Been out on the road, up and down the highway, over the Fiord of Forth, down The Great North Road, went in to see the Jarrow monastery and the ghost of Bede but it was Bedeworld, honest, with guides and everything, Bedeworld, like Cadburyworld, so travelled on, unshriven by ancestral, Holy MotherBloggers, steering through the coned-off, dug-up, fucked-up, contra-flowed wasteland of the nation's major motorway - Fuck Me, Jesus, Hitler did better than this - and fetched up, across the M 42, in Birmingham's noisy cityscapes, lazy cops and busy hookers and strange, alienated Asian lads; car alarms screeching pointlessly, through the wee small hours, friends living in semis and terraces if not gated, then triple locked, alarmed, bolted and barricaded, gated-in-the-mind, tiny gardens overplanted against the endless traffic noise and the air of urban menace; family streets and parks now obstacle courses of threat and filth and vandalism, people living around the park rise every day early and go and pick up broken bottles and dogshit, knowing that the next morning it'll be there again but unprepared yet to abandon all the dead city fathers' work to Ruin. A density of population which most must share but I don't, Have Mercy, I Cry, City; maybe up until the point when you have to flee it's ok, I always loved the city - where would we be without the city? - and then one day I hated it. Now I can take it or leave it but mostly leave it, admiring those still bustling through its jampacked pavements, rarely colliding with others equally hellbent on whatever it is.
Funny how the TV News is a home thing and on the road you abandon such; one morning walking Buster round Sauchiehall Street's stepped and railed, still elegant tenements, waiting for Kelvingrove to open its massive oaken doors, the next in a dreamy Highland hotel, the sort built in the nineteenth century for English visitors and with a roaring, three hundred feet waterfall crashing down one of the encircling mountains, well, the absence of the News niggles but is overwhelmed by a Who-Fucking-Caresness. C'mon, now, who does fucking care, outside we lonesome obsessives? On the other hand, though, I checked in when I could and watching my dog, Buster, so did he; any opportunity to get on the worldwide urine web and he was there, pissing for all he was worth, sniffing and snorting and lifting his leg; messages everywhere from invisible members of a urine community; any city, any service station, any glen or hillside, the dog web is universal high traffic. Whatever the alternatives to watching TV were, for both of us, we chose them and didn't immediately see that Brown-Boulton jamboree. Buster still hasn't.
Thanks to Mr Swiss Bob, though, I have now watched it all and I must say that it wasn't the worst Brown interview ever to soon stalk Posterity's digital vaults. I did find it startling and irritating that Boulton was putting to Snot - re Afghanistan - stuff that we have been saying here for months, years, without the benefit of skymadeupnewsandfilth's resources and on-the-ground and in-the-air coverage of events. The both of them, Snot and Fatman, were dribbling out bits of information and opinion which they considered effective or timely, neither veering within a continent of the truth. It's what they do. No business like show business. Brown listed the things he had mentioned the previous day and thus Dealt With, the impudent fucking one-eyed gibbering lunatic jackanapes. Yesterday I Dealt With Teenage SingleMothers. Fatman had, only a short time ago, praised Brown for the way he similarly Dealt With a Glasgow attempted bombing - which was dealt with long before Brown knew about it - and an outbreak of some animal plague or other which was dealt with by the fucking vets and the floods which were dealt with by the magnificent professionalism of our magnificent emergency services to whom we all owe a great debt of gratitude, only not, Mr Deputy Speaker, when it comes to paying them even half of an MP's salary and at which point, when they start asking for that, they become the enemy within. Brown's record of actually dealing with things is that everything he touches turns to shit. Fatman, along with all the journos had, for ten years, praisesung Brown's expert stewardship in Ruining the economy and burning all the fucking money. Two tossers then, our lives and our money their playground, who gives a fuck what happens on the Adam Boulton interview ? Each achingly superior to anyone meagre and stupid enough to be watching them, instead of knowing them, dining with them, holidaying with them, MediaMinster uber Alles. Vehicles in Afghanistan? Oh, yes we did.....Oh, no, you didn't. So fucking what, they're dead now, the blokes wot shouldn't never a bin there. And no credit to them on the green benches wot sent 'em nor to the rabble in the press gallery wot now mourns 'em, at their proprietor's instruction, when once 'e cheered em on, from his salon, his yacht. Utter unspeakable cunts the pair of them, Brown and Boulton; to watch either conceited arrogant worthless bastard sparring over Tommy is dispiriting; the suggestion, made, regrettably, by folk who should know better, that Boulton's volte face is anything other than a business calculation by Rupert Corpse Murdoch, prop., skymadeupnewsandfilth, is a complicity with Ruin.
