Tuesday, 11 May 2010

BLOGGING A DEAD HORSE SOME MORE.

Squitch said... If blogdom is viewed as a human face, laughing at the futility of existence, then Mein Herr von Fawkes must surely be a rather repellantly-loaded nasal hair. A job for Mr Brown, who seems in need of one, suddenly.

I will assume from your prose that you are a Mr Squitch, Mr Squitch and I apologise if I err.

It was the praisesinging of the Lebanon infanticides which so distressed me - they would only have grown to be terrorists, best kill them now, that sort of thing.

And then, when you look more closely, there is the policy refusal - "Guido doesn't do Iraq" - to discuss the most important political event of the time, while concentrating, instead,  on the comparatively trivial matter of the pounds and pence of the parliamentary expenses larceny a matter, as it turns out, of less than Earth-shattering importance, as we re-elected most of the thieves, as instructed to by skymadeupnewsandfilth;

there was the dismissal of concerns about the discontinuities and anomalies in the official Nine Eleven narrative, rubbishing large swathes of otherwise voiceless individuals - many of them bereaved at Ground Zero and battered by George Dubya's goons, -  derisively, as Troofers;  

there was the McKenzie-ite TottyWatch and the dire misogyny it generated - the truth being that Jackie Schmidt, my Redditch cookery teacher,  in all probability, wouldn't WANT to be ejaculated upon by Guido's fevered masturbators and so their insistence that they wouldn't do so became, like their host,  something of an irrelevance, wankers;  

and then there was the fraudulent insistence of an anti-politics stance, yet one which was devoted, slavishly, clodhoppingly, short- sightedly,  uninspiringly to nineteenth century robber baron capitalism of the sort which has just beggared us; Fawkes stupider by far than the combined, lacklustre idiocy of Brown and Balls and Darling and wotsisname,  the worthless little prick at the Bank of England, the one who can't add-up to save his life; Fawk-O-Nomics, a prattish, immature determination that the  poor must have less, that the rich might have more, the differential of the imbecile, stupider than Brown, vainer than Blair.
  
there was the faux-Celtic tribalism, maintaining that poor, old, bent and now bankrupt Eire was the economic model we should all follow if only we were as clever as Guido; 

there was the  stupidity of elections called for right-wing nutters, like my friend, Codger McCain, just because, like a teenage girl, Fawkes  wanted his hero to win; it happened with Scotland, too, best part of England, he called them all wrongly, whilst masquerading as some cool, street-savvy Maverick, reading the odds, knowing the form, checking out the ree-ports, digging up the dirt, rely on me, I'll predict it all wrong, unsophisticated, muddle-headed,  I daresay he predicted that Brown would be wiped-out, and if, by some chance, he made a more sober prediction, it will have been a first, normally misleading his readers into thinking that if he wishes something badly enough, it will happen. Think of all the politicians and cronies who would be gone within the month. And they're all still there.

An unread, superstitious, Pope Nazi worshipping, woman-hating, baby-hating, drunken driving, thieving, racist, economically and politically illiterate, sloganising, gabshite, bigoted ignoramus.

May his treasured girl children, counting their much-lauded paternal investments, never meet someone like their father, driving down the road,  at speed, on the wrong side; may they never be holidaying someplace where their father applauds the  belligerent depredations of his so-admired MommasBoy Pizza warriors, breaking kiddies' arms, smashing then up under their big tanks, putting the world to the sword that a six thousand year old mythology be realised and Fuck everybody else. That anyone insists  they are The Chosen People is a  wicked bullshit,  and  thus we return, when you get to the bottom, you go back to the top,  it was the Lebanon infanticides, hurrahed and gloated over which o'erFawksed me; such a wicked, irresponsible citizen; bloated, inebriate, rabble-rousing, such ignobility; it is a good job that so few take him seriously.

6 comments:

jgm2 said...

One good thing about Order-order is that aside from his censorship which inconveniently knocks back the words 'drink and 'drive' and 'car' plus of course the words that must not be used 'market' and 'cunt' then it is a good way of letting off steam and sharing the hate about this vile fucking Labour government of all the idiots, incompetents, destroyers, wreckers, arseholes and bastards.

When we had a Labour government.

Or it was. Still might be if Brown can cobble together his axis of hate to keep the Tories from destroying his fucked up vision of the UK. A country that relies on perpetual house price motion as the economic driver.

