Tuesday, 23 March 2010


The greed, venality and the up-to-and-including-mass-murder corruption of ministers, MPs  and Lords-a-fucking-leaping is part of the furniture here, most of them being  referred to as lobbyists for whatever and part-time MPs - William Hague, Director of JCB and part-time MP; Michael Spit-Gove,  Murdoch hack and part-time MP; Boris Cocaine Johnson, Filth-o-Graph scribbler and part-time Mayor of London and so on, try, friends,  being a mere nurse or a teacher and getting away with that shit, try clocking-on at BA and then fucking-off to another job, see what Kelvin McKenzie and the  Tabloids of Hate - and the Cabinet - say about that. The fact that the entire government is currently in place as a result of blackmail and bullying at its  gay, Mandelsteinian heart and reflects and rewards badness rather than goodness, rottenness rather than probity is, here, scriptural;  we have argued long that having allowed them away with the Iraq Invasion we should be unsurprised when they raid the petty cash,  that  Blair's leasing of the UK armed forces to Haliburton, he & Imelda  to be the principal beneficiaries of fees in return, and our compliance in it  marked Ruin's triumph. And so it fucking did, a nation and a legislature beguiled, wantonly infatuated with a man who whored the office of prime minister as none before or since. And now, fuck me, his stooges want their portion, too, want as Hoon said  "...well, bluntly, to make some money."   Surprise, surpise.

That the ghastly, leatherface Hewitt - my husband's a judge -  has been shitting in our faces is not, here, therefore, news, see Ishmaelia passim ad infinitum;  no point getting excited about a wee Despatches programme -  made, incidentally, by Establishment pop satirist, Rory Bremner's,  company, Vera - stating excitedly what has been a matter of public record for, well, forever.  Ministers and MPs and mandarins flog-off their contacts to the highest bidders, Wow,  there's journalism. Next week: People take drugs because they like them, shock horror. Always have liked them. No, really, always. Wherever two or three are gathered together since the Dawn of Time,  they will find something to ferment or distill or chew or eat or inhale or  inject  or shove up their arses that they might briefly escape both Life's merciless sorrows and Sergeant Death's inevitable summons. In Arabia they smoke kif, in Somerset they ingest pulped apples by the gallon. And smoke kif. Should we, therefore, make them legal because making them illegal only causes more shit and far worse crime? Never. Over My Dead Body!  Drugs. And War. And Death. And Art; Art, too. And pensions. The big questions, here for you, on skymadeupnewsandfilth. With our studio guests, Gerry 'n' Cilla McCann and political blogger, Mrs Ian Cardigan. Who wants to be an MP but pretends to be a journalist. After this. Stay tuned. Or Kay Burley will come round and bite you in the face. And so it is with last night's Despatches, a  momentary scoop, harmless to children, pets, old people and to its subjects.

This episode of Rory's political conscience broadcasting, Despatches,  instead of the relentlessly repetitive  Bird and ; Fortune, or indeed the jovial  would-be polymath and prosthetic-wearing impressionist-manque, historian, political scientist and pamphleteer himself, was fronted by someone from the nerd-chic school of TV journalism, cracking-on like he was discovering this crossed Rubicon of shit and filth as it unfolded on his various VDUs and telescreens, sharing  its discovery with us,  in what we now call realtime, whatever the fuck that is. Even in a provocative and edgy - as we say - expose it was assumed de rigeur that  the viewers had to be led by the nose to what we, here, have known for years and have discussed hundreds of times. My quarrel with TV is ever the same, it is TV, another programme will be along after a word or twenty on what you should  buy from Ruin's marketing arm, GlobaCorp, the people who made Rory Rory, so to speak, and Despatches. after the adverts - the raison d'etre of commercial TV -  will merge into some other soporific, there will be scarce a moment before  the same ratings-hungry young and not so young things will be trying to hold our attention, claim for their sponsors our buying power, interceding on their behalf with the people, rather like the elected marketing men, plying their trade from the green and red benches; one programme does not redeem them, or as the self-fellating, busybodying, political Jack-of-all-Tradesing Mr Nick Robinson might say, one swallow does not a summer make.

Hoon it was who prompted stanislav on cunt and subsequently another's campaign on order-order to make his name a substitute for the C-word, you are a right Hoon, stop Hooning around and so on; his solecisms of principle and ethics are legendary -  those Iraqi women will thank me for killing their children with illegal munitions, we can nuke the ragheads, I simply do not accept that black is black, in my judgement it is white, and so on.

