Monday, 2 August 2010



If evidence was required of the over-confidence, the braggadocio of short people, it is copiously littered around the mini-person  of Mr Tiny Speaker.  Shamelessly self-publicising since his election by the Westminster vermin as their moderator and mentor, Tiny John Bercow  stole a march on the Coalition's Deputy PM, Nicky Gimp,  by actually standing for election as a Great Reformer and not becoming one by turncoat default; whereas Cleggie has trimmed and tacked and sought to mask his shabby betrayals in nobility and  great purpose, the Shrunken One  has promised us all along that  - even if he needed to stand on something - he would be in our faces  at every opportunity, reforming. Reform, it's the New, New Rock'n'Roll; although, in the finest tradition of the Establishment, reform stops short of actually changing anything and the biggest criminals - the cops, the accountants, the medics, the noncing monsignors and the filth in Westminster - remain convinced of their incontrovertible right, their unique suitability to investigate and police themselves, even occasionally striking one another off but seldom subject to normal jurisprudence, Bercow, smugly, self-evidently part of the rottenness problem, casts himself as the newbroom solution, hithering and thithering, gobbing away, motormouthing at any camera within range.

The last Speaker of the House of Commons,

Mr Michael Martin, made such a dog's  bollocks of things - disastrous even by the dismal standards of stupefyingly incompetent parliamentary gabshites - that, exceptionally, he was forced to resign, albeit to the House of Lords and to a luxuriant, definitely inaustere pension.

Martin was the sort of pig which only Glasgow, among all our urban swineries, can produce - bitter, stupid, truculent, greedy, sticky-fingered, with a fathomless sense of grievance. Somebody less of a cunt than Martin would have inspired public sympathy, what  with his cack-handed incompetences, his stuttering, often blubbering, hoodlum imprecations,  his half-wit calls  to order; were it only his backwardness which irked, that would be one thing but his shameless bias towards his own party, particularly towards unelected premier, Snot,  and the sense of whining entitlement with which he and the Mrs raided the petty cash became another, too much, even, for the vermin to tolerate and when it emerged that not only had he allowed the Filth to trespass among the offices which dare not speak their name but had also tried to shift the blame to some equally useless, poisonous  but junior bint then the amour propre in the snake pit was affronted beyond endurance and dishonourables and right dishonourables were queuing-up to kick Gorbals Mick in his shrivelled nuts; mealy-mouthed, lickspittle, two-faced cowardice on all sides, if that spectacle did nothing else, it at least diverted attention from themselves momentarily, as though the fat old duffer, gurning there,  on the throne, was responsible, actually, for all their own graft,  their fixings and fiddlings and flippings. Here, in this dodgy old lousebag, was the supreme villain; here, doing his masters' bidding, too stupid to breathe, was the true  cause of all this troughing;  let us only be rid of him and all will be well again. But no criminal charges or  jail, fuck me, no; where would that end, they might wind-up throwing all our arses in the Scrubs; and how would that help Democracy?

Along with Tony and Imelda receiving a gallantry bauble from the despicable, wife-beating, coke-snorting, dipsomaniac, draft-dodging, thieving, Anabaptist, fuckpig moron, George Dubya, may Satan's Angels thrust fiery brands up his arse until the end of time,
the beasting of Mick Martin, jumped-up union bruiser, by better educated but equally venal colleagues is one of those images - thieves turning on each other - which, far more vividly  than the clunking, laboured efforts of queening Simon Schama or of  the dullard, Know-It-All, Victor Bogdanov  illustrates the rankness of the NewLabour Project.

You don't need telly historians or  puffed-up Oxbridge wankers to help you read the runes;  so rotten was the NewLabour Party that it balked not even at installing a bent Speaker, was unembarrassed by his dismissal, the first since, well, whenever, Google Knows, several centuries. Tiny Wee John Bercow, his head near as big as his pigmy frame, had  the same quality. therefore,  which squeaked Obama into the White House - he wasn't the previous motherfucker.

Except for the uncomfortable fact that the Wee Fella was a house flipper

Bercow was as different  as it was possible to be from Martin; he ran a public campaign to be Speaker  and wasn't elected by the knowing whispers and secret handshakes which hitherto had governed these things but the public, who pay his lavish stipend, of course, had no say in the matter of who adjudicates the reptile house, that would be a reform too farsuch lofty decisions being a matter for the grubby preferences  of the conscienceless, thieves, fraudsters, organised criminals, choosing their own Capo, commanding, how do they put it, the full confidence of the House, Jesus fucking wept. A Thoroughly Modern Would-be Speaker, ShortArse published a manifesto and made speeches. And he was a Tory bastard, although loved more by LabourToryBastards than by his own spiv species and happy to be Gordon Snot's Man In The Throne as the  mad bastard growled on, remorselessly, fuelled by mania, guilt,  bombast, assailed by a Cabinet of blackmailers, pimps  and worthless, cowardly slags - .....As we, on these benches, Mr Tiny Speaker, having saved the world, implement the very necessary reforms to our system which the party opposite  should support, instead of always calling me a mad, snot-eating lunatic when, in fact, Mr Tiny Speaker, I am the right thing for the country.

