SEND IN THE CLOWNS

"I bet your Daddy sells drugs, doesn't he?"

The history of the scrawny old bag, Nancy Reagan's, Holy War on Drugs, co-ordinated by White House astrologers and fought, shadow-boxed by countless careerist drug czars, all over the world

Sir Keith Tie-and-Handkerchief-and-Blow-wave, suspiciously over-dressed and over-groomed,

of the Society of Bent Former Chief Constables, GreyACOP; now a former gay Drugs Czar.

is bad enough, trillions of skulezanospital dollars squandered, drugs never so freely available, so varied, so potent, so popular. There are now more junkies, more drug-related crime and imprisonment, a world of abcess and septacaemia, of crack houses and whores, of mayhem and madness and Hoeckler and Koch murder, as pestilentially preachy numbskulls like Brown and Obama

Yes, you can't.

hand Organised Crime one golden opportunity after another; you could be forgiven for thinking, well, anything. While Power employs its servants in gladhanding wealthy junkies and drug fiends like Elton John and Eric Clapton and George Osbourne, the harmless pecadilloes of the rich somehow become monstrous Vice when aped by what the egalitarian Labour Party gleefully calls the Underclass; the millionaire druggy is Oh Fuck Me, Will'sAGoodKidReallyGoingUpToOxford, wants to be prime minister, just needs a caution

Will MadDog Straw. Can't touch me, My old man's the Torture Minister.

The lad hustling a few quid, dealing a bit of blow, however, is a MenaceToSociety, his door smashed-in by muscly gay policemen, his bag of weed inflated to a street value of ten billion pounds. Or more, says Chief Constable Gob, of NeverNeverLand Police. Lieutenant-Commander Hornblower, boarding in the Caribbean a veritable Armada of DrugPeddlars' shipping, says, we have captured up to a trillion dollars worth of this filthy stuff. That's ten trillion dollrs worth of filthy stuff won't be getting on to the streets of Britain. Only it will. The biggest drug seizures ever co-inciding with the highest levels of drug consumption ever. Funny that. Almost as though GlobaNarc were steering a few shipments towards HMS Bust, just for appearances sake, And, of course, there's Hizonner, IWouldBeFailingInMyDutyToTheRich-IfIDidn'tPutYouAwayForALongTime. Mr Justice Slag, himself no stranger to altered states of consciousness, can be relied upon to properly determine which bright young thing goes to Rehab,

Society drug dealers, early in their careers.

which worthless young wretch to jail, each for the same offence. The Scourge of Drugs, Aye, right.

Just for the record, wherever two or three are gathered together throughout history they have found something to chew, smoke, drink, snort, inject or shove up their arses in order to get off their heads, to alter, briefly, a consciousness overshadowed by inevitable Doom, by the aforeknown summons from Death's grim Sergeants. Some have achieved Ecstasy by fasting, some by self-scourging with whips and flails; others whirl themselves into stoned trance.

Wherever food and shelter have been secured the cry has gone up, Everybody Must Get Stoned! Arbitrary and wholly unjustified decisions are made by bent politicians in the pay of one vested interest group or another as to via which pharmaceutical avenue man and master might temporarily escape life's cruel tedium, its inevitable, fatal denouement. Grape or grain or poppy or leaf. This is the way it was, is and ever shall be; in the Beginning, was the weed. There is nothing on Earth that even an elected premier could do to alter our affection, our need, for an altered state, now and again; in attempting to do so, the upstart dictator, Gordon Snot, continues a life-long habit of pissing in the wind, burning other people's money.

Eschewing spirituality, transendence and most certainly fun, the sour Presbyterian, Brown, the hypocrite's hypocrite, has sought to harness the nation's, no, the world's energy to bitter consumerism, the horrible fucking fucked-up fucking bastard.

