My name has a Scottish version; not so much a version or variant, actually, come to think of it, but an entirely different name, something that is common in Scotland and which sounds like my name, often, therefore, in Scotland, I am addressed by this name, instead of my own; it is no big deal. Lots of people have names which are easily mis-spelt, mis-pronounced, misheard; it's not the end of the fucking world.
It seems to be a perfectly straightforward, human error to see or hear James, when the name is Janes, perfectly natural and normal, something which must have happened frequently to the irately bereaved Mrs Janes and to her late son.
Being the prime minister of the United Kingdom must be a taxing job; responding, as recent incumbents have chosen to do, to a round-the-clock inquisitorial media, the knowledge that one's every minute gesture, every aside, is long-lensed by fuckwit papparazo whose only concern is the debasement and misrepresentation of democracy and and if one is simultaneously managing a huge portfolio of responsibilities for which one is demonstrably unsuited it must lead inevitably to a slip of the tongue, or in the case of the letter to Mrs Janes, the pen. Prime Minister Snot will be aware that his every utterance, his every scribbled line, is a hostage to fortune; yet he, nevertheless, in sending hand-written notes to the bereaved of the Afghanistan Nightmare, tries to do the right thing.
People who started off, fifty years ago, with illegible handwriting have had, since the introduction of self-taught word-processing, little reason to practice, much less improve their often irredeemable scribble, some days, I can't even manage my own signature much less draft an intelligible hand-written note to the postman. There are occasions, though, when, if sincerity is the motivation or its demonstration the purpose, we must put pen to paper.
The savvy thing for Brown to do with his consolatory billets doux, like the one to the wretched, unpardonably querulous Mrs Janes, is to have some stooge type them out, proof-read them, double-check the details and then for him to sign them; this, rather than his cack-handed spontaneity might have appeased, if anything would, the most recent, snarling TommyMummy, although, as with so many of her gobby ilk, the fantasy of blood-free soldiering outweighs, in her life, the harsh reality that the enemy shoots back, plants bombs, kills big handsome son and if it wasn't Brown's mis-spellings which deflected her own probable guilt and certain anger, it would have been something else, maybe the fact that each and every guardsman, bombardier or riflleman does not have a personal, indestructible helicopter at his disposal, an impenetrable force field surrounding him, so he can shoot out but no-one can shoot in.
But via The Sun, an arsewipe of a 'paper, Mrs Janes, rebukes Brown for "eighteen times missing the dot from the letter i" - no, really, it's there, in The Sun, he also uses the word sincerely twice, once in the body of the writing and once as a salutation, these, Brown's idiosyncracy and lack of inspiration a mark of disrespect, not only to Janes, herself, but to all the dead, probably, by extension, to all the highly literate readers of skymadeupnewsandfilth, renowned throughout the world for their painstaking spelling, grammar and pronunciation, innit, Gotcha! You couldn't make-up this shit.
It seems to be a perfectly straightforward, human error to see or hear James, when the name is Janes, perfectly natural and normal, something which must have happened frequently to the irately bereaved Mrs Janes and to her late son.
Being the prime minister of the United Kingdom must be a taxing job; responding, as recent incumbents have chosen to do, to a round-the-clock inquisitorial media, the knowledge that one's every minute gesture, every aside, is long-lensed by fuckwit papparazo whose only concern is the debasement and misrepresentation of democracy and and if one is simultaneously managing a huge portfolio of responsibilities for which one is demonstrably unsuited it must lead inevitably to a slip of the tongue, or in the case of the letter to Mrs Janes, the pen. Prime Minister Snot will be aware that his every utterance, his every scribbled line, is a hostage to fortune; yet he, nevertheless, in sending hand-written notes to the bereaved of the Afghanistan Nightmare, tries to do the right thing.
People who started off, fifty years ago, with illegible handwriting have had, since the introduction of self-taught word-processing, little reason to practice, much less improve their often irredeemable scribble, some days, I can't even manage my own signature much less draft an intelligible hand-written note to the postman. There are occasions, though, when, if sincerity is the motivation or its demonstration the purpose, we must put pen to paper.