Today again we have the BBC (and no doubt Daily Mail) bigging up the news that house prices have gone up 10% last year. A new generation of freshly minted suckers signing on the dotted line agreeing to mortgage their every waking moment for the next 25 years to put tens of thousands of pounds into the pockets of crooked planning officials (you'll know all about that in Scotland), dodgy building firms, lucky farmers, connected politicians and, fuck me, those fucking bankers again.

Fucking bankers lending all that money. Fucking bastards. Money they don't have. Money they conjured out of fresh air. Bastards. And what happens when they refuse to lend money to muppet punters because, guess what, they lent too much money to snaggle-toothed jackasses in mississippi/Dunfermline who will never be able to pay it back? Fuck me, house prices are crashing, our economy is fucked - quick, bung the banks more money so they can enslave another generation and so us boomers can get the fuck out at a profit.

See. I like that you and Fawkes let me get that off my chest.

Thanks.

PT Barnum said...

I think Mr Fawkes's high tide mark was McBride and his Secret Committee to Tell Nasty Lies. From there it went downhill to piggybacking on the work of others (Heather Brook, the Telegraph) and taking the kudos for it.

But there's been a significant change over at the Pizza Palace, like some kind of manic Just A Minute game, where Guido sets the subject and the panellists riff in their own way upon it, increasingly tangentially. Mr jgm2 is right in this respect: it is a place to go and do Hate and Bile and Spleen, while the host believes that he is the one shaping the zeitgeist.

I have noted a rising level of contempt for Fawkes amongst the commentators, sneering at him as a sell-out. I fear Dr FrankensteinFawkes has created his Adamic creature only for it to find its creator badly wanting.

And none of this would matter much if Fawkes had not crossed over into the land of Telly and laid claim to being the voice of the BlogWorld.

Dick the Prick said...

It's the Sun gone digital almost. Order order was fun in the old format where rather than give a monkeys about his topic by sequential comments as there is here, in Ishmaelia, that you could meet normal people like the population of this Isle.

That Fawkes is ignorant is just another gabshite talking head whore, sucking the cocks of those with l'argent, ready for him to whore himself in finer attire, with better buckfast and sneering peer kudos. Plus ce fucking change etc.

Love Blog Dog piccies - looking in rude health & also the Willie Nelson song above shall be replayed again methinks - lovely.

Squitch said...

Thank you, Mr Ishmael. I have learned much more about the Fawkes phenomenon than I would ever have bothered to research for myself. A relatively minor thing that disturbs me is Staines' insistence on referring to himself in the third person. He even 'explains' this in his FAQ by claiming that the blog is written 'in character'. Thus, we are presented with the words of a fictitious being, a figment of Staines' imagination. Why would someone feel the need to distance himself from his own effusions? Plausible deniability? Is Mr Staines an individual who lacks the courage of his own convictions? Or does he enjoy being 'provocative' from the safety of his alter ego, who will be allowed to take the blame if the gunpowder blows up in his face?

(The sex of 'Squitch' is a little problematic. The name, itself, is the name of my cat, who is female, but I am not. I wouldn't have minded either way, Mr Ishmael: courtesy survives incidental inaccuracies.)

call me ishmael said...

The third person dimension is something I understand. My young friend, stanislav, the polish plumber, wrote probably millions of words of commentary without ever saying "I" and there were a couple of reasons for this. Firstly and most importantly, the absence of the first person was a sign that however vibrant his ouevre, young stanislav didn't actually exist but was just an authorial voice, the backstory, which many naturally seek, while narratively consistent, was whatever stanislav wanted it to be and his characters, Toilets Maguire, Jacqui Schmidt the cookery teacher,Tony McNutter, Codger McCain, Spunky Bill, Eskimo Nell, Hillary Trousers, Imelda Blair, Gordon the Ruiner,Jack Torture, Kneepads White, the folks at skymadeupnewsandfilth, Kay Fright and Adam Lard and so on existed in their own right, not as people observed or reported-on by an "I".

Secondly, it was the commentary which was important, the introduction of a first person would have inevitably been distracting; this absence of the "I" was, I feel, quite an achievement, try it, sometime, it is difficult to sustain. Fawkes with his blethering about his girls and his share portfolio has never been able to sustain the anonymous, authorial voice and his eagerness to appear on the shit-tube has entirely blown his anonymity. No fucking business is, as we used to say in stanislavia, like showfuckingbusiness.

call me ishmael said...

That, mr dtp, is what Willie Nelson does - melancholy, lachrymose, that eerie voice and those mad key changes, running up and down that shitty old guitar; he is a force of nature. Did you know that he wrote "Crazy" ( crazy for feeling so lonely, crazy for feeling si blue) for Patsy Cline, about a hundred years ago?