JOINED TOGETHER IN HOLY DEADLOCK
LOVE AND MARRIAGE, LOVE AND MARRIAGE,
IT'S AN INSTITUTE YOU CAN'T DISPARAGE.
She led him on to the stage as though she was his carer, one of those useless parasites whom we must discard or die; they, far more than the political establishment shitehawks, all doing a great job, they are the ones we must seek out and punish, they, the low-waged, it's all their fault - but she did, lead him by the snotty, nail-bitten, clunking, Claw of Doom hand, her aging hero; what he needs, of course is somebody to lead him by the throat to the gallows tree of public opinion but Sarah, game, feisty Sarah, was put in place to thwart such a deliverance. We must await reports on how she takes prime ministerial wifely retirement, rotting away in dire, smug, tut-tutting Kircaldy, alongside the most detested, mocked, reviled, most hated man in recent British history, doing charity work, whilst Imelda Blair collects mansions and millions and richbitch SamCam poses for the camers with her healthy baby.
Look, somebody halfway normal, and a woman, too, cares for Gordon Snot, they thought, maybe she'll teach him hankythings, Ah, bless, he's been too busy, you see, ruining everything, the horrible fucking bastard, hearing his father's dreadful, fucking sermonising, I-Know-Besting voice in his head, telling him how clever he is; nae wonder he was far too busy to wipe his nose on a hanky and not throw phones at young women or burn all the money and give the gold away. But now he's married and that'll make him a much better incompetent bullying fuckwit, nothing like a woman to bring out the best in a chap, Sarah-George will tell him that he's not really a stone mad, immature, snot-eating lunatic up to his neck in bribery, corruption, deceit and blackmail, fuck, no, it's all the others. He's not really insane, a delusional freak, madly lusting for power, convinced that only he can save the nation, the world even, from itself. He's not really smarting, still, over some imaginary betrayal by some fag imaginary friend, he's not really consumed, eaten from the inside out by his hatred of the empty-headed poltroon, Blair and his greedy doxy, Imelda, the one with her fat ankles squeezed into fashion boots and her mouth like Portsmouth. No, he's just a normal, cuddly, big man. A hero, really. It's what carers do, calm and sedate and nourish the self-esteem of their client. Not much good, though, dopey Sarah, at winning elections. Maybe she, too, now, is gobbling happy pills to ward off the evil truth that yes, after all, she did marry a nutter, and none of her supposed PR skills could alter that fact, not in the public's eyes, now not, alas, even in her own.
Maybe if he'd gone for a floozy, it might have been different; imagine Gordon Brown, the bloated, snot-eating, nail-bitten boy-man coming bowling out of Downing Street with a sexbomb on his arm, a pouting, lipsticked bimbo in spike heels, somebody like Sarkozy's Parisienne bicycle, wotsername, Carla, somebody whose appearance just announced, in neon capital letters, that she was only good for fucking and what more could you want than that; some showbizzy harlot, reeking of parfume erotique and not some wretchedly worthy, blue-stocking, Home Counties amazon, Hell-bent upon rearing this mad old bastard's damaged spawn, fathered - like most things about Snotty, unnaturally, late to the point of risk, one dead and one damaged and one ok, so far, but then great men like him - and he is great, great with a greatness so complex that few mortals can divine it - are not bound by the customs and practices, the survival mechanisms not only of other men but even of Mother Nature herself, in his grotesque attempts to belatedly fuck his way into perceived normality of the heterosexual kind. Yes, I'm just like any other normal, young parent - he never actually said it like that, he said parent of young children, which inferred the same thing, the same normalcy - and we just like to do family things together, look, I even have a sports jacket. It is the right thing to wear.
AND Y'KNOW,WHEN WE GET HOME
YOU MUST GO TO YOUR ROOM, SARAH,
IT IS SARAH, ISN'T IT?
I HAVE SOME WORK I SIMPLY MUST GET ON WITH.