Effortlessly  outshining the terminally tarnished Martin, Bercow ruthlessly  advanced  the parliamentary imperative, which was pretending that despite all the evidence of our eyes and ears,  it was one or two bad apples, really, this expenses thing, this second and third job thing, that was all,  one or two bad apples, everything was in hand, everything was  sorted, let's get back to the important business of engaging, diverting the nation with our four-yearly ferstival of competitive promises and musical chairs. And he has been brilliant. Where Young Socialist, Jack Torture, as Lord Chancellor, preened, visibly delighted with himself,  in black stockings and buckled shoes, in gown and wig and sash, all frillies and purses and train-bearers, Wee John, as Speaker, has knocked all that on the head and just wears an undergrad gown over his TinySuit. Where previous Speakers have been reluctant to  cut short members' drivellings, the Wee Fella just stops them dead and insists on short questions and short answers.  Under the Gang of Four, government policy announcements were as often as not made to Richard and Judy, TeeVee's First Couple of Shoplifting, rather than to the nation's parliament, Bercow has reinvigorated the practice of the Urgent Question, via which members' can demand  a personal  explanation from  ministers so offending.  But that's about it.

In his recent  speech to the grandly titled Centre for Parliamentary Studies, televised currently on the BBC Parliament Channel, Bercow modestly related his formidable Speakering achievements and personal qualities. Listing five areas of concern - members' expenses, members' overlong holidays, members' disgraceful moonlighting, members' absence from the Chamber and the unseemly, noisesome conduct of Prime Minister's Questions, Tich pronounced himself satisfied with the remedial action taken on the first four;  the public, he grinned, ordinary people, out there in ordinaryland, were now much happier, confidence in he and his rotten, thieving bastard chums, colleagues, was flooding back into public discourse, and especially so, now that we had a Coalition.  His remaining concern though and the burden of his First Out Of The Stocks Mixed Metaphors Speech - read, quaintly, word for cheesy word, split infinitives and malapropisms abounding, from a text clutched to his miniscule bosom, no autocue, no extemporisation - was the need to Reform PMQs, their length, their frequency and who actually gets to ask them, which colleagues; without a review of these important issues we were all fucked, so to speak, and him particularly.  It's the shouting and the partisanship and the heckling, the public dowanna see that; and the planted questions and the arselicking, no, it's not good TeeVee. And that's what the people need if they are to participate in the New Democracy.

During his twenty minutes or so peroration the wee man delighted his audience with uncannilly accurate impersonations of the dunderhead Martin and the truth-free zone, Blair and having warmly congratulated himself in advance of the applause, sat down, beaming.  Questions, said the effusive chairman-anorak, would be taken in clusters of three, thay'd cover more ground that way but either Mr Tiny Speaker had anticipated all questions and  answered them, without them being asked or the crowd, mostly timid-looking nerds and minor officials, didn't give a fuck about the Bercowisation of PMQs, for only a handful of questions came in lonesome ones, rather than eager threes; desperate for audience participation, Bercow invited all to ask him anything they wanted to, he worked for them, after all, or so he said. Part Redcoat, part bingo-caller,  Bercow is too stupid to realise that in his rush to make Speakering into  Showbiz he trashes what little mystique and respect remained in his Office, after the depradations of Gorbals Mick; revealingly, too, he submitted that if colleagues were given a payrise we in Ordinaryland might expect them to then concentrate full-time on the job for which they have prostrated themselves; a cheap trick, a gobby, cliche-bound, money-grubbing little prick, Bercow  is truly representative of  colleagues, as he insist on calling Ruin's C|ollective.

A wee while back the dreadful, tiresome, Murdoch bumboy,

Portillo, asked of Mrs Speaker if she thought her invitation to the sewer of This Week was due to her own talents or to her husband's postition; well, of course, it helps,

she blustered, to get me on, but if I'm no good, you won't have me back.

Of course we'll have you back,  smirked the BBC's Mr Politics, Andrew Neil, louche

and fetchingly tieless at midnight, the prick. And he will. Mr and Mrs Tiny Speaker, two fuckwits in search of bread and  glory, emblematic of the New Politics.