Rumours abound of lines of marital or common-law connectivity between le Palais Brun and MediaCentraville, so-and-so's banging so-and-so's wife, somebody's sister is married to somebody's son and they've all banged some double-barrelled scrubber with a by-line at the Telegraph, all their nieces go to nightclubs with Andrew Neil and there did seem to be a weary famille-iarity between Snotty and Fatty, albeit one tinged and eventually suffused by the jaundice yellow of gutter journaliste betrayal; no man can serve two masters, Fatman, Drop The Dead Donkey made real, can serve but NewsCorp. Smug and irritating and pointless Boulton is, just like Beardy Kavanagh and the rest, a media whore, no real danger as long as you keep him in his place. Toilets Maguire, Michael Kneepads White, these people are professional, tell-tale cocksuckers, spit-out the gossip with the ejaculate. The danger of Brown, though, is that he is so utterly, dishonestly, habitually, relentlessly, insanely revolting that he makes those equally revolting, such as Osblow and Cameron, lesser. There are no victors here, from this telly tiff, least of all us. If anyone can show me any significant intellectual, moral or ethical difference between, say, Brown and Cameron or May and Harman I will pay close attention to their instruction but I would counsel, in return, that merely because Gordon Brown is a deranged gibbering lunatic now denuded of such political power as he once wielded and thus more vulnerable to media mischief does not make a capable leader of his principal opponent. The danger of blogging this as some sort of victory is that it will lead to an even greater loss.
At Mr Swiss Bob's Daily Politics a Mr My Personal Blog dissects Brown's Boulton performance as though his cack-handedness his bullying and his contempt for the viewer were novelty, though what he does has ever been done by the gabshites of Power, is a criticism applicable to all in the filthy trade of politics, there is nothing new in Mr Snot's brushing aside a question in favour of ranting on more favourable turf; does anyone here criticising Brown imagine that Thatcher, just for instance, did not display - and does not now suffer from - delusions of I Know Best grandeur? Didn't she go as far as calling people naughty boys, speak of herself in the third person, in the royal we, didn't the mad old bastard tie a hankie, disapprovingly, over the tail of a model aircraft? No use saying that the poisonous embittered crow remade the country for the better, she's the cause, remember, of all this money-makes-the-world-go-round NewLabour shit.
It simply won't do to say, Oh Fuck Me, the prime minister is bonkers, let's change him for another one; they're all fucking bonkers.
In the light of the so-called expenses so-called scandal the natural justice to emerge would be that few, if any of these fucking horrible thieving degenerate bastards would survive an election, that parliament would ring soon with the voices of non-careerist, time-limited, averagely-salaried ordinary people. But Oh, fuck me, that would never do, what do ordinary people know. It's better, the media has judged, that Tommy spills his guts that Alan Duncan may continue to enjoy free gardening. It is better, the media has judged, that all the blame be lanced like a boil, with the removal of mad, old, gibbering, old, nancyboy Brown. And that we get back to normal. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, God - or in this case, Mr Murdoch -made them high or lowly and ordered their estate.
To focus on Gordon Snot, vile as he is, is to miss the point. Didn't even David Cameron, throughout Brown's mad Ruinous neglect of our futures, sing Brown's praises; how dare he now offer his own as a better judgement? We should make no mistake, we are all to be punished for failing our leaders so badly. And it doesn't matter to them who plays King of the Castle in Downing Street. We should not permit a slow media crucifixion of this sick old mutant to divert our gaze from the new scourges which Cameron's coke-snorting bullyboys and ghastly Spelman girls now prepare for our backs. The cry should not be Down With Brown but Up Against The Wall, Motherfuckers.