Geoff Hoon is a thieving, self-aggrandising, cowardly cunt, the programme revealed to those who, unaccountably,  didn't know and monumentally stupid to boot;  you have to wonder why the troops-loving - or is it people-loving, as in our people, in theatre? you know what fucked the Army. don't you, so that they're all camer-hungry wannabees, like the jokers at ARRRRSE or whatever the blog is,  where the impotent collide with the ignorant in  a frenzy of raging RealMan  testosterone belligerence, what fucked the Army was them all calling each other colleagues, instead of comrades, stupid bastards - Brigadier-General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap didn't smack a well-polished boot up Hoon's scabby arse when he had the chance; dulce et decorum est pro patria Hoonicide, eh, Rupert, or at the very least  publicly venture the opinion that Hoon was unfit to  tie his own shoelaces, never mind adequately resource an army in the field. Still, careers, that's what makes the world go round, Rupert. Careers and shit. Is it any wonder that the various bellicose misadventures East of the Med have been such fuck-ups, with people like Hoon and Rumsfeld even remotely involved in their execution ?  The former Defence Secretary did not even have the nous to check-out a five minute-old, fictitious company but merely ran along to its trough;  any wonder that he sent Tommy up Shit Creek without a paddle?

But the question remains, can anyone seriously pay money for anything this jerk might offer them by way of insider dealing and the answer, unfortunately, is yes, they will, the military industrial complex of Uncle Sam is underwritten by the US taxpayer, who is, albeit, underwritten by the Bank of China and will happily throw others' money at Hoon in exchange for what he claims to know. Andrew Neil will have him on what he calls the Daily Politics and the This Week show and Hard Talk and any other pisspoor fawning shows which the BBC gifts this repellent, septuagenarian, playboy arsehole, squeezed into his horrid suits, his syrup finally receding with his life expectancy, perched and glued, ludicrous and ginger,  atop his empty, bumptious head ?

We might applaud the embarrassment caused to Hoon and Leatherface and the rest but they probably won't even feel embarrassed, betrayed perhaps, undervalued, but they don't do embarrassed, now, do they, any of them.  There was a rugby player, Delallio or something, some gobby, muscle-bound prat with an eye as much to the meeja  as to what passes now for sport, Lawrence, was it, no matter what his name was, he was one of those, a vain, greedy, empty-headed - for want of a better word - Blatcherite, a manchild of the times sort of person who gets his opinions from Kelvin Mckenzie and Richard LittleCock.  He was stung by a tabloid set-up and claimed he could or in fact did, I dunno, who gives a fuck, supply the stingers with as much coke as they could snort.  When the shit hit the fan Mr DeLollypop claimed, as does Mr Steven Byers, currently, that he was just boasting, over-egging his egotistical pudding, was, in fact, giving decent drugdealers a bad name  by pretending to be one of them, rather like young Mr William GoodKidReally Straw.  DeLollypop, despite the opprobium normally attached to drugs and dealers  went on, I believe, to captain the national team  of gang-raping,  coke-snorters - or is that premier league football - just  as young Mr Straw will put aside his childish preoccupations and go on to inherit some safe Labour seat, long to reign over us, just like his Da',  Jack Torture. Doesn't matter, you see, now, here in these Days of Ruin, how shitty people are. The Westminster BDSM couple, Christine and Neil Hamilton, despite their addiction to Mohamed al Fayed's money and their conspicuous lack of talent or merit, have media careers. The sticky-fingered, gullible  moron,  Piers Moron,  has a media career.  Here, in Scotland, the vilest couple ever to pick the people's pockets - and there is some compettition here, believe me - Tommy and Ivana Sheridan have media careers;  the list is endless, of  vileness trumpeted as news;  notoriety and infamy sell copy and copy  swathes advertising, which is where we came in, with Despatches.

It is, friends, as you say, funny and rewarding to see the Hoons and Hewitts hoist, momentarily, with their own petard but you are judging their reaction as you  would expect your own to be, should you be exposed so, on a national TV channel, as a shameless villain.  But whilst you would dwell long, mortified, in sack cloth and ashes, this gang will come out fighting and, where you and I would be shunned by the skymadeupnewsandfilth and Andy Nonce Neil, these bastards will be given every opportunity, often at our expense, to promote their careers of filth and murder.
Embarrassment, Geoff Hoon, don't make me fucking laugh.

