
13:01
yes, and may i add that we snort the same shit as the common man, woman and child...the only difference being that we get it for nothing coz dave's uncle's got a fucking barnful of it somewhere on the estate behind me.
Mr TDG queried, inquired about, rather, what we read in Ishmaelia and Mr Edgar's forensic bile frets a chord, opens Memory's door....
Quentin Crisp, self-styled stately homo of Englamd, although relocated like so many to New York, wrote a lovely wee book, some time after The Naked Civil servant, Manners From Heaven, it was called, it's always lying around here somewhere, among the messages from Outside.
Etiquette, he mused, little fingers raised, this or that fork, lavatory rather than toilet, exists to keep people out, excludes those who don't know the rules, as the Freemasons' knowing whispers and secret handshakes exckude the non- so-called brother and etiquette is altogether a bad thing; manners. on the other hand, is/are concerned with bringing people in, a convention of welcomes, making at ease - here at Call Me Ishmael, as in life, you are welcome for yourself, rather than your punctuational grace; it is taken for granted that you won't make a habit of pissing in the sink; the Bullingdon Club, Eton and the would-be government front bench are a rather uncouth lot, spluttering of this or that ettiquette as if in a gentleman's club, over-bred and ill-mannered, anxious to thrash the servants.
Everyone tries to play down the Bullingdon stuff as childish error, insignificant, boys will be boys. In fact, it shows content of character rather well.
What sort of oafish fucker would join a club where it is a requirement that one glories in being an oafish fucker? With the brains (presumably) to get into Oxford and we still want to mark ourselves out. The elite of the elite of the elite. Oafs and worthless fuckers.
Especially that Osborne. Ghastly little weasel. God help us all, it is going to be an ugly fucking decade with that shower in charge.
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