I was down at the hospital, today, not in St James's Infirmary, getting the death stare, joining in the fun, just a three-monthly eye check, see if any more of that crackling, smokey laser surgery is required. There was an old boy in front of me. Well, seventies, with one white stick and one brown. He was lively, fully compus mentus and a wee bit reluctant to be led by the hand into the consulting room, No, I can manage; he could, but at the cost of a banged shin and a near-tumble. This is what we are like, all of us, No, I can manage, I don't need any help.
He was accompanied by a worker from his care home, she in her fifties, earning a pittance, maybe contributing to a four grand a year pension; she will have been through Disclosure Scotland and will have received training in Lifting and Handling and First Aid, Food Hygiene, Dealing with Challenging Behaviour, Medication Training, Infection Control and fuck knows what else, probably hugely more skilled, more valuable than a subsidised barfull of guffawing, sanctimonious, whoring MPs. They, the blind man and his carer, were from off the mainland, come in on a ferry, in her own car; it was an allday gig, checking this man's eyes.
Back at the home people will cook his meals, do his laundry, administer his medicines, change his dressings if he has any, try to raise his spirits when they flag, read to him, maybe, adjudicate over telly and radio disputes, help him to the toilet, clean him when he soils himself, flirt with him, even, flirting with the old boys, it's part of the furniture, in geriatric care, lassooing the past for them, reviving, briefly, a time of teeth and morning tumescence. Ah, those were the days, If I was fifty years younger, lassie, such a time we'd have. I didnae always have yon catheter.
There will be OT and trips out, church services, visiting chaplains, nurses and doctors, nutritionists and physiotherapists, cooks and cleaners, clerks and drivers - all the parasite scum, in short, of the public sector, who, dazzled by the usurers' horseshit, we fervently believe we can no longer afford, why should money be wasted, tending these feckless old folk who didn't save for their old age. As if more than a privileged few, reaping the Rewards of Obedience, can "save" sufficient, when wages are set at little above survival levels and in many cases below, when BoomanBust come around with monotonous, unemployment-is-a-price-worth-paying, blood-curdling regularity, merely in order to keep the majority in line, the celebrated Masters of The Universe stealing far more than they could ever need as decent, working people fight and die in eternal, successive Battles of Britain - is this, Cleggy's bollocksaganza, the latest such; is this hammy, immature, corruptible, pipsqueak buffoon, the new Winston? - as if we are become as a nation of supplicants in the Dragons' Den, emceed not by the odious, twittering man-scamp, Evans but by the poxed-up, bitching, gangsters' moll, Osborne, an entire nation mesmerised by facetious deficit reduction fetishism, the same journalists, idle, expansive wankers who lionised Gordon Snot, now demanding our heads, our jobs, our pensions, in return for a bit of access to to the current crew of shameless charlatans, feeling its way around Power's new Ouija Board, Cunts, all of them. Begging for this or that crumb from Filth's dining table, the nation, seemingly to a man, appears convinced that the so-called cuts - the theft of their rights and entitlements by smarmy thugs, generations-steeped in villainy - will fall only on their particular, personal betes noir, and not on them, or their parents or children, fuck no, or themselves, Fucking morons.
Stalin or Mao or Winston would've had a way with these fucking so-called financiers, these jumped-up shopkeepers and perfume salesmen, Lord fucking Adair Turner, Ruin's own gobby Officer of the Watch, Mervyn King, his sleeping pilot, who gives a flying fuck what these people say about anything, they don't know any truth which corresponds to mine, just spin and lies and the sophistry of shared degeneracy and entitlement; these inbred, interconnected families of greed and corruption and their insistence that our money, our country, our hard-won, imperfect civilisation is actually their own personal wealth, on loan to us by dint of their fucking kindness, and now they want it back.
Forget socialism, Obama is Wall Street's willing lackey, happy to beggar blue collar America, in obeisance to his masters, in the hope of another four-year stint of cankered glory, a fool, a knave, a clown; but we knew that from the get-go, when he and his dreadful, interminable, sing-song didacticism stepped up to the plate, as they say, over there, in the Madlands, in the home of Yes, we can't.
They must all come from some subterranean Mould of Emptiness, all humanity siphoned-out, Obama, CallHimDave, Sarkozy, the dwarf pimp; An-Gula Merkel, the sourfaced, betrousered kraut hausfrau - why do so many of these powerharridans wear only trousers, don't they know what makes the world go round, don't they understand vive la difference, if they don't understand that, they understand fuck all - only the bandit Berlusconi evinces any human traits, and his are all the wrong ones. Wrapping us all up in a blanket of Euro- or US- totalitairianisme, consumeriste; nicely in debt, nicely obedient, made docile by a thousand cuts, all in this together, that's their game. A pan-global form of advanced national socialism, light on the socialism, heavy on the fascism, liberal democrat fascism, of course, all who want them shall have gender-reversal operations, Jesus fucking wept. Anyone even looking askance at a revolting ladyman is an enemy of the state. It's what they came into politics to do, fuck-up everything, absolutely everything. For the grandchildren.
The old man, at the beginning, didn't fight in the 1940 Battle of Britain - the one which the current unelected prime minister attributes to the Americans, the arsehole - but he would've done, I'm sure, if born twenty years earlier and called to. From the gist of his conversation he worked all his life. Proper work, from the look and the sound of him. ( I remember once hearing Richard Ingrams, back when he was in his right mind, saying how he recoiled when some fellow panellist on a radio show said to him How Much he'd enjoyed Working with him. Working? said Ingrams, Working? Now, here in the future, we have legions of undead, walking sphincters, flitting from studio to studio, working, my dear, so hard. You people, in the shops and on the building sites, you don't know the meaning of real work. And over now to Janet Teeth Porter, and this week Janet is joined by Yasmin Alibhai Muslem and David Aaronobitch and his impossibly miniscule beard) I don't know if his carers encourage his involvement in, his awareness of these toxic current affairs and I hope, counter-intuitively for the friend of an anarcho-plumber, that his news diet is heavily censored; blind, weak and frail, travelling, I guess, on Death's omnibus, sitting in his ante-room, the knowledge that, to the unelected poltroons, gangster and hypocrites in the house of commons, his life was problematic to the national profit and loss account, might be more than he could bear.
If we had a government worth a badger's turd or indeed any government - and not just a branch office of Bilderbergs - it would say, well, maybe you can have your money,some of it, a bit of it, in due course, but not at the expense of everybody else's comfort, health and livelihoods, not by decrying vital, hard-working, underpaid careworkers, easing life-and-death's miseries for increasing millions of our fellow citizens; not by some repulsive, whey-faced, pampered Oxbridge cocksucker rebuking the genuinely workless for their lifestyle-choices, life's fucking hard enough without you greedy cunts making it worse and if you don't like that, how about we shoot a few of you, you know how that goes, Up against the wall motherfuckers, Do you want a blindfold or do you wanna look Greed's desserts in the eye ?