The savvy thing for Brown to do with his consolatory billets doux, like the one to the wretched, unpardonably querulous Mrs Janes, is to have some stooge type them out, proof-read them, double-check the details and then for him to sign them; this, rather than his cack-handed spontaneity might have appeased, if anything would, the most recent, snarling TommyMummy, although, as with so many of her gobby ilk, the fantasy of blood-free soldiering outweighs, in her life, the harsh reality that the enemy shoots back, plants bombs, kills big handsome son and if it wasn't Brown's mis-spellings which deflected her own probable guilt and certain anger, it would have been something else, maybe the fact that each and every guardsman, bombardier or riflleman does not have a personal, indestructible helicopter at his disposal, an impenetrable force field surrounding him, so he can shoot out but no-one can shoot in.
But via The Sun, an arsewipe of a 'paper, Mrs Janes, rebukes Brown for "eighteen times missing the dot from the letter i" - no, really, it's there, in The Sun, he also uses the word sincerely twice, once in the body of the writing and once as a salutation, these, Brown's idiosyncracy and lack of inspiration a mark of disrespect, not only to Janes, herself, but to all the dead, probably, by extension, to all the highly literate readers of skymadeupnewsandfilth, renowned throughout the world for their painstaking spelling, grammar and pronunciation, innit, Gotcha! You couldn't make-up this shit.
Mr Rupert Corpse, proprietor, skymadeupnewsandfilth.
Mr Corpse, formerly an Australian, now an American, owns much of the mass media in the UK, where he doesn't pay any tax and has bred a nest of vipers to continue his wicked work when, the sooner the better, the horrible fucking bastard is dead.
Mr Corpse owns many so-called opinion-makers such as
Michael Portillo
Matthew Parris
Michael Spit
and
Mr Corpse, formerly an Australian, now an American, owns much of the mass media in the UK, where he doesn't pay any tax and has bred a nest of vipers to continue his wicked work when, the sooner the better, the horrible fucking bastard is dead.
Mr Corpse owns many so-called opinion-makers such as
Michael Portillo
Matthew Parris
Michael Spit
and
Unlike Murdoch's unaccustomedly grammar-obsessed slags, I haven't read the offending letter, it was, or should have been entirely private and special, valued all the more, really, for its inconsequential fuck-ups. For a change, it is not Field Marshal Snot, here, playing politics with dead soldiers but whichever wretch currently runs the Sun for Rupert, in concert with the one person who, were we not so empty-headed, trivial and stupid, Ruined, would have kept schtum. They are not all undignified and spiteful, the relatives, although blinking and stuttering, knowarramean-ing in bereavement's morbid but sought-after floodlights, far too many disgrace themselves and the memory of those slain. Here is a letter, to go with the belt and the helmet and the tunic, here, from the prime minister of the day, and, alright, his handwriting is shit but at least it's personal, a piece of history, actually, the boy's gone, now, let's behave with some dignity. I know, let's hold this letter up to ridicule and debase, entirely, the idea of private correspondence, let's tape the 'phone calls; Jamie woulda loved that, does my mouth look big in this?
37 comments:
My name has a Scottish version; " Do you mean like Menzies (Ming) Campbell sure looks like Menzies to me.
I refer you to Mr Raedwald's observation on this sorry saga, Mr Smith. Meanwhile it has all been a wonderful opportunity for Mr Jack Torture to sneak secret inquests through parliament...
Mr R may well have a point, Lilith, archaic though it is; the greater concern, for me,however, is the assumed ownership, again, by Murdoch and his filth, of the electoral process - whomever it is that they are supporting, in this case the gabshite Cameron. I think Mr R is wrong also on his view that such letters inevitably become public - this, to my knowledge, is the first one to create such a storm, not for its impropriety - a la Raedwald - but for it's spelling; must it be the Sun wot won it?
CMI - spot on!
All decency deserves to be recognised.
Thanks Mr Ishmael.
i for one think that the dirty digger has a point. The point being give 'em what they want, tits and bums and celebrity shit by the shovel full. One of the reasons things won't change all the time is the only people who can change things are besotted with madupnewsandfilth and consume it it with gusto, Go back to sleep England evrything is in control tune in for the next Xfactor waste your money voting for crap. See what Mrs. Beckham has bought, go back to sleep. You will have more chance of plaiting sawdust than getting these sheeple to change anything. Oh Ok then we are all doomed because thats what it seems like from here.
