THE SUNDAY ESSAY. METAPHOR AND REALITY

Col. von Fawkes of the Israeli propaganda unit, relaxing.

Metaphor & Reality

The bankers’ blogger, Guido Fawkes, probably doesn’t relax like this but he irritated someone and they put this together and there it is, the cyber biter, cyberbit. That’s what happens. Out there. Metaphor or simile - judiciously stoked, they run and run and run.

     The Colonel denies ever launching the rumour of there being pictures extant of Gordon Brown in a nappy, on a rocking horse, daubed in shit, sucking a dummy; any number of frantic, deranged parasexual conditions, positions and costumes were said to be captured on film and used as leverage against the then chancellor as he busily burnt all the money in a furnace below Downing Street. But somebody started it and enough people believed it, wanted to believe it, that Google has one hundred and twenty four million pages of Gordon Brown Rocking Horse Nappy. It doesn’t matter if it’s real, as long as people believe it.                                             

                                                                       

These things take off. As stanislav, a young polish plumber, this writer launched the delightful confection, among others, that Ms Jacqui Smith’s previous career had been as a cookery teacher in Burglarsville High School, Redditch, and it runs to this day, the most inept and mediocre home secretary in history is, in the minds of many, always a jumped-up cookery teacher - and isn’t it the case that, what with the hubbyporn and the bathplug and squatting in sister’s broom cupboard, Schmidt acted in just the way you’d expect of a greedy, belligerent cookery teacher propelled into wholly unsuitably high office? The reality, in Schmidt’s case, has outrun the metaphor. Jacqui Smith; you couldn’t make her up, her taxpayer-salaried husband-assistant writing, under a nom de plume, to the local paper, praising the local MP, pretending she wasn’t his Mrs, that he was just a regular guy, spontaneously commending his elected representative. Since I was paying him, not the Labour party, that - the crass, cynical, illicit propagandising - for me, was the graver SchmidtSin, and in a proper country he’d go to jail.

     People may have believed the cookery teacher spoof, they may equally have believed my satirical suggestion that “Sir” Michael White, surely the most obnoxious Guardian hack ever, carried kneepads, the more conveniently that he might fellate Labour government ministers. Michael Kneepads White, Toilets Maguire, Ruth Man Kelly, the PBC’s grunting, hunchback, transsexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, Jack Torture, The Nutter With The Stutter, the individuals who inspired these caricatures brought them to life. I hope that someday, twenty years hence, someone accosts the forgotten Jacqui Schmidt with the words “wasn’t you that cookery teacher, fucked up as ome seckatry?”

 The way these caricatures ran and ran was not evidence of widespread cyber-gullibility but of a wish to label, announce, proclaim, define by suffix, prefix or substitution that something was very rotten in what von Fawkes usefully described as the media-political nexus. These terminologies provided a lingua franca shorthand of Dissent. And they run and run, McRuin, McBroon, Snotty, Mandelbum; one, Hoon, an utter fucking waster, has seen his name become an alternate form of Cunt.

     But however much we vilified his partners in crime, Brown remained the grand, nose-picking enigma, imagined frenziedly masturbating as he fled from crises and responsibilities, disappearing like McCavity. Questions were asked, claims made, theses written predicating that Gordon Brown was a bondage freak, a nonce, mentally ill. Fawkes’s “prime mentalist” (a coinage that enraged those hustling a crust in NutScape or whatever they call the mental illness charity business while delighting many less correct souls) was an infantilised snot-eater, medicated, disordered, bad-tempered and violent, stuttering, gibbering and gulping, ascribed the usual characteristics of politicians everywhere - greedy, untrustworthy, larcenous, hypocritical, inebriated and degenerate, good,  as we say, for fuck-all; the face of the modern career politician,  for sure, but something else, too, something beyond.

 Even the French or Russian Revolutions, as far as I know, offer no equivalent to the sheer volume of heartfelt hatred which our cyber-literate dissenters have blogged, texted and twittered about Gordon Brown. Few parallels exist to the raging cataracts of criticism so luxuriantly, explicitly descriptive of his imagined private sexual identity; “gurning, pouting, shit-eating, cock-sucking, one-eyed, arse-bandit” doesn’t begin to do justice to the rich catalogue of names which Brown has been called. What is it about this man that attracts such speculation?

    That the cruellest lampooning of Brown resides almost solely in terms of sexual perversion voices a tenor of insult unique to him; the revulsion which people feel for and express about him would lay low any normal young parent, such as he risibly claims to be, yet nothing dents his Messianic belief in his exclusive, even Divine right to lead us all into Ruin. Any normal person, so castigated, would say the fuck with this shit and go and do something else, but my experience of people like Brown is that they keep secrets even from themselves and most of the time he doesn’t even know how inexplicably loathed and detested he is; he gladhands with his fellow Euroleaders and, we must assume, thinks that to those who matter, he matters. Brown’s is a deep and strange madness and  I venture that no understanding of what makes Brown tick - or tic - no comprehension of the scale of his folie de grandeur is possible this side of autopsy.

