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 DefenceBreakfast with Frost, Hoon asserted that the UK was willing to use nuclear weapons against Iraqi forces "in the right circumstances."
On 23 June 2003, Hoon continued to claim that two trailers found in Iraq were mobile weapons laboratories. This was in spite of the fact that it had been leaked to the press by Dr David Kelly 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.
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.
On January 19, 2010, Hoon gave evidence to the Iraq Inquiry about his time as Defence Secretary.