GB displayed a spark of decency in writing his letters to soldiers' relatives. much as he's a disaster as PM, he did not deserve to be bitten by the mother of a man who volunteered for a risky job. the Sun has achieved what was previously impossible - make people feel GB was right, and not such a bad chap after all..
sorry, Mrs Janes, but a soldier is expendable. this is a fact of life. he will be ordered to a battle in the full knowledge of his officers that the result could bey be 15% casualties or whatever it may be. soldiers know this. your boy chose risk instead of safety, and he died. the PM sent you a letter in symapthy, and you shat on it, and yourself.
The argument rests on whether or not lacking due care and attention in crafting the piece is a mark of insincerity. If it is - and the poor woman would no doubt argue that Brown's political actions corroborate that view - it is hardly a thing to treasure. Indeed, to think of it as something nonetheless special - simply because of its author - would be pure snobbery. Nor is it fair to criticise her for wishing something were done about preventable deaths, such as her son's, where better air ambulance support and armoured vehicles - obtainable at a fraction of the cost the government spends on other things - could very well have made a difference. That the abject Sun has latched on to it is neither here nor there: everything we see is spattered with filth these days, it is hardly discriminative.
That the horrible, bastard has written a letter of condolence is a modest comfort that all humanity has not left his fevered, vile profanity of a carcass. That he has written this letter abominably badly is not a surprise, and is, perhaps, on a personal level forgivable (given his visual impairment) but he is a politician and therefore should take more care. If his hand-writing is crap because he cannot see, it is a simple matter to have them typed and to hand-write only the salutation and sign yer freakin' name. Nobody would say a dickie-bird and even if they did, the answer is as near to hand as it is now. He is, for our sins, the Prime Minister. Nothing he does is apolitical because everything he does can be made political at any moment. So he is a twat for making an easily foreseeable error.
That Mrs Janes is upset is, too, understandable; she has lost her lad. Her conduct then is regrettable but forgivable on grounds of grief. The last player, The Sun, is a shit-heap of a muckraking newspaper that need not concern us further. And that's that.
The only mistake is to be a piss poor Prime Minister at the fag end of one's ride on the ship of state. Everything he touches turns to shite. And how richly he deserves it, the fucker. Sympathy? Bollocks. Let us have him hung in chains in Parliament Square so that the children can throw stones at his twitching corpse.
This entire thing is shot through with false "emotion" from both sides.
Brown does not give two monkeys about the lad, or any other lad out there,dead or alive. If he cared a) he would have take the Robin Cook line and B) he would have made sure the war out there ceased to exist. His action was simply another empty gesture performed parrot like in his blind ego ridden mania.
On the other hand Mrs, Jaxxs must have been comfortable that her son should accept the queens shilling and become a mercenary killer for ....well whoever is really in charge of the killing.
Had she not been she would have persuaded the lad of the folly of his ways.
She must also have been aware, as must the son, that bombs and bullets would not be going in one direction only.
She should therefore not be surprised that her son was one of the unfortunate HEROs.
As for the publishing.......all parties wanted recognition for something. They got it.
No, you cannot have it both ways - a letter from the prime minister of the UK is a special document because of its authorship, it's not snobbery, just fact, that's why there is all this fuss, your own included, about it. Anyway, Mr TDG decries snobbery! Fuck me, in a sane universe that would be a headline.
As for you, mr mongoose, I would not have you down as being disablist,it is important for people with impairments, weaknesses, disabilities to perform tasks, even if they are completed with a little eccentricity, why shouldn't he write his own letters? Are you forming a new branch, The i-dotting Jihadists, a new, more vicious totalitarianism in which All Must Be SpellChecked for "foreseeable error"?
