The ruinous ragbag which has constituted NewLabour this past fifteen years includes some of the stupidest, most incompetent and all round useless people in the country. The War and Torture portfolio, just or instance, has been held by a spectacularly inept trio - Geoff Hoon, a man whose very name is now synonymous with acrid, self-interested, indefensible cack-handedness, a man whose recent, televised Hoon-For-Sale episode, shared with the equally venal Patsy Leatherface and Stephen Dopey Byers, was a new stain in the toiletbowl of political misconduct, Well, I expect five grand a day for selling you my contacts and getting the law changed for you; Des Browne was an over-promoted Jock lawyer, another one, probably incapable of conveyancing a one-acre croft without fucking it up, and could always be relied upon to stand-up and lie his arse off about Iraq or Afghanistan, or anything; Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, a thick-skinned and thick headed former union thug was less the oily blagger than the other two, more the bruiser but ultimately the most disgraceful in his shameful penny-pinching, hair-splitting, tight-fistedness in the matter of compensating Tommy, roasted and maimed in far Afghanistan - see stanislav, dulce et decorum est pro patria incendere - shop steward, well out of his depth, working for the masters of war.
The Guardian-stipended Momma's Boy and blabbermouth, Lord Hatterjee of Small Heath is fond of remarking that comparisons are insidious, the fucking pretentious, spit-spraying conceited ignoramus, also that he didn't care for the sight of young boxing gentlemen beating each other insensitive, I think that perhaps bachelor Roy enjoyed it rather too much but his solecisms, malapropisms and saliva drenched Freudian slips are, forgive me, a watermark of the preening, over-rated Labour grandee; once made Privvy Councillor they seem to think that their intellect grows by leaps and bounds, despite their remaining stupid, arse-licking nobodies - check Blair's English, y'know, spoken or written and wonder at the value of an Oxbridge degree - despite their daily actions confounding reason, defying good practice and ruining that over which they minister.
The most brilliant Trade Seckatry ever, Mandelstein, was so brilliant he couldn't understand his mortgage application form, didn't even understand the principle of a mortgage at all, yet astounded all his civil servants with his mastery of complex detail. The cock-waving buffoon, Deputy Prime Minister Prescott, was and remains a man too stupid to learn how to speak, his speeches the laughing stock of the English-speaking world. Blind Boy Blunkett, stupid and bullying, estranged from Truth and Decency, clumsy far beyond his blindness, whining and infantile. Frau Schmidt, even had she been unblighted by her revolting husband, Timney, was the most maladroit Home Seckatry in history. The list is endless and should not need repeating here. But one of them, time after time, has slipped through the net.
Wee Dougie, brother of Wendy Fishface Alexander, the cheap lying wretch who briefly led JockLabour until she became an embarrassment even to that shower, Wee Dougie is in a class of his own.
Wee Dougie, like lots of them, went off to the States to learn politics, returned to Britain, took a meaningless law qualification, a safe Labour seat and joined Gordon Snot's cabal of yesmen fellators. An irritating, gobby little prick, Alexander is never short of the phrase which conveys how very much we misunderstand, understimate our masters, if only we were as clever as he then we would never have got into this awful financial mess, a regular on those shitty Dimbleby programmes which masquerade cuntishly as Democracy on the Airwaves, Dougie probably sits up at night, rehearsing his dwarf statesmanship in front of the mirror.
Along with the greedy, hypocritical toerag, the windbagging Welsh arsehole, the grinning smug ginger fuckpig, the spectacularly incompetent election-losing embarrassment, Kinnock, Alexander, then Scottish Secatry tried to fix the last Holyrood election so that Labour won, he made a complete bollocks of it, postal votes were not sent out in time, the papers themselves were nothing like as he had trailed them to be and electors were confused by a whole raft of matters being ambigous or just plain wrong. The result, of course, was that Fat Alec Salmond snatched a victory -- decent people would have sought a new election, but there are no decent people in Holyrood and a full and far reaching cover up found that, Yes, it was all shit, but no-one was to blame, not really.
After this triumph, Dougie the Fixer masterminded the catstrophic Yes-He-Will, No-He-Fucking-Won't, snap election strategy of his master, Snotty, when that revolting man finally bullied his way into Number Ten, (allowing Blair to get off, virtually Scot-free, blameless for the current chaos). Gordon was going to call an election, having personally foiled the flaming ayrabs at Glasgow Airport and sorted the foot and mouth outbreak and all the other stuff he took credit for. And then he wasn't, he was gonna stick it out, the rotten cowardly bastard, and have Dougie mastermind the UK general election. The one they just lost in historic fashion. The one for which Snotty shoulders full responsibility - ie no blame, no censure, no loss of pension rights.
But even so, Dougie's history did not deter the fantastically prescient, adroit, capable, gracious and intelligent fuckwit David Banana; David had Dougie run his Labour leadership election campaign, the one he lost to his gormless brother, the Ed-thing. Doubtless they had ruled nothing in and ruled nothing out but we can be sure that Wee Dougie would have been anticipating sitting up there with the Big People, maybe as shadow Foreign Seckatry, had he not fucked Bananaman six ways to Christmas, left Mrs Bananaman in floods, simply floods of tears, silly cow and upset the gentry of the party, the thieving, lying, warmongering, degenerate, arsehole-munching parliamentary Labour Party, New, Old or completely, as they now are, fucked. And serve them right.
If they had any sense it would have been Burnham or at a push Balls, at least he can dish it out. Squabbling like an ancient witches' coven over these two vapid fucks, cheer-led by the likes of the unbelievably talentless Alexander - not even Machiavellian, just transparently thick as horsehit - the stringpullers and kingmakers, vile old tossers, reprobates like Barry Sheerman, nincompoops like Kinnock and necromancers like Straw, the detritus of NewLabour, the turds on the tideline, with the incomparable expertise of Douglas Alexander have just given CallHimDave a most welcome, early Christmas present; that they have simultaneously fucked the rest of us, just once more for old times' sake, seems, if it means the disappearance of Dougie the Dwarf, a price almost worth paying.