I don't really care about this prime ministering stuff. Although, of course, I never use them for political gain, my children, just all the time, constantly, relentlesssly, without fail; ever since they have been born, I have been mentioning how even though I mention them all the time, the dead and the living ones - is it one of each, two of each, six of one and half-a-doen of the other? - I am really not mentioning them, not like other political leaders do, not that there are any other political leaders, not compared with me. Y'know, to link the premature death of a daughter into my support for the NHS is a rotten thing to do and if I did it, not that I would, unless, of course, I felt I had to, for the good of the country, then people could say that I was using my children, even the dead ones, for political gain. It's the sort of thing Mr Cameron would do, but not me. Did I tell you how much I love my two sons, John and wotsisname? Just as all you other young parents love your children. It is the right thing to do. For the country. Y'know, families and children, they are what makes this country so wonderful and that's why, at the fine age of fifty, I couldn't wait to start mine, especially if it would get me votes. Which it didn't.
What a fucking wretch that Brown is. A floozy and no, definitely no kids, especially not the ones who die at birth or have serious illnesses and he might still be there, doing that sol-you-shuns thing. Gay men and wildly attractive women, see them everywhere, you do. That's the sort of fag-haggery which wins elections, not doleful, martyred Sarah and her dead daughter. Sarah didn't help le cause Brunoise, just made him look more like angry mildew than he already did, a miserable sexual bouillabass, squared, nightmarish in appearance, nightmarish in outcome. Serves her right, bouncing onto the Labour stage, I give you my hero, my husband, your prime minister; the nerve of some people, who do they think they are?
It's not, en passant, just Gordon Snot; Champagne Charlie Kennedy did just the same thing, scenting power, in the 2005 election, he thought he'd better normal himself up and he wed another stodgy, glamourless breeder, to knock out, he thought, some vote-winning sprog. And look at him now, all over the place, his life a mixture of vomit and stagey bluster, dark glasses on an overcast day, all his future behind him. Usedta be the youngest MP in parliament. And the deepest in the closet.
We are not here, though, to bury Kennedy but to rhapsodise, in tones of darkness and cruelty, scorn and ridicule, maybe one last time, over this malformed, ill-reared, bad mannered, scrofulous freak, Brown. A grotesque, snivelling, cowardly, blame-shifting apology for a man, even by the dismal standards of contemporary politicians, Gordon Brown lost his always presumed leadership of the Labour Party fair and it must be said, square, to the ghastly Tony Blair; the party voted overwhelmingly for Blair; the early indications having shown 36% in favour of Blair, just 9% for Brown , he had no option but to withdraw from the election, in which Tony and Imelda romped home to beggar the nation, unltimately ignite World War Three and secure for themselves the fantastic fortune to which they felt entitled. Typically, though, of the horrible fucking bastard, Brown, growling and hectoring, would not accept the democratic verdict of the majority of his party, demanding, a priori, of the feeble, skittish, grinning Blair that he guarantee to step aside, soon, so that he, Brown, the real leader, rejected, as he was by the party electorate but never mind that, could take over the job he felt was his destiny. Mad as a fucking hatter from the start of Ruin's parliamentary dominion, Brown was able to bully and blackmail all in his malevolent orbit, having colleagues - Harriet Soursister and Dame Frank Field - removed or sidelined, when they failed to heed his threatening voice; establishing a separate Ministry of Leader-in-Waiting, in which he was able to withold from his prime minister, the First Lord of the Treasury, any and all information regarding budgetary matters. The useless popinjay, Blair, was generally too concerned with his world image, too busy touching-up his twennyfourseven make-up to trouble Brown overmuch, happy playing Foreign Secretary to Brown's domestic prime minister. skymadeupnewsandfilth joked about this travesty of government, about this constitutional outrage, encouraging government by tittle-tattle, encouraging the Prudence of No More Boom And Bust's Ruinous posturing until it became a running national joke that the prime minister couldn't sack his chancellor, that the chancellor and neither the prime minister nor the cabinet decided government policy. Such is the power of MediaMinster to belittle and cheapen our national discourse that nobody cared, the same gang was voted into power three times, nearly four. Such is the power of Murdoch's skymadeupnewsandfilth that the poxy imprimatur of some cheap slag like Trevor Kavanagh or Kelvin McCunt is enough to install governments or depose them. All those now, as we never tire of reminding, all those now damning Brown and Blair for their economic infelicity once endlessly applauded their vision, their prudence, their mad shepherding of Ruin, through our streets, into our kitchens and bedrooms; all of those, but not we, here.
