AN APOLOGY

HOW COULD SOMEONE TWICE DISGRACED, 

PLAYTHING OF RUSSIAN GANGSTERS, 

AND DISHONEST AS THE DAY IS LONG 

WALTZ INTO THE POSITION OF DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER

AND  FIRST SECRETARY FOR EVERYTHING?

Ever since we have been blogging, commenting or writing to the newspapers, my young friend, stanislav and I, have chosen to refer to the former Labour Party as the Blair-Brown-Campbell-Mandelstein Project and we have characterised it's central, abiding  theme as being the power of potential mutual blackmail among that eponymous Quartet of the Damned. Why doesn't Blair sack Brown, why is Mandelstein unsackable, why does a press secretary call the shots;  is it the case that they hang together or are hung separately, what do they all have on each other?

Often we have lamented that the governing of Britain, as well as being largely in the hands and at the whim of shadowy, international gangsters, or financiers as they term themselves, Ambassadors of Greed, and  was rendered more than  customarily incompetent   by the criminality of its central characters. They were hamstrung, suspended in mid-air not only by their amorality, their moral bankruptcy, their dubious, elastic sexuality, their greed and mendacity but  ultimately, in practical terms,  by the unlikelihood that those both driven and constrained by unfulfillable personal vendetta would or could  ever  make objective, nationally beneficial judgements on domestic or foreign policy or on public administration, that they were, in other words, a bunch of cunts.

 Estranged from Truth and Decency, the longer they were in office the grosser became their 
manouevreings; paradoxically, the more distant they personally became  from the rule of Law,  the more furiously they heaped the potential for criminality - a guilty conscience - upon the populace; burning all the money in the Downing Street cellars, forcing rights and liberties and conventions through the shredders, upstairs;  seemed like every time you turned around there was a new law you might be breaking.

Surveillance, molestation by law enforcement, illegal detention, the brutalisation of jurisprudence in HMP Britain and the encouragement of neighbours narking  each upon the other, Stasi-style,  generated in government an  opposite polarity, opposite to the restrictive, looking-over-the-shoulder, paranoid  climate inflicted upon the citizen; theirs was an unchallengeable  lawlessness  which was demonstrated in so many ways  but unequivocally in the shocking and horrifying implementation of  the infamous, inhuman and fatal  sanctions against Iraqi children and the eventual Shock and Awe bombardment and invasion of their country.

Whilst we were at home harangued,  photographed, scolded, barracked, detained, beaten, ejected, confined, batoned, tasered and  shot dead by a constabulary headed by gobby political apparatchiks;  whilst we were at home more legislated against than ever before, our own Gang of Four was engaged, abroad, in crimes against humanity; international law wilfully misinterpreted,  the cassus bellus summonsed from thin air, contemptuously cyber-plagiarised,  fabricated - with a dark aptness -  by a drunken, bisexual  pornographer,  the whole, rotten episode  made glorious by Colonel Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap and eventually vindicated by mealy-mouthed commissions and enquiries, staffed by hand-picked,   lousy, wigged and ermined lickspittles, masters of the full and far-reaching cover-up,  the Wretched of the Oxbridge civil service, pinstripe, weasel popinjays,  whose gilded  careers were  case studies  of Vice made Noble.

David Kelly post mortem to be kept secret for 70 years as doctors accuse Lord Hutton of concealing vital information

All was news-managed from Downing Street, the worthless shit, Brown, bullying and intriguing, Son of the fucking Manse, heedless of warcrime, stewing rancidly in his monstrous  ambition as wog children fried, the horrible fucking bastard; Tony and Imelda, lining-up bribes and freebies, Mandelstein in the background, advising the QueerProject even though notionally Europeanised, apolitical and the drunken bully, Campbell, dominating policy and press, the biggest, most noxious, in the Street of a Thousand Arseholes. 

But instead of there being four Wicked Helmsmen  piloting our poor vessel towards Ruin's shores, we learn, now, from Peter, the Lord Crabs, that there were but three - he, Gordon Snot and the courageous Tony Blair. Whither, in gay Mandelsonia, is my fourth QueerProjecteer  -  house bully, blackguard, Truthshifter and Scenestealer, Mr Alistair Campbell, amiable football fan, loving partner,  father and  brutish, closet homosexual?

An early mentor of NewLabour was, ominously, Mr Rupert Murdoch, proprietor of skymadeupnewsandfilth and a press baron vile beyond caricature, although generous in that he allows many of his employees to moonlight as MPs,  the apologetic, motormouthing Mr Spit-Gove being one of Rupe's boys, throughout his period, soon, praise God, to be reprised, in opposition. Any government alarmed  by the cheapening  of the national discourse, the sexualisation of infants, the bombardment of readers with lust and greed and stupidity and the wholly unwarranted, cruelly destructive intrusion into the lives of ordinary human beings would tell Rupert and his stable of rancid Nazi hacks, Kelvin McCunt and the rest, to go and fuck themeselves, tell Murdoch to  fuck off back to Australia, where crudity such as his is worshipped, where they know no better, where ethnic cleansing is still on the agenda, where Sheilas are treated like shit, where the politicians imbibe stupidity with their mothers' milk. Our politicians being what they are, however, and Murdoch being what he is, there will be another level of blackmail at work, NewsCorp will have unused files bulging with MPs indiscretions and worse, much worse, insurance against anyone attempting to curb the filthy bastard's excess.

