Monday, 12 October 2009


Former Thatcher Secretary of Spiv, Wing Commander Tebbit, Distinguished Telecom Bonus and Bar is at it again.

Every year on the anniversary of the Brighton bombing, the Bicycling Ace gets on his and rants about too many civil liberties being the road to ruin, flog them and then hang them being his refrain, all of them, just as long as they may have done something wrong. 'swhat Churchill woulda done.

Tebbit set the pace for what is now commonplace among the right honourables; the gabshite Milburn was only out the door of the Health Department when he was advising, at fifty grand a year, PharmaCorp. Horrible Hatty Hewitt, similarly, had hardly left the NHS building before taking up a gig with Boots. Boots the Chemists. Younger readers may not remember Tynesider Jack Tie and Handkerchief Cunningham, an overdressed Blair toad and curiously, given his evident effeminacy, cast by skymadeupnewsandfilth as Tone's Enforcer in the Hoose a Commons like, bonnie lad, departing the front bench to immediately get radioactively close to the Nuclear Industry; all these thieving bastards and many more have Tebbo to thank for the speed with which they can now flog the contacts they made in public service. Used to be a time when there was a little discretion about these things , a year or two might pass before ministers publicly accepted the bribes promised them in office; Tebbit, having privatised the GPO was, after government, on the board of Telecom like shit off a shovel and has remained Spivhood's flag-bearer ever since.

In a governemnt of spivs - the Laughable Heseltine and His Hair; Cecil Pinstripe Parkinson, famous for his MI5-persecution of his mistress and their so-called lovechild; the trophy-wifing Lawson; the warthog Brittan and the Thatcherkind themselves, Mark the Coupster and Carol Gob - Tebbit, even among this miserable crew of shit-eaters, was a grubby chancer, bitter and bilious. Hard, then, to have any sympathy with the prat when Marty McGuiness and Co upset his night's sleep in Brighton but one did, nevertheless, just as long as he was there, quiet and frightened on his stretcher, one felt for him and his poor wife - even though a harsher viewing of the bombing would see it as a target at least a little more legitimate than schoolchildren and restuarant diners, better Tebbit than Brummies out in The Tavern In The Town, the British government at least seemed a more proper, bolder target but ashen, distraught faces, even of politicians, swept that all aside and one felt compassion for the victims, as one did for the hunger strikers, dying for Adams and McGuiness.

Tebbit's wife was paralysed in the attack, he badly hurt and one can undertand his rage at the IRA and at the mixture of blackmail, cowardice, hypocrisy and opportunism which is the Blair Peace Proh-cess. We don't, though, have victim's justice in this country; we are Judaeo-Christian in our jurisprudence, not Sharia, as Tebbit would have us be. Torture he claims, in today's Telegraph, is fine. No ifs or buts. If we don't torture people they will keep on taking the piss. To fight terrorism we must use terrorism, as Churchill did, and Roosevelt, says Wing Commander Spiv, the rotten old bastard. Best that we keep the torture at arm's length, though, for appearances sake, he says, like a good fascist.

".....I find it more difficult to follow the thinking of those who swallow all the love-ins and compromises with unrepentant and unpunished killers, and acclaim them as part of a brave, new inclusive wave of politics, but are unwilling to use intelligence from tainted sources to prevent carnage on our streets. Why is it right to make deals with murderers and torturers to stop the violence in Northern Ireland, but wrong to use intelligence from agencies less scrupulous than ours to stop foreign-inspired violence on the mainland? How else to explain the willingness of our political classes to expose serving agents of MI5 and MI6 to the possibility of police prosecution on torture charges levelled by those who seek to destroy us?"

The pass being sold, Tebbit complains, why should we even try to play fair? Playing fair and Blatcherism are antithetical, money-grubbing and taking advantage, as personified by the loathsome Tebbit but by all politicians post Thatcher, the Hyacinth Bucket of Westminster, are at the root of our troubles, current and recent; why not add to them with a bit of nail-pulling, waterboarding, bastinado?

Tebbit was an early Murdoch stooge, claiming, in the Page Three debate that it was a jolly good thing to see teenagers' tits in the newspaper over breakfast, good clean fun. Aye, right, Norm, get yer cock out fer the girls, willya?

This greedy old bastard should be ashamed of himself for his former licensing of greed and stupidity and at his time of life he should be contemplating Justice, not Vengeance, he should be preaching to his readers that Torture, once given a foothold, makes large, swift strides, instead, as ever with spivs, it's a few quid in the old skyrocket off the bloke at the Telegraph. Tebbit, he was always a cunt.