     Why is this? What is it about Brown that he can mince around the capitals of the world, ludicrous and jeerworthy, as though he heralded, or was, the Second Coming, while at home he is hated in strange, suspicious and frightening bogeyman ways? No prime minister in living memory has been so traduced. Alien visitors would surely contend that no one so ferociously and consistently abused from all sides could reasonably be entrusted with serious responsibility; that he should, in charity and decency and mercy, be taken to a place of soundproofed safety. Instead, Piers The Smirking Prat waltzes Brown across a grim, self-exculpatory floor and back again, grinning, to a national tumult of derision and catcall.

     Overseas readers may be unaware that in Ruinous UK, Daytime TV is partially dominated by ghastly barrages of self-revelation and irresponsibility from John Prescott’s Underclass, their shortcomings as couples, parents and siblings being ruthlessly condemned by worthless prick presenters; it is cheap and revolting  television, its depths commanded by a vicious, snarling boy reporter called Jeremy Kyle; Brown’s DeadBaby shit and his Oh-Fuck-Me-I-Was-Injured-But-Carried-On-Courageously rubbish was crafted by him and Piers to excite such an audience, in the vain wish that, identifying with his vacuous soap opera grievance, it might vote for him. Vote for Snotty, He Even Left His Breeding Ruinously Late. He’s A Tosser Like You. A member of Ruin’s rank and vile.

 Allegations and complaints have been made, historically, of incompetence, greed, venality, drunkenness, extremism, unsuitability. No one in modern British politics has ever been so reviled as Gordon Brown, and this national beasting of the prime minister is not consequent upon the financial Ruin which he has so assiduously nurtured over a decade and seen recently triumphant; no, he was detested, viscerally, long before his talents delivered rotten fruit, certainly in my case, and I know in others, too. It goes back to his emergence as Smarmy John Smith’s Shadow Bogus-Tractor-Statistics Spokesman and heir apparent. Brown has always looked like a wrongun, a freak, a bully, a frantic wanker; a creepy fucking  bastard.

     

He is awkward, seems hardly able to walk in a straight line, jerks and spasms and twitches, stutters and splutters and gulps, and that thing, the jaw thing, the dry-wank jaw drop, the obsessive squaring of the papers, the nail-bitten Claw of Doom flagellating, with manic purpose, the despatch box or lectern, the blitzkrieg of phony statistics, the wrong-time-wrong-place Death’s Head grimace; these, individually, or even in small handfuls, do not themselves illustrate  lunacy, a rank and putrid soul far gone in rottenness, but all together, in this ballooning, shifty carcass, I think they do. He looks as though his sins were fighting their way out into daylight, as though, inside his wretched, obnoxious, wriggling skin, sound Mayhem’s alarm bells.

The skymadeupnewsandfilthpress of Murdoch and McKenzie and Toilets Maguire is ever quick to invent paedophiles requiring vigilanteism, whilst advertising, on other pages, granny fucking phonelines, teeny fellatrixes, flourescent barbed wire dildoes, semen-hungry asian babes and Jesus knows what other family-newspaper-values activities for, presumably, the determinedly masturbating family. Show them a story, however, of PaedoSheriff&Advocate, a properly bent Scottish firm of lawyers and fuck me, most will run a mile. The Herald and the Scotsman busy, daily, analysing the minutiae of Scottishness under Salmond's blustering Tribesmen or JockLabour's shifty thugs are both too self-important to expose Establishment noncing. You could light up the night sky with a bonfire made from editorials in the Glasgow Herald or the Scotsman damning Noncery, generally, and yet a scandal so gross, so vile, a cover-up so brazen, so intricate; a catalogue of offence so foul that it should bring down the governments North and South goes unremarked in the press, here, in smart successful Scotland, home of the Enlightenment.

The piety of Victorian Britain, of course, concealed a putrid trade in child prostitution, whether for the presumed sport of deflowering, as they called their rapes, a young virgin or from a wish to engage in the brutality to which Power ultimately becomes slave, the trade in children for abuse was rife. Now, however, we expect better, we expect the powerful to protect the weak. You must be hollowly fucking joking.

We should remember that despite pleas from the families of the massacred children, for their release, the papers on the Dunblane atrocity have been sealed for seventy-five years. That's seventy five years, who, pray, is that protecting, if not the great and the good? The web howls and screeches with conspiracy theories about Dunblane, as it does in relation to three Jock Law Lords' conviction of Mr al Magrahi for the Lockerbie bombing, the closest observers of Lockerbie, including bereaved father, Jim Swire, insisting steadfastly that Mr al Magrahi was framed by Jock Jurisprudence. The best in the world, they say, up here.