In the one thread, Mr TDG glorifies the opportunity for a man to give his life to Death, it is the only thing worth living for, in this one he whinges about preventable death, which, the fuck, is it, please, just so's we mortals know; or is this an elastic nobility you would impress upon us, convenient, one-size-fits-all occasions. As far as I'm concerned, the only way for Mrs Janes' son to have avoided the death which found him would have been for him to stay out of the fucking army. You can't, you italicising, air-headed, would-be rhetoricians, have it both ways. There are always shortages, guns jam, ammo runs out, communications fail, intelligence is flawed. That is why, rather than being some noble pursuit, war should be avoided, like the plague, especially this one. Maybe His Grace, The Emperor Barack, will make the right decision, as binding upon Field Marshal Snot as it is on GI Joe.
I know fuck all about helicopters except to say that if their absence was not being blamed for the deaths in Afghanistan then the armchair generals would find some other reason, some other avenue down which to parade their superiority over the real ones.
War is shit, politicians are shit but worse and more ruinous than either of these is the stranglehold on my country exerted by Rupert Murdoch and skymadeupnewsandfilth.
Where the argument rests is for me to decide and it rests on whether or not we subscibe to the guilt and grief of a British war-bereaved being exploited by an American media magnate in order to assist the election of his chosen gabshite. That's the argument, the question, strictly, which I made, Shall we be acquiescent in being ruled by skymadeupnewsandfilth -Mr Mongoose's position - or are we truly more incensed by the fact that Mr Snot writes messy letters?
That is not my position, Mr Ishmael, and it is unusual for you to stray towards a straw man. My points, if I may describe them so pompously, are:
1) Brown can't see very well so his errors in a letter are understandable and forgivable. Personally I don't give a flying fuck about the mistakes. If it was my dead lad and the PM wrote to me, I hope that I would have the grace and the spirit just to read it and keep schtoom.
2) But Brown is a politician therefore he cannot complain about being dragged around the square by the likes of The Sun. He signed up for it.
3) Brown has more resources than any thousand men. So he could and should have avoided this stupid difficulty.
4) Brown is a politician in difficulty and he should therefore have foreseen the play folk would make. There is blood in the water and he knows it.
He's a politician. This is not a poor wee disabled lad scribbling alone in his garret a few words of consolation to a bereaved mother. This is a Stalinist control freak using thirty seconds of his life to squeeze a few tens of votes out of whatever arsehole he thinks he can squeeze them. Good God, man, what was that disablist bollocks? Gordon Brown could disable all of us to the bottom of the sea and he wouldn't break sweat nor remember it tomorrow. I don't give a flying wotsit about the error; I do give one about the use of the over-kill to rehabiltate the twat.
Oh, and while we're about it, the Murdoch-Conservative conspiracy is pure Campbell. And it is true, of course. Not in princes, Mr Ishmael, nor the idiots' lantern. These are vain homes for hope and trust alike. Sometimes it is just pain and shouting and horrible people taking advantage to sell tomorrow's chip-papers and telly ads, and to shore up a few flagging votes. We are not, surely, taken in by any of it? To hell with the lot of them - Press and politicians - but don't feel sorry for the Bastard-in-Chief.
It is not he for whom I am sorry, mr mongoose, thank you but us; that so many turn like a pack of wolves on perceived weakness, that so many parade their misery for the absence of ought else in which to take small pride - and even in that, wax inarticulate, grubby, mealymouthed, lickspittle; turds of wisdom, soap opera barrel-scrapings.
I have been damning Brown since long before it became popular to do so; no, really, since before 1997's bright new dawn and have scant sympathy for his vain and arrogant life choices and their consequences for he and his. You know that. But that's not the point. In absolving his current tormentors you, perhaps inadvertently, hasten our shipwreck on Ruin's shores. Mr TDG, in excusing the wretched on the grounds of their sorrow, breaks all his own rules of what constitutes proper conduct, Ah! There-ing, like a good EastEnders viewer does. Never mind, eh, she wuz under a lorrapressure. Heedless of merit, our resident Stoic, finds common cause with the bleaters; no stern strictures for Mrs Janes, bereavement excuses all, isn't that what Plato said?
What sort of a person tapes private telephone conversations for sale to the newspapers, are we all, now, Guido Fawkes; are we all hollow, shabby, inebriate, opportunist gabshites, bear-baiting and cat-calling, ill-mannered, ill-raised, phoney, our greed and vanity masquerading as principle?
