Here, in Egypt, as everyone knows, we are quite keen on manlove, when the alternative is a woman then most discerning Egytian gentlemen would prefer a boy, this has always been so. Visiting British MP, Mr George Galloway, however, is a long way from being either, as the picture above demonstrates.
Taken from an infamous British television show, the format of which is largely set around cruelty and humiliation, this shot reveals a shameless degenerate willing to do anything for money.
We do not want such people in Egypt. If the Brits choose to be ruled by creatures such as Galloway that is their affair. But Galloway rolling up in our ancient capitol with a busload of fawning fuckwits, pretending to be concerned about Muslims when all he is doing is seeking publicity, is ours. And our message to the foul, preening nancyman is clear. Fuck off, Effendi, or we'll chop your bleeding head off. Tell them that in Tower Hamlets, big boy.
comment, too long for blogger comments, in response to Mr The Dyer's Garden
mBankrupt it may be but given the population explosion and the concommitant implications for resources and allowing for even a modicum of the global warming hysteria to be based on truth, some form of communality of ownership seems to be the least objectionable of conflicting futurisms - a New World Order based on need rather than greed being the next logical step on a rocky road from slavery, serfdom, the military-industrial complex and its twin, GlobaCorp capitalism.
I know that the political ramifications of statist or pan-statist planned economies are anathema to you and I don't seek to persuade you of the benefits of such a form of organisation - you and I, in any event, will be in the Great Earthly Compost Bin by the time of such reform - but I regret bitterly that Galloway is seen as the Keeper of the collectivist flame, finding him, as I do, more objectionable than the reddest-faced, pin-stripiest, braying Tory predator.
It is a shortcoming of mine that I can only in the case of genius separate the artist from the art, my own impatience with the frailties of the former often obscuring the merit of the latter. Galloway is not a genius but a rather cynical manipulator of the utterly dispossessed, the alien, the voiceless outsider and his successive hypocrisies spoil for me any pleasure which I might derive from his eloquent chastisement of his fellow brigands. His radio shows and his columns in the otherwise derided RedTops bully and cudgel any who might differ, his torrential syndicated emails are shamelessly grandiose and self-adulatory, name-checking his egalitarianist greatness, cheap demagoguery playing to the fears of the frightened, the needs of the needy, his own needs, of course, lavishly catered for here, at his tailor's and in his Iberian villa.
Your observations, save one, are as lucid as ever but the idea that this aging, hectoring juggernaut personality is motivated by anything OTHER than personal gain seems to contradict everything I know of him.
As I said, it is a sign of the times that so shitpoor inferior are his co-accused that you and even I, occasionally, briefly, warm to his pompous doggerel.
There is a wider point, too, which has begun to fascinate me - the whole business of speechifying in an instantaneous media. I heard Obama, the other night, wriggling and squirming about the poor, mad Nigerian lad and his underpants bomb and heard the phrase "...however nimble our adversaries..." fuck me, nobody in politics says things like that, except Obama; nimble, brilliant, awarding respect and excusing the apparent clodhoppingness of the CIA, FBI, the whole fucking alphabet of bureaucracies, NSA, FEMA; adversaries, raising the game from mere enemies, an altogether more cerebral business than the Chimp's War on Turr.
Obama's speechifying, irritating, didactic and racist as it is is the best on offer to English speakers. Poor Kev in Australia is like a whining agony aunt; the Indians sing-and-song like Old Etonian maharajahs, goodness, gracious me-ing through filthy Untouchables, the fucking savages; at home, prime minister Snot attempts to distinguish his leaden cadences with over-articulation - sol-you-shuns, trans-pair-encies as he reels off a demented catechism of bogus tractor production statistics whilst the idiot-prefect, Cameron, spouts one exasperated, catty cliche after another. Only Obama says stuff like nimble adversaries and yet we know that for all his speechifying skills he is as fraudulent in his principled declarations, as malicious in his intent as has been anyone allowed near the Presidency.
In the room where I sit, some weeks after the event, people would have read the news of the Battle of Trafalgar, their children would have, similarly belatedly, read of the American Civil War, speeches and comments recorded in black-and-white in a newspaper of record, now the skymadeupnewsandfilth Times. Now, all is soundbitten, rehearsed over and over, repeated at us, as though we were imbeciles, repeated at us again, explained, deconstructed, as though we were illiterates, by the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson or by Mr Anji Hunter, Adam Fatman Boulton, once a corner of the Blair-Murdoch-Business Triad.
When the word was, for most, on the page, it had a different value; now that it is all across cyberspace in an instant, now is the time that they should be more cautious, more precise, more eloquent, now is the time they should find the poetry.
As it is, few of them can even speak, much less make speeches; as it is, Mr TDG, all of them - even those like Galloway, gifted with a little facility - give talking a bad name. I am glad the Egyptians shat in his face.