We have always promoted here the work of Scotland Against Crooked Lawyers, google them if you have a strong stomach and normal blood pressure, unlike many they have no agenda but justice and their back pages will offer a flavour of Scotland's unique rottenness, of the place from which Ghastly Gordon Brown derives his only phony legitimacy.

We depart here from our customary lofty laments and peruse, instead, the altogether more pragmatic remarks of Mrs Woman On A Raft, from the other day. They relate to historical events in the development of NewLabour by Mandelstein and whoever else was involved in promoting Blair over Brown. We should point out that figures mentioned as being close to Thomas Hamilton, the alleged paedophile who entered a primary school and massacred children and a teacher, were his Labour MP, George Robertson, now Lord Robertson, Michael Forsyth, Tory MP, now Lord Forsyth and the local Chief Constable.

It is claimed that many, aware of Hamilton's behaviour and of the threat he presented, opposed his being granted a gun license - in those days for handguns as well as rifles and shotguns - but were over-ruled by those in power, with drastic consequences. It is claimed that Robertson supported Hamilton's application and Robertson, almost immediately after the shootings was airlifted out of Scotland, out of England and into Brussels in the made-up job of General Secretary of NATO. Hamilton was dead, others kept schtum about their involvement and, as mentioned, the official papers relating to the events are sealed for seventy years, despite the clamouring of the bereaved for their release.

Is there a nationwide paedophile ring in Scotland, involving cops, lawyers and politicians, as there was in Northern Ireland, in Belgium, in the United States? Why are the Hamilton-Robertson papers sealed for seventy-five years ?

Anyone watching the post-Kinnock Labour Party would have judged Brown and not Blair the heavyweight. Mandelstein, with the ghastly Geoffrey Robertson, was a Brownite, to claim, as they do, that Blair was chosen because he was the more telegenic is disingenuous, Blair was, is, bug-eyed, buck-toothed and jug-eared and speaks a grating and patently dishonest tongue, nothing remotely attractive about him; now, though, that skymadeupnewsandfilth has fellated him all these years he looks marginally more acceptable, but he was never a handsome man. What happened? Why despite Blairs' leadership and huge victory was Brown always able to disobey and undermine him? Why was Blair - the butcher of Baghdad - too frit to sack grumbling, groaning Gordon, throw him out of his bunker, with all his scheming lieutenants? This is preposterous, a prime minister with three large majorities, forced out by his chancellor. What was going on here? Are we doomed never to know? Instead, to be fed tittle tattle by Sir Michael Kneepads White and Polly Last Chance Toynbee, as though we are too immature to know these things? 

Brown's body language, alone or with Sarah-George, shrieks derangement, his huddling for comfort on the Treasury bench with whoever is there is pathetic; consider his casual look, as uptight as a guilty man can look; consider how often his chosen self-description is some of form of "right"; I haven't read Rawnsley's supposed revelations because they are not revelations to me. Watching Brown as Chancellor, browbeating the commons with his tractor stats, years ago, prompted me to write "Stalin is not gay." Here, in other words, is a bent thug. Neither parliamentarian or statesman, Brown was just a punk bully from a club you wouldnwanna go in, comforted by husband and wife teams of praise singers, like Mr and Mrs Balls, neither of them parliamentarians, either, parachuted-in from Labour's undemocratic management team. To any with eyes to see Brown has ever acted like a freak, staying publicly just this side of Reason, and privately straying over into madness. Is he on pills, his weight balloons as though this fine athlete, rugby player and all around All American Boy was completely fucked, grey, paunchy, jowly, seedy, gibbering and spasming, his outside reflecting his inside.

What is it then, with Brown, which deterred him from family-making until the age when most are grandparents? What is it with Brown, which enabled the flyweight, Tone, to push him aside but which also enabled Blair's removal? What is it which sees him get up and start his dark workings at Ruin in the middle of the fucking night and then brag about it, as though he was personifying the Presbyterian work ethic of his mad father? As though, by sleeping normally, we sinned? What is it which makes the flesh creep at the sight of Brown at Auschwitz, in a school playground, at the sight of Brown, alone, signing the Lisbon Treaty, alone though surrounded, picking his nose and eating it, on the front bench of the House of Commons. What is it which makes him say with such spectacular cack-handedness "...having saved the world?"

Like the cyber metaphors, once said, Brown's assertion cannot be taken away. He thinks he saved the world. He really does. There should be no doubt that he is stark staring, gulping, gibbering mad.