The greatest living human being, surrounded by glittering riff-raff.
All it needs is Blair, Clinton, Geldof and O'Bono and old Nelson could drown in the celebrityshit he so enjoys.
Serious people working in the UK Prison Service used to say that 12 to 14 years was the basket case point, somebody serving that long would, on release, be unable to live in their own skin; I knew some twenty year men, one twenty-five year, cast iron nutter and I agree. The idea that a nation should appoint as president Nelson Mandela who had spent twenty-seven years in an island prison, seemed at the time preposterous, juvenile, a foolish triumph of sentimental symbolism over practicality. And aside from having his photo taken with every snap-happy nonentity in the world, Nelson's post release career has been as dismal as one might expect.
If there are heroes of the Irish Republican movement, they are the likes of Bobby Sands, not Marty Kneecaps and if there are heroes from the Apartheid days they are people like Steve Biko, not this canny, smiling survivor in a Paisley shirt. Good, like his Mrs, Winnie, for fuck all, if you ask me, Mandela; South Africa is still a shantytown shithole, the wider continent a colony of limb-chopping despots, the wretched Mugabe unchallenged by colleagues like Mandela or his bent successors. No question that Apartheid was an abomination, just a shame that its replacement seems little more than a photoshoot for gobby, Beckhamite celebrity; revolting, really, Mandela hapy to stooge for rich white boys and girls, revolting that his apparently innumerable birthdays are the occasion for filth like Taylor to get his leg across the likes of the slag, Campbell. But worst of all, in this celebrity extravaganza, is that the world's Court of Last Resort, the place wherin Atrocity cries out for Justice, is kept waiting, contemptuosly, by a worthless, airhead bimbo, cheered on by her paymasters in skymadeupnewsandfilth, here is Ruin, sluttishness pissing in the orphans' faces.