I know everything. I am the Sol-you-shun

Six days shalt thou Consume and on the seventh shalt thou apply for a loan from Ocean Finance - an End, verily, to Boom and Bust. The fucked-up, snot-eating, nail-biting, blackmailing, warmongering misbegotten sonofafuckingbitch who sold us this desolate mantra now wants to police our thoughts and how we arrive at them, just in case, his stooges bleat, we become shizophrenic, lunatics, like them. And furthermore, as I travel round the country behind a regiment of sharpshooters in my armoured Jaguar preaching to selected Labour prospective parliamenary candidates, they all say to me, prime minister, you were right to save the world's economy and concentrate on getting the banks lending again and you are right that every joint smoked means an AK 47 to the Alley-kah-ah-eda terrorists which British troops are doing so much to subdue and are being so successful that many of them are coming home in boxes, or bits of them are, anyway, the troops that is and not our Muslim brothers upon the votes of whom so many of our seats depend, Allah Akhbar. It is the right thing to do, prime minister, stamping-down on drugs, that's what they tell me and it doesn't matter, now, does it, what people say to Alan Johnson, even if they know what they are talking about and he, well, he doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground but is doing an excellent job as home secretary. Other people might know what they are talking about but that is no reason for government to pay them any mind. What people don't understand but I do as I am the cleverest boy in the Manse, is that the more of our troops get killed, the more we are winning in Mr Karzai's Afghanistan. I do wish people would concentrate on real facts like this instead of on soundbites. And the more drugs there are, the more people take drugs, the more drug crime there is, the more people die, the more families are devastated the more money the drug barons siphon-off from the economy, then obviously the more we are winning the War on Drugs.

The greedy, shameless lard bucket,

Porno Jackie,

having determined, with the help of her fellow-porkers

Lembit Skywatcher and Gillian Blonde.

that Jackie's right, advisers advise, ministers must decide what people can do is, herself, a determining, a characteristic feature of Gordon Brown's invalid premiership - as faith in his ability, competence and sanity plummet, the more bizarre and entirely ridiculous become his appointments to cabinet. Although Smith takes the stupidity biscuit Mandelstein is the most shatteringly obvious example of Brown's personal, cowardly worthlessness, his integrity, like his manliness, blowing in the wind; almost all whom he has appointed have been tarnished by greed or stunted by irrelevance and incompetence, many are both bent and useless, insolent bullies, like McNutter, twittering soundbiting bitches like Blears. But even so, as the pig in lipstick, Porno Jackie, slunk away from her ridiculously over-promoted position as the most mediocre, cack-handed and venal home secretary in history bar none - not even Frank Soskiss or the ghastly, warty cocksucker, Leon Brittan - few would have imagined that her post would be filled by the cretinous Alan Johnson. At the time of Schmidt's disgraced resignation, however, Gordon Snot could not even sack his own innumerate, pig-ignorant chancellor, the clod-hopping Jock solicitor, Darling, surely, for fucks sake, a benchmark, a low-water mark in Fuck Me, Jesus, astonishing, even by Labour standards, fuckwitted, staggering, breathtaking incompetence, was able to blackmail his way to a continuance in post, blackmail being the currency of the NewLabour project; Brown, Madelstein, Blair and Blunkett all engaged in their various crimes, each threatening the other with exposure. Battered by bitumen-faced crones like the dwarf, Blears, and the gobby baggage, Flint, undermined by the nonentity Purnell and made ever more ludicrous by the hero-worship of his man-wife, Sarah-George, one would have thought it impossible for the snot-eating, gibbering lunatic, Brown, to have further devalued by appointment-noir the offices of state in his keeping, his gift. It is true that Blair and the horrid strumpet, Imelda, whored the office of prime minister like none before but Brown, closeted with the husband and wife Ballses; the brothers Milliband and freaks like Andy Bubbles and Peter Mandelstein has heaped further ridicule on the idea of cabinet government by his last-among-equals appointment of Johnson as Home Secretary. Darling would not facilitate Brown's post-Smith reshuffle and so Johnson skipped into the home office, as much to his own astonishment as to everyone else's; Johnson, the smirking gabshite, has repaid Brown's desperate maladroitness in spades by sacking an expert who disagreed with the witless Schmidt, the gruesome Blunkett and with the singing postman, himself. With Johnson, the levelling-down of cabinet government must surely now be complete, as we see, now, laid out before us, the Trans-pair-ency of Brownism. Stewing in his rottenness, the truculent imbecile Ainsworth is correct, his cretin's judgements ascendant, the generals', the colonels', the Tommies' irrelevant. Ed Balls, the vicious, jumped-up and safe-seat parachuted double-entry book-keeper, is right, the teachers, the governors, the parents and the employers all wrong. And wiggling his poxy arse at MediaMinster, the revolting slag Mandelstein is right in whatever he says is right, sigh, he's such an operator. Shut down the Internet? Oooh, such a butch First Seckatry.