All the sins washed away in the tide of coalition, CallHimDave on the fiddle but paid it back the very instant he was found out, the Speaker on the fiddle, the prime minister on the fiddle, the shadow cabinet moonlighting, the cabinet flipping singly and en famille, over-claiming, wrongly claiming, cabinet ministers flogging their contacts while still in office; brilliant lawmakers, senior law officers, in fact,  incapable of double entry book-keeping, estranged from the diffference between right and wrong, it's wrong when someone from ordinarywhere does it but an understandable mistake when a parliamentary slag does it, a handful of outsiders scapegoated but the overwhelming majority untouched as though Colonel von Fawkes and the Filth-O-Graph   has been assiduously publishing racing tips, instead of evidence which damned executive; legislature and the upper house for a bunch of cheap cocksuckers. And now, now  this gobby wee midget telling us all is well, now, sorted;  where you and I would have been jailed and castigated by Murdoch's skymadeupnewsandfilth, six hundred serial wrongdoers retire to pastures green or worse than that, foist themselves on us in rancid tandem, determined that we shall be punished for daring to question them.

If you get the chance, take a peek at Mr Tiny Speaker, sashaying down Ruin's High Road, pleased as punch, garlanded with self-esteem and the thanks of his partners in crime.



PT Barnum said...

While relishing the description of 'truth-free zone' for Blair, and Martin being called a dodgy old lousebag (although you'd have to be a pretty desperate louse to attach yourself to that carcass), I'm not sure one can locate Titch's monumental egoism as stemming from Short Man Syndrome. He is of that type where he will believe his height is normative and everyone else is too darn tall for their own health.

I find myself more and more hearing Flanders and Swann playing in my mind, singing The Third Law of Thermodynamics. 'Entropy, man, entropy.' There seems to be some process of reverse evolution underway, where people get crueller and stupider and more driven by their base appetites. I'm glad I won't be around to see the endgame where humankind crawls back into the ooze.

call me ishmael said...

Been overwhelemed, mr ptb, the past while, by house guests, selfishly communicating in clumsy speech and gesture,expecting instant responses, it has been awfully trying and I haven't been able to get into my right mind; I was grateful, therefore, to the Wee Fella when I watched him, up, alone, last night, for providing a point of focus in all the chaos.

You are right in that he is not the stereotypical small man with a chip on his shoulder, he is urbane and skilled but that facility is underpinned by a quick defensive humour, often the mechanism of choice among those likely to be bullied for their Otherness. I just found myself having some fun with the Short Man Syndrome and having been swamped recently by humanity of all sizes let it run.

Whichever motors drive Bercow, they deliver him unequivocally to the place of your penultimate sentence.

In the same wee small hours session I watched the Treasury Select Committee and I fear the crawl back into the ooze may be closer than we think.

PT Barnum said...

Better a guest than a host, I think. At least one can always leave.

He is a piece of work, Bercow, and an ideal vehicle for a healthy dose of misanthropy. He's a hollow man, like Cameron, like Clegg, like Blair. Brown contained something, albeit a maelstrom of fear, hatred and son-of-the-manse-itis. But the others are ciphers, vacuous entities who suck the light out of the world. Perhaps this type is the next stage of evolution and we are the atavistic remnants of a dead branch of the tree.

mongoose said...

The pair of them deserve each other. Horrible, horrible fuckers. He a dwarf and she a gurning non-entity. The ropes are singing in the breeze for they both.

call me ishmael said...

I thought you'd appreciate the illustrations, mr m.

Dick the Prick said...

It is quite depressing, all in all. That we, whoever the fuck we are supposed to be, have fuck all say in pointing out that perhaps a crime has been committed and should, perhaps, for the sake of argument, be investigated using, what do they call them again? Oh, yes, laws of the fucking land.

This self policing crap can, in some cases, be justified in certain technical areas; the argument to perhaps limit trial by jury in complex fraud cases, was, for me, not the thin edge of the wedge but a semi-pragmatic response which mau have merit; yet no, as mentioned in this Parish's notice, it's first use was to nail some hoods for a Heathrow robbery because of potential witness intimidation.

Your mention of the fact that this guy seems better because he ain't the last mudda fucker is perhaps the nail in the coffin, the straw upon the camels back, the cherry on the fucking cake; that standards are now irrelevant and it's prizes for everyone. Ah, fuck it.

call me ishmael said...

Not the last bastard, mr dtp. It is the only and bogus justification for the Coalition's approval among skymadeupnewsandfilth - it's existence and purpose are, like Mr Snot's premiership, not the result of an election but of a coup. That they should be permitted to dismantle the welfare state and trash all the gains of working people over sixty years, merely because CallHimDave and the Gimp are not Gordon Brown is monstrous. Whaddawewant? General Strike. Whendowewannit? Now.

Anonymous said...

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call me ishmael said...

Sorry, mr anonymous, I don't understand any of that stuff, links and so on; a mystery to me. Just do writing. And reading. Call and response, y'know, like the Blues. Only not so good.