The triumphs, here, in cyberspace,  are often o'erblown. Peter Hain was sunk, wasn't he;  Harriet Harman was sunk;  there have been countless events which Field Marshal Snot would not survive, yet he has survived them all, Caroline Spellman just had to go, didn't she;  Mandelstein wasn't going to last a month  after such and such a revelation; the problem with the bloggers is that not only do they read and believe their own press, they also write it. Many insist that the general election will be fought in cyberspace. It won't. Never mind How Many Divisions has the Pope? How Many Constituencies has Guido Fawkes ? And the answer, of course, is none,  the ninteenth century political behemoths, Tory, Labour and Liberal control, and will win the majority of them.  Doesn't matter how many oohs and ahhs there are at order-order, doesn't matter how angry, how  threatening mr old holborn is; how exasperated Ms Lilith becomes, how lofty and condemnatory these pages are.  As far as skymadeupnewsandfilth is concerned the expenses scandal - and it is a disservice to us all to so describe  the institutional criminality of the UK legislature  - is more or less done and dusted, and it's back to business as usual with the same old crowd, maybe a few new faces but the same old shit.  The Dimblebys, Adam Lardman Boulton, Neil and the vultures in the press, Heffer and Yabbo Brown, the most important Raghead Momma in the nation, Mad Melanie Phillips, the dipsomaniac from the Observer, wotsisname, Hutton, Will Hutton, the drunk with a thinktank, the Work Foundation, that's what the Observer wants, Work, only not for them, for the poor, bastards; the whole ghastly caravan of charlatans and boors and degenerates and bullies is already limbering up to speak Their Masters' Voices - Murdoch, the Bizarro Twins, D'Acre and the oligarchs at the Beeb, axes to grind, secrets to hint at, the lobby system, can you believe the fucking lobby secret, sources close to so and so told me but I can't tell you who they were, because I'm a journalist. And I work for Power.  You better believe it.   Now, never mind Geoff Hoon, lets get this country back to work, it'll be hard but we are all in this together; well some of you are.

Some background reading here, below, for overseas readers unacquainted with Geoff the Hoon, barrister, MP, thief and murderer.

Secretary of State for Defence

Geoff Hoon (right) at Pentagon briefing with Donald Rumsfeld
In a 2003 interview on the BBC's Breakfast with Frost, Hoon asserted that the UK was willing to use nuclear weapons against Iraqi forces "in the right circumstances."[3][4]
On 23 June 2003, Hoon continued to claim that two trailers found in Iraq were mobile weapons laboratories.[5] This was in spite of the fact that it had been leaked to the press by Dr David Kelly[6] and other weapons inspectors that they were nothing of the sort. The trailers were for filling hydrogen balloons for artillery ranging and were sold to Iraq by a British company, Marconi.[7]
In an April 2004 interview, Hoon said that more could have been done to help David Kelly, who committed suicide on 17 July 2003 after being named as the source of Andrew Gilligan's disputed Today programme contribution.[8]
On January 19, 2010, Hoon gave evidence to the Iraq Inquiry about his time as Defence Secretary.[9]

[edit] Comments on cluster bombs

Shortly after the US/UK led invasion of Iraq began in 2003, following an admission by the Ministry of Defence that Britain had dropped 50 airborne cluster bombs in the south of Iraq and left behind up to 800 unexploded bomblets, it was put to Hoon in a Radio 4 interview that an Iraqi mother of a child killed by these cluster bombs would not thank the British army. He replied "One day they might." Hoon continued "I accept that in the short term the consequences are terrible. No one minimises those and I'm not seeking to do so," he said. "But what I am saying is that this is a country that has been brutalised for decades by this appalling regime and that the restoration of that country to its own people, the possibility of their deciding for themselves their future ... and indeed the way in which they go about their lives, ultimately, yes, that will be a better place for people in Iraq." [10]

[edit] Comments on Extraordinary Rendition

Hoon was condemned by an international delegation of European MPs for evading questions about Britain's co-operation with the CIA's so-called 'extraordinary rendition' programme.[11] Hoon, then Minister for Europe, was being quizzed in the wake of Dick Marty's Council of Europe report which found extensive involvement of European countries, including Britain, in the US kidnapping and torture programme.


jgm2 said...

You're dead fucking right about one thing. The election won't be won in cyberspace.