Fabulously advantaged inasmuch as no UK government has ever inconvenienced   him unduly with proper taxation, Rupert, as Death's sergeants finally surround him,  has  grown irritated that the content of his newspapers has hitherto been available freely - or for free, as we must now say - online. Lucky surfers could, if they chose, read the  winsome,  fairy burblings of Mr Matthew Dreary,  the fierce, political analysis of Mr Jeremy Clarkson or the reflections of the cowardly Mr Michael Portillo, off the telly,  and those same lucky surfers could add their illiterate, mysoginistic, racist, imbecile comments to a content already pisspoor, occasionally made even worse by the likes of David Beardy Aaronovitch amd the preposterous, pitiful Mr AA Gill.

But no more. Rupert has slammed-shut this treasure chest of fine writing and if people wish to  know what Matthew Parris claims he thinks, they must pay for the privilege.  One might suggest, uncharitably, that the readership of the Times may well decline to the numbers of those who receive the 'paper freely, with their stale, continental breakfasts in Travelodges up and down the land and to those who, from choice or penury, do not own a PC and foregather meekly in the local library to take turns with the broadsheets. Institutions, libraries and boardrooms may find the funds to keep abreast of the doings in Clarkson's mythical, brash, arriviste, petrol-drenched CotswoldiaN  stupor but in these times of very necessary frugality online reading of the Times is unlikely to be prioritised, not when there is so much proper pornography going begging.

Murdoch, anyway,  has  sought to levy a subscription from online readers and in an attempt to glamourise his product, to entice unwary readers into parting with their money in exchange for his  cruel, bigoted drivel,   he has acquired the serialisation rights to Lord Crabs'  latest bouillabaisse  of gossip, innuendo and lies, entitled, and herewith is the apology heralded, The Third Man.

For much of the NewLabour epoch, through personal disgrace,  Mandelstein was, like Mr Alistair Campbell,  unelected, so appointment, rather than election to office should not so nonpersonalise Mr Campbell, nor airbrush him from the sides of both Blair and Snotty, as Lord Crabs has managed, remarkably, to do. Mandelstein was, perforce,  a little more open about his homosexuality than Mr Campbell; where Mandy now publicly revels in his relationships with gay gangsters as well as with previously-owned Brazillians,  such as Reinaldo de los Tory rentboys,

Campbell maintains his fiction of happy domesticity with the  unbeguiling, woefully  hatchet-faced Ms Fiona Miller, formerly Imelda Blair's  paid best friend, by whom he has some children - none of whom, we surmise, he would willingly sacrifice to one of Mr Hoon's illegal fragmentation bombs, however great the 45-minutes-to-toast imperative.

Seeing Mr Campbell teasing and flirting recently with the oafish Adam Lard of skymadeupnewsandfilth, himself wed to former Blair servant, Anji Hunter, was hugely entertaining; heterosexuals, in my experience, seldom play the bitch and the coquette as convincingly as did Campbell, maybe it's just a skill he learned serving the  BitchBlair, a pretty, straight guy and the ButchBrown, happily wed and quite normally fathering children in his dotage, or maybe,  like so many in NewLabour, he swings both ways, any way, as the song goes, the wind blows. It may be that Campbell, in Mandy's memoir,  is seen, if at all, only through frosted glass because he is an oik, cffective at ramrodding the craven filth in the Lobby but plain vulgar,  whereas Lord Crabs, we should remember, confided to the nation, whilst stuffing the Millenium Dome with rubbish, that he was "born to govern," his grandfather virtually a post-war Labour aristocrat, Campbell's, if he knew him at all, probably worked down the pit. And drank pints.

One would think it a snobbery too far to expunge Mr Campbell from the record as Mandelstein has done but Peter is, by his own account,  the owner, the trademark holder of the QueerProject which begat NewLabour and he should know; his, as Rupert will insist, is the Inside Story of  Ruin and if he says there were but three gay conspirators - two with attendant  lavendar spouses - then three it was and all the imagery of Ali and Tony closeted together deciding our fates to the clunking accompaniment of a Prime Minister's Edition Fenders Stratocaster must be errant imaginings, les dossiers sexy et fabrique, we must have dreamed them, Mr Campbell's mateyness with John Shit-Scarlett of MI5, his castration of the BBC and the mysterious matter of the Lonesome Death of David Kelly,  these must be the doings of a lowly penpusher and not a member of the Ruinous Gang of Four, for as Lord Crabs tells us in his penny dreadful it was but a Ruinous Gang of Three. And it was his. Mea culpa, mea culpa.

THE THIRD MAN.