We try to do here what it says on the tin, chronicle Ruin. Fluff it as you may, those among us who have, the Janes episode is not a new benchmark in accountability or in people power but a hight-tide mark in the sewer of shabby deceit and rabble-rousing and it doesn't matter that the target of this hapless, spun biddy was Gordon Brown, she and the newspaper behaved like slime and filth, I have said before that I do not subscribe to tne belief that My Enemy's enemy is My Friend; Mrs Janes and The Sun, regardless of what backfiring rounds they aim at Mr Snot are not friends, just new enemies.
So many straw men, Ishmael, shame we are past Bonfire night. You just can't help it, can you?
You may well be impressed if the Prime Minister of the day writes to you, not out of any genuine feeling, or any consideration of you in particular, but as an exercise in "image-building"; most civilized people would not, and neither would you, I suspect, if only your vanity would let you reply in anything but an adversarial mode.
It is true that one cannot prevent every death (the point of the italics was the ambiguity not emphasis) but just as you could not blame a soldier for complaining when he is sent to face tanks with a rifle (say) so you can hardly blame him when he complains about being sent into territory riddled with improvised landmines with vehicles that could easily be made impregnable to them but are not.
To say all this is not to approve of the poor woman's behaviour, (who is mysteriously excluded from your "everyman", despite being as representative as anyone, I suppose everymen are thin on the ground in your blessed isle, so easy for you to lose your bearings), or to invoke Plato in any shape or form. What is your obsession with him, anyway?
Oddly, Mr Ishmael, I agree with all of that except I do not "excuse" them. I do understand them and I give some of them (well, her) a greater degree of tolerance than you can muster. And you should know that normal mongoose mode is based on kindess, generosity of spirit and others such. This does not change overnight and therefore one might have inferred a gap between expression and communication in this imprecise medium. Do I not sit here ranting against the decline of courtesy and politeness? Jesus, man, it is enough to make a saint take to arms.
That The Sun behaves like The Sun - well, the world continues to turn. We are unsurprised. Mrs Janes has behaved badly, yes, and allowed herself to be used, yes. The second part of that is by far the greater sin and that was done to her not by her. Cut the woman some slack, the boy is barely cold in the ground.
A point not much noted is that he is said to be a fifth generation soldier. Maybe the family's opinion - as ill-formed as it's delivery was indelicate - maybe this opinion is worth listening to. The letter and the mistakes are, true, nothing in the scheme of things. Maybe she started out on the equipment and helicopters end of the conversation and got ripped by some vile reporter who could see the "better" story. We will never now know.
As for Brown - fuck him, the monster.
It is a disgusting tableau, mr mongoose, any way we look at it and most differences here are of emphasis; I just expect more from the ordinary person than from the great and the good.
Have a look at the late Gordon Gentle case and that of his starstruck mother, Rose; she, happy to stooge for Tommy Sheridan and stand for parliament, shat on everything that any soldierboy would value, living or - by his peers - posthumously.
You sound, Mr TDG, like that bloke in I'm Alright Jack, what about the workers? Soldiers get killed in all sorts of un favourab;e circumstances. Why is it that you, so martial an dfprbidding, usually, bleat so about the issues of this conflict, it's all shit, anothe poster here, mr richard, I think, and mr reginald rightly if uncomfoprtably remarks that soldiers are expendable, they get killed, what level of vehicle and body armour would satisfy you and make this war, fit for purpose?
Try dissuading teenage sons from joining the army, might as well piss into the wind!
If anyone bleats it is you, Ishmael, for you could only be simulating the intelligence of a sheep simultaneously to disapprove of this violation of social protocol while admiring the likes of Russell Brand.
On the military issues, perhaps do some reading. Here...
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/groin-armour-would-help-british-troops-to-survive-1790721.html
...is one thing, and I am sure you could find others.
I emphasize this one only because it might be of practical use to you too, though exactly what it would take to keep your head out of your arse I am not sure.
For some reason, Mr Ishmael, the bodies are all driven over to the JR (I think) for post mortem and all the inquests take place around here. We get to hea rall about them on the local news. Such a cheery topic.