The disgusting, cock-waving bully, Prescott, rejoices in claiming a work history as a merchant seaman, a title which just about describes a cross-channel barman, although proper merchant seamen, then and now, would mock Prescott's assumed role as steely-eyed mariner, despising him as a glamour-hungry slag, using his union role as a slingshot to more money and influence, more opportunities for sexual predation than he could ever honestly earn. Johnson, now part of a union-bashing government in the throes of squalid defeat, keeps schtum, generally, about his marching 'neath the red flag, the posties' union banner, as though the labour movement was something to be ashamed of. He probably has, in any event, far more experience as a shitminister under Brown than ever he acquired doing something useful, like delivering the mail. Johnson's sympathies and his post-retirement prospects will now lie with the likes of three million a year man, Royal Mail CEO, Adam Crozier, to whom the redoubtable gentleman farmer and young parent, John Humphries, once remarked "Nobody actually begrudges you your salary, Mr Crozier..." Right, John, if you say so, voice of the Nation, as you are.

On drugs, however, or on certain drugs, Johnson does not lack expertise; the man, after all, who as Health Seckatry, brought Alan Johnson's Dirty Disease to so many hospitals, slaughtering so many of the non-economically-active old and vulnerable could be expected to know a little of matters pharmaceutical. Professor Nutt says, unequivocally, albeit in that grandstanding manner which dons affect, that tobacco and alcohol are far more dangerous than hash and that classifiyng hash as dangerous is an act of careless and potentially far-reaching folly; Johnson says it doesn't matter what Nutt says because he's not home seckatry, I am. Gordon Snot said so. And I don't wanna hear advice that I don't wanna hear. Simple.

Mmm, snot, it is the right thing to eat.

Trust me, I am a son of the fucking Manse.

Given that Johnson owes all to Brown we must assume that his position on hash mirrors Brown's - peerages for institutionalised felons, knighthoods for those delivering flying, fiery coffins to the RAF, promotion for those gunning-down innocent civilians, presidencies and ambassadorships for war criminals and fourteen years for those selling a bit of harmless vegetable matter.

How dare this sour, Presbyterian monster, this mincing, gibbering, pouting pansy rule that another may not get stoned as and how he or she wishes, the horrible fucking bastard? And why, given the shitstorm he's in, does he bother?

Well, it may just be that hash, far moreso than booze, is the drug of dissent and Brown's cabal of nonces, ponces, slags and traitors is tough on dissent, tough on the causes of dissent; darkly personified by the numbingly stupid Johnson, the home seckatry of last resort, Freedom's guardians promote CCTV and ID cards as though they were a Bill of Rights, commend to us the abolition of national sovereignty and the appointment of yet more unelected jackanapeses like Blair & Imelda, WhoresRus.

Potheads have always sat quietly, sniggering at the bizarre manouevreings of Mr Angry, Mr Greedy, Mr Stupid and Mr Johnson; for our own burgeoning tyrant class, at MediaMinster and in the Town Hall

the idea that some might not only see through their bogus alarums and excursions but also piss themselves laughing at the adventures of Snotman and his nemesis-cum-reincarnation, Dave Flashman, must be intolerable. We should all noisily skin-up, light-up and wake-up. Time for a spliff outside parliament.
Down with the Mad Fairy, Brown; down with the Dogs of Westminster; Down with the BBC and skymadeupnewsandfilth; freedom to get stoned and think differently, think Other, is the only thing between us and the triumph of les totalitairianistes nouvell. Fuck Johnson, support your local drug dealer.