Verge said...

When Norm first came out with that dear-old-dad "blahblahblah got on his bike" schtick I wasn't really paying attention & thought it an awfully indelicate way to be speaking about his own mother.

Maybe a deeper darker truth at work. Veritas in sino-sussurus or somesuch...

Verge said...

btw while we're in the gutter I suppose you know the one about Iggy Pop's yard?

How does IP get his cock to twelve inches?

Folds it in half.

Dick the Prick said...

Vengence is a curious thing when the civilians are just stats. I watched General Pereus' briefing to congress the other day and apparently later on in the Vietnam war they used 'population damage' rather than US body counts as the denominator for how well (or rather shite) that they were doing. It's slightly depressing that the parallels between Vietnam & Iraqifstan were learnt by the US military machine - or, most likely, they were - profitable business this war shop stuff. Ho hum.

I've not got too much of a problem lobbing cash at Northern Ireland, ah fuck it - as Alan Clarke said 'if they'd have had any wit a couple of lads would have been stood outside with machine guns'. If someone wears a uniform, they're not civilians and politicians wear poncy suits.

lilith said...

Norman Tebbit stuck under rubble on the front page of the Evening Standard was perhaps the only time I actually bought the paper.

A young Anglo-Irish catholic said...

Wrong, wrong, wrong

With the National Socialists of all Ireland bringing the roof down on his head, Tebbit has the high ground.

He did not, like other 'victims', become an endless talking head, griping that something must be done and never shuttingthefuckup.

He is a long way from a rich man.

Ruin is portrayed above the picture above the entry below here - not by Norm.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks Mr Anglo-Irish

Maybe he's a long way from being a rich man because his Al-Fayed connection was exposed and he very quickly - once found out - severed it. Maybe you are richer than most and all these things are relative but I doubt that Tebbit's old-age will be seasoned with the fuel poverty and miserly pension which he and his caste so fervently urge upon the rest of us, our poverty and unemployment a price worth paying, but not by him.

He is, actually, an endless talking head a fascistic, moralising sonofabitch from whose brigandry the country is still suffering.

Angus Maude was on R$ the other night, complaining that MPs, post-Brighton, were too protected, why shouldn't they be exposed to the same risk as the rest ? What is so special about Tebbit's suffering, many, many others have endured as bad and worse an though many are as angry as Tebbit few call for the dismantling of civil liberties as stridently as does he.

He has cheerleaders in strength at the Telegraph and you are welcome to fight his corner here but the point of my disquiet over Norm is the common one, that to deny the values of civilisation in the face of savagery -as Tebbit urges - is to join the savage. What did they used to call him, Polecat?

A young anglo irish catholic said...

I am from a pretty poor background and live frugally but cleverly, by need, but I admired Norm's hardness.

He spoke to me, in that terrace street in communist Lancashire. We were knee deep in world-famous engineering firms, but all state owned and all ailing, useless, shortsighted.

Norm told us to get on our bikes - I did. It was hard and I had to leave the locale, but why not?

Life is better for those of us who listened to Norm and realised that the post-war industrial settlement was dead.

Hat's off to the Chingford Polecat

mongoose said...


Industry is the ruin of the past. A burning bush becomes a waved flag becomes semaphore becomes morse code becomes radio becomes a mad tiny 3G computer thingy the size of a biscuit that everyone has one of.

The death of old industry is as inevitable as the rising of the sun. Who makes semaphore flags anymore? The thing one needs to do, and the thing that the "Blessed Margaret" did fucking not do, is to put in place the wit and education and belief to allow people to make new industry. The rest of it I can stand but the betrayal of the future in order to just kill the past is the indelible stain on her soul. She didn't give a fuck about the future. She slayed her socialist dragon and was happy with that.

Not enough.

call me ishmael said...

"She slayed her socialist dragon and was happy with that."

And the Tory one, too, methinks; the spiv her legacy, Tony Blair and all his works.


"Life is better for those of us who listened to Norm and realised that the post-war industrial settlement was dead."

You must be the judge of that but I see Ruin everywhere; vileness, anger, envy, stupidity, Thatcher characteristics.

And Tebbit's legacy is not in commerce or industry - better summarised by mr mongoose than I - but in social division and notably, given his contribution to the Page Three debate, such as it was, in the market's sexualisation even of infants.

A ghastly man, Tebbit and sometimes one can see that he knows that, his Death's Head grimace slipping, momentarily, as his time nears. Maybe, before he dies, he'll renounce torture, lest it find him.