The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
The politicians of all parties, diplomats, spooks, bureaucrats, brass, alumni of the best schools, graduates of the best universities apparently did not have the wit to pick up a history book to find out Afghanistan is a hell of a place. Or bother to ask any Red Army veterans ' How did you fare in the `stan, comrade ' ? In the past decade these open mouthed dimwits have landed us two military defeats and a colossal recession and left everyone else to suffer the consequences. In the nineteenth century at least one British diplomat paid the price for his folly by having his severed head displayed in Kabul bazaar. Wonder how Hague`s would look in his baseball cap ?
Even Thatcher's spivs, electioneering over the Belgrano's sodden ghosts and the corpse-littered Goose Green, even they, shameless thugs and privateers, the obnoxious, greedybastard Tebbit and the spiteful, I-Know-Best Lawson and the hysterical big fruit-queen, Heseltine, even they seem dimly noble in comparison to Blair and his heirs, all happy, eager, to pay, with others' blood, Uncle Sam's death levy - If you love my idea of Freedom, send your children to maiming and death, with mine; I'll make it worth your while. In dollars.
At the time, one wondered could there possibly ever be, in public life, anyone as personally rotten and vile, rank and polluting, stinky-fartingly, throw-up sickening, shit-on-toast, wash-your-face-with-soiled-nappies revolting as Cecil, the Lord Pinstripe , Parkinson ? Och, aye. Step forward the massed, money-grubbing ranks of NewLabour. And now, lacking even Blair's - or any - democratic legitimacy, this shower of shapeshifting vermin, already, by birth, many of them, members of mr yardarm's elite noire, cement us further in Ruin.
Hague's cackhanded, hobgoblin, baseballcap, BigBoyFag posturing and blabbermouthing, afterdinnerspeeching foreign policy and allaround boyinamansjob embarrassing ineptitude characterise the coalition's opportunistic oafishness, the nation roughly buggered anew merely to ease the vanity of a tired, whining, old lickspittle hypocrite like Vince Cable, the foxtrotting Nitwit and a preening, louche gabshite like Huhne and his bi-Doxy, them constantly hectoring us that their slavish, fellating devotion to Money and Power is actually political courage of a high order, for which we should, for fucks sake, be grateful, grateful that spunkfaced freak, Osborne, never done a days work in his worthless, pampered, inbred life, the revolting, little cocksucker in his grown-up suit and cufflinks, now vents his poisonous, lifelong spleen on those who have done little else, now chastises and punishes those who do not frequent gangsters' yachts but merely toil and die comfortless; a pox on he and his worthless, jumped-up, thieving bastard family.
And Herself, CallHimDave, him with the kids and the rich bint, and the oddly android face, the most naturally gifted prime minister ever, as Peter Fuckwit Oborne, searing political commentator, calls him, just look at him, hostage to overpromoted nincompoops, about as adroit as a one-armed juggler, staggering from one embarrassment to another, in his best prime minister's voice, Now, Look-ing at us, Now, Listen-ing at us; I Didn't Mean That-ing, What-I-Meant-Was-This-ing at us, as though we were his Eton fags, just needing a good talking-to, for us to be decent chaps. Cheap cunt, good for fuck all.
And stupid, too, Cameron, no matter how loudly his scholarship is brayed by purple-faced inbreds and toadies. Couldn't win an election against Gordon Snot, the man who burnt all the money. CalHimDave, a lameduck from the word Go. The most naturally gifted lameduck political failure in modern times, forced to couple with the screeching whores from the sandal-wearing, transgender co-operative fringe. How the world must laugh at us, staggering from one unelected dictatorship to another, in the Mother of Thieving Parliaments.
But it's Linda Norgrove's shattered corpse, the noo, which stinks the highest. Even silly airheads like her, driven by who-knows-what to Goodworks Among the Heathen, even she, epecially she, God bless her, is entitled to better representation than she received from the inept, blustering closet fag, Hague, too busy serving America to serve our own citizen, abroad. Some say that US so-called Special Forces just wanted to kill Taliban, to show them that it didn't matter that they held hostages, they were gonna get their asses kicked, whatever, that UncleSam's crewcut psychobastard MommasBoys were quite happy to waste young Linda. I don't know anout that. But I did hear some gobby US marine on the Front Row show saying how he just had to go to EyeRack to avenge Nine-Eleven, not very strong on geography, or anything, really, Uncle Sam's finest, so, I wouldn't be surprised at anything that happened at the time of Linda's death, only, of course, at the truth coming-out in the enquiry, as much chance of that as there is of the boy-in-a-man's-job, William, coming out, the silly cow, who does he think he's fooling?
The Norgrove Fiasco, in which a British citizen need not have died were it not for Uncle Sam, is emblematic of these times when coffins at Wootton Wotsis are only a tiny, visible element of Ruin's darker side, many more young return to these increasingly heartless shores without their legs, their sight, without their lives, to all intents and purposes. though breathing still, and hurting, their interest, their voices, hijacked by the boastful creepy-crawlies of the British Legion, those who live to march up and down, in berets and blazers, to fawn over the wretched Blair and his ill-gotten blood money, the acceptable face of We Know Our Place, Ours Not To Reason Why, bleating to attention, as much use as a fart in a colander.
They return, the limbless, to a land governed by heartless freaks, united in cruel incompetence to punish a nation which briefly chastised them for their sticky-fingeredness. Lance Bombardier Jones makes his legless way through a country in which not only he and his comrades' lives are wasted and wounded but those, also, of his kin, for whom, he was duplicitously told and is still told, he was fighting. He was fighting, actually, for WarCorp, for Haliburton and for Tony and Imelda Blair. His kin, old and vulnerable, are to lose their little bit of winter warm, their social worker, the girl from the library who used to bring them books. His kin, younger, are told their jobs are worthless, they are worthless, told to get on their StarkeyCycle, pedalling after jobs which aren't there and maybe, maybe, they will be thrown a scrap from Money's table. His kin, disabled, are to be interrogated by teams of willing, bonussed bullyboys and girls from Lazarus plc who will redetermine their disability and make it go away, just as if it was the truth.
mr yardarm asks how Mr Hague's head would look, atop the pole of his own worthlessness, it'll never happen, of course; they are all too closely bound, all parties to this Ruination are closer to one another than to us, to we, who pay and pamper and pension them. And the ghastly PoppyMonth looms, who will be the first to flaunt their phony, patriotic sympathy, some oik on the front bench, some former sergeant down the Legion, marching about, bristling and self-important. Limbs is what we should wear, little arms and legs, pinned nobly to our lapels, and complete torsos, of course, maybe with their guts hanging out, that's the stuff to give the troops.
Maybe if the legion and all the other military "charities" would speak out against these dreadful miltary misadventures in which no national purpose is served, maybe then a wider spirit of disobedience to these fuckpigs might emerge. Waving the flag is something which both Brown and Cameron, well, all of those cowardly, shit-eating hypocrites can do to such paralysing effect, so much so that the nation, most of it, is currently acquiescent in its dismemberment. In the meantime, to the massed bands playing The Ruiners' Waltz, by the Right and into chill penury, quick march!