The well-named Mrs Gentle is indeed a model for how to rail againsy loss but to do so with dignity intact. The process of grief is a strange and healing one for those who manage to move from one phase to the next and not get stuck at anger. Perhaps, Mrs Janes will, in time, find a more elegant and gentle way to remember her son, and perhaps to make something good out of his loss. Let us hope so.
I'm a little puzzled as to why anyone might want to "draft an intelligible hand-written note to the postman."
Hello and welcome back, Mr Edgar.
You may think of postie as some mere functionary, a utilitarian jobsworth; we, however, cast by circumstance onto the farthest shores of the Realm rate him as a proxy emissary from the metropolis, a connection to the mainstream of existence and, coming as he does at about 4.00pm, a mark of the day's passing, any of these entitling him to a Christmastide bottle of single malt, merely for having, another year, carried out his duties, come hail, rain or hurricane.
The letter might read Dear Hamish, I am in the barn, the noo, d'ye ken, please give me a wee knock if you be bearing the wife's parcel of bulbs frae England and dinnae mak me travel intae the wee toon, clutching a wee note of yours saying We Attempted To Deliver A Parcel etc as ye will be as waware as I that the price of petrol here is a crime against humanity. Yours & c.
Dear, dear Mr TDG.
Head up my arse, is it, the intelligence of a sheep? One cannot help but wonder what it is about this place, then, which so attracts your attention. If I were pressed I would say it allows you to vent your surely uncomfortable logical inconsistencies over days rather than expose them to the surely damning condemnation of immediate conversation.
You are entirely inconsistent, however much I encourage you to expound your own view you resort, ever, instead, to insult, you, who claims to lament, in his bones, the national climate of insult. When you challenge my position I, often, go to some lengths to expand upon ot, clarify it, where others would ignore you, when I challenge you on yours I am met with name-calling.
For the last time, it is perfectly consistent to admire a comedic performer, to a paying audience, laying bare his darkest darknesses whilst damning another who is simply being rude, stupid and selfish. You may think that Mrs Janes is the future ot mankind, I don't; I think she is a wretch and that her handlers are wretches. I will never call you a sheep for your view, or claim that you speak from your arse; by dint of what seniority do you so traduce me ? Do you have, in your amroury of superior feelings, no shame?
ps. Mr TDG. I don't read links. If you think it is important enough to commend then fucking well take the trouble to paraphrase it.
Dear me.
Let's leave it, shall we?
The introduction, mr mongoose, to these quarters, even briefly, of Julie Felix, is not conducive to pacifism. I, of course, cannot speak for Mr TDG but then, nor can he, terribly well.
Better Julie than Frank Ifield.
Oh come on, Mr Smith, the implication of "bleating" is obvious enough, at least I only accused you of simulating a sheep. As for your vanity - well, it cannot be foolishness that makes you ignore the arguments, can it? Take this
"Mr TDG glorifies the opportunity for a man to give his life to Death, it is the only thing worth living for"
You know that nothing I said implies this in any shape or form, elegant a distortion though it might be, so what is the point of saying it, except playing to the gallery?
P.S. Brand really enjoyed humiliating that old man, he has recently said, but then it was only in front of a paying audience. It is a nice argument that; we can excuse Brown on the same grounds - the taxpayer needn't be - he can just fuck off to some air-conditioned isle, in the comfort of retirement.
P.P.S. I imagine your "immediate conversation" as thematicized soliloquy, whether seal or man its audience a matter of indifference. Shame we cannot hear your voice, though, perhaps you could be induced to do a little poetry reading on youtube, a "letter from the walled garden", etc...
let's look at the facts.
1. a man joined the army and got killed.
2. a man, the PM with bad eyesight wrote a scrawling letter of sympathy to a bereaved mother.
3. the mother was offended by the letter and taped a private phonecall.
4. it was published by a paper hostile to the PM.
who is dishonourable here? not the boy who got killed, and not the PM.
the paper and the mother are dishonourable. the paper used a mother's grief for political purposes, and the mother taped a phone call, then blamed the man who sent her boy to war for his death; it was a result of enemy action, not the fault of the person who ordered the lad into battle.
if you don't want to run the risk of getting killed in action, don't join the Army.