It will be decided by the BBC and Unite phoning and pestering folk in marginal constituencies with a decision-tree of outright fucking lies to bombard voters with.

And the only question is will they be successful in their campaign of lies. And even if they're not we still have the fucking decade of austerity and national humiliation to look forward to as we attempt to pay off the Maximum Imbeciles reckless debts.

Fucking great.

But I wish Old Holborn the best of luck. At least he is getting out there and doing something.

Edgar said...

Anyway, there is, out in the not too deep depths of space, a large lump of rock, dark, and glinting slightly due to ferric metal crystals.

And it's coming here.

It's half a kilometre across and weighs three-and-a-half billion tons.

Coming to a planet near you. Certain, and total, destruction. Not if, but when.

And on its way, it will be bought and sold a dozen times: I wonder who will be the owner when it lands. The Hoon himself, maybe?

P.T. Barnum said...

I can always be sure of having my despondency clarified here, but rarely relieved. Ta muchly. And who the heck will buy it? Ah, sorry, MacD's or Tesco seem likely candidates.

And Mr I, astringent and purgative as ever, and a healthy corrective to the self-congratulatory frenzy surrounding OH's stunt-cum-cop out.

What hope is there for us when the BBC have the death of a boxing commentator as breaking news but fail to mention the demise of the research scientist who gave us beta blockers? Bloggers and their readers are few. TV guzzlers are many. Truth will not out.

mongoose said...

So I watched the news and it was good fun, wasn't it? And then you go to delay-TV and watch the whole sorry fucking thing. Dear God, and these people are in charge of the freakin' country!

How can a man get into Cambridge and still be so stupid? Jeez, a barrister. Imagine you're in the dock and Hoon Himself shambles in to defend you.

It is too much to bear. None of the fucking above. And Kinnock mouthing off. And Balls positioning himself. And McTwat getting on with trying to help hard-working families. There is just not enough vomit to go around.

call me ishmael said...

What was the OH stunt, then, mr ptb; I was only speaking generally, I wasn't aware that there was something special.

I haven't read the papers or the blogs on the subject of Despatches, mr mongoose, so I don't know what Kinnock is up to, the worthless, thieving cunt. I avoid them at times like this - the bloggers seem to miss the point that they should, really, be in opposition to the mass organs of propaganda, not cheerleading for them, like younger brothers.

The BBC always marks the passing of its own as though it was of huge importance, a mention at the end of the bulletin, or in the sports bit would have done for Carpenter, his death being the headline item revealed, like nothing else, the egocentricity of the BBC, it revealed that we are the Them, they are the Us.

I don't think, mr jgmsquared, that there is a possible, satisfctory outcome to this imminent four-or-five-yearly festival of competitive promising; as long as a political party or combination of political parties triumphs then we are all - short of an aarly revolution - fucked and broke, ill-served and short-changed; that, despite all that has happened, people can still vote for any of them is a complete mystery to me.

Alec Salmond recently remarked that such and such isn't what the Internet is for; change or improvement are certainly not what this election is for, fuck me, no, we must yet be properly punished for the failures of the financiers; somebody has to pay and since there's more of us than there are of them, it is only right that we should pay. We need to concentrate the profits in the hands of as few as possible, the losses must be borne by the many; privatise the profits, nationalise the losses via cuts in jobs and services; easy, really, all three manifestos in one sentence.

P.T. Barnum said...

Ah, unless there is an early Fool's Day jest underway, OH is now the PPC for the Jury Team for Cambridge and Anna Raccoon is his agent. Many have complained about his new Great Aunt-friendly blog (no swearing, lower level of threat to the Establishment. But the masked man persists since it is apparently legal to stand for election anonymously.

call me ishmael said...

Ah, I see, the perils of being a Movement, not just a person.

Mothers Ruin said...

On Tuesday morning Hoon was doorstepped by a sky news reporter who wandered up his driveway in an attempt to get the first words from him after the debacle of the Despatches sting.
After berating her for daring to trespass on private property he walked back to his modest abode shaking his head at the impudence of a grubby hack failing to respect his right to keep the great unwashed at arms, or in his case, driveways length.
Such chutzpah is the mark of the man.

call me ishmael said...

That, m r , is lawyers for you; it's also why very little will rock his boat,this side of a firing squad.

Dick the Prick said...

The Hoon went straight into his part time tossing off venue the morning after. Shame? 33 points with triple word score.