Mr Ishmael, I see that the case of Mrs Gentle is a lttle more taxing than I had hitherto understood. What is it with Scotland that it does this to people?
Mr mongoose
yes, I thought I had mistold the the Story of Gordon Gentle or that you had, by some other failing of mine, got the wrong end of the stick. The whole business is truly sickening, a precursor, really, to the events which mr richard describes with such righteous jaundice, although without the revelation of a letter or the taping of any 'phone calls.
One of the exciting things about bonny Scotland, a few years back, was that the wee parliament had an element of PR to it and contained, therefore, not just the usual crew; the conduct of Sheridan and his bitter, joyless comrades tarnished, I think, all the small parties, bar the greens and it is now back to business as usual, trade unionites, lawyers and jumped up tribal councillors. Mrs Gentle, anyway, in her grief was picked up by Tearful Tommy and advanced as the caring, aggrieved face of Sheridan Socialists plc. I think that once the initial sympathy wore off she was despised for her regular claim that Gordon only joined to learn a trade band shouldnae a been put in harm's way, such a statement demeaning her boy's memory and upsetting the more stalwart decents among the bereaved. She polled only a tiny handful of votes in a constituency stridently anti-Blair. It is not her being a single mother or being poor, she is just an utter fucking pig.
I don't know that her vileness is unique to the Scottish Central Beltway, although its working class culture is truculent and belligerent, an infinite whine of grievance and indignation; Mr Frankie Boyle is typical, a putrescent, wounding consciousness, attuned to the sadistic and the just plain cruel, MacLaddism, there is nothing wry or whimsical or amusing about Boyle, he's just a cunt; shocked at his cuntishness, we laugh. If you would know a bit more about Jock, the current OU/BBC History of Scotland is illuminating, even though the presenter, Neil Oliver, is an irritating, hair-tossing, theatrical, academic gabshite, striding in and out of shot, as though it had never been done before, a more restrained and mercifully unginger version of Mr Boyle.
Blogging, Mr TDG, is, almost by definition, playing to the gallery and I make no pretence that these commentaries are anything other than cyberstreet entertainment. But there is no compulsion, no insistence that readers agree with me and you know well that I will debate these things backwards and forwards; sometimes, albeit rarely, I do recant but slight as these jottings are, I mean them; they are underpinned by what someone describes a fierce and unyielding morality, why would I immediately say. Oh, Yes, you are right, stupid of me. Oh yes, I didn't mean what I said, course not.
These things are what they are. In view, furthermore, of the air of condescension and superiority which increasingly colours your comment I cannot but observe that the only writing which might satisfy you is that you compose yourself. Why don't you blog, or make an opinion piece here, and submit yourself to the casual scorn of any passer-by.
I am happy to debate things with you and although I mostly eventually dismiss your arguments, I read them carefully and value them; if that is insufficient courtesy you must take your business elsewhere
"Mr TDG glorifies the opportunity for a man to give his life to Death, it is the only thing worth living for"
I do not think that anyone would read the above and find it an unfair summary of at least one of your comments and a characteristic flavour of many of them.
Thematicized soliloquy is accurate and good enough and the totality of my performance skills. Youtube, do fucking behave yourself.
Let's brush aside the heavy tresses of your vanity for a second: I said a life not worth dying for is not worth living. Living only so as to die is the exact opposite; it is good solely as an elegant jibe, the kind of thing I imagine the likes of Michael Heseltine would have delighted in when he was at the Oxford Union.
That is the mode of your discourse; it is no less condescending or superior than mine, and no less satisfying than what anyone, including I, might want to see, as I have often said. But it has little to do with argument, whose highest court of appeal is reason, not rhetoric. Whether or not you stand condemned by it is, of course, only of consequence to you.
At least you didn't mention my furniture.
Gentle sould that I am, mr Ishmael, I had never heard of Frankie Boyle. Youtube clip the First... "should have staged a gang-bang in a minefield to commemorate Princess Di..." I paraphrase. A cunt indeed. Talentless too. Grade A fuckwit, I would have thought.
And can Mr Oliver not find a shirt that fits his scrawny neck? What is wrong with the twat?
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