Let the work of change begin, he gobbled, caring, dopey Sarah planted at his side, as he entered Downing Street, unelected; No More This and No More That, he grunted, as though the efforts of all others, the previous ten years, had been misguided and worthless, as though his empty, bitter coup set straight a history blighted by impertinent reality; his stitching-up of the leadership was, at last, the true, magnificent result of the May 1997 general election. Let The Work Of Change Begin, he intoned, like some Chinese Emperor, at the start of a new dynasty. Impudent cunt. And not a word of resistance from the ministerial colleagues he was so openly berating with his No More This and No More That; their past ten years sermonised into disrepute and invalidity, Now, It Really Begins, he blustered in his malodourous grandiosity, his fevered bombast. Now, That I'm In Charge, and they applauded Brown and Ms Mousey as they entered his governmental manse to lead a grateful nation to New Presbyteria.
STICK WITH ME, BABE.
TODAY DOWNING STREET, TOMORROW KIRKCALDY.
Just as Imelda before her had had her own interests, paid best friends, freebies and whining, so Sarah had hers. She was big in BGLT, Gordon's Sarah, one of the priding heterophobes, one of the bisexual, gay, lesbian and transgender thought police, just looking for a harmless, old-fashioned normal to abuse, one of Ruin's bullyboys and girls, let loose on society to insist that sodomy and bondage and copraphilia are the very will of God, opposition to them the work of the New AntiChrist. Sarah carved out a niche for herself, no little woman, barefoot and pregnant, she; no, right out there she was, at the very arsehole of sexual liberation, look, how comfortable she looks, there with the five o' clock shadow drag queens, the resilient old queers, waltzing their miserable, annual Exhibitionists' Waltz.
ONE OF THEM'S MARRIED TO THE LIMEY
PRIME MINISTER, YOU SAY?
Blokes in chaps, with their arses hanging-out, marching down the street, where are their heads at ? Wherever it is, Sarah's was in the same place. Although, now that she's no longer Ms Prime Minister, no longer - however bizarrely - in the First Ladies' Club, her priorities may have altered; making Gordon's ssndwiches, as he sets off for his day down the Kirkcaldy Oxfam shop, will infuse her life with a duller, more prosaic flavour; Prince Alberts, nipple clamps, transvestism and gender realignment surgery concerns, now, largely, a thing of the past.
Brought-in as First Lady in much the same desperate, last-throw-of-the-dice manner as Peter Mandelson was brought-in as Joint Prime Minister, she, too, failed to stop the rot; it was unstoppable and her public appearances, like Mandelstein's, served only to floodlight Gordon's Feet of Snot, or is it Stone, it doesn't matter, he never had an emissary up to the task, all his messengers wound-up with their ears cut off, all his wine was water, all his pearls clay.
Sarah's folly, then, which she shall ever rue, was to imagine that she could refine, by dint of her sluggish personal charm, could transmute, with a twirl of her skirt, could alchemise his coarse, base metal into something precious. Sic transit gloria mundi; so passeth the glories of the world and now she joins him in miserable rejection, in defiant but irredeemable has-beenery. And serve her fucking well right.
The 2010 Milliband conference was a last hurrah for Sarah and her poor, nonsensical ambitions. This was probably her last appearance on a national platform, grim as it was, joining passively, abjectly in her husband's insistence that, now that he had nothing better to do, the work of his love affair with her would begin - Let, in effect, he was saying - Let The Work Of My Marriage Begin. Like most Brown speeches, it was teeth-grindingly, buttock-clenchingly, Oh, Fuck, No embarrassing. His speeches, his impromptu, inexplicable Domestos grin; his tractor-statisticking and now his Sarah-And-The-Childrening remind us all of our own constant potential for nightmarish Never Going Back There Humiliation. No-one should with Decency delight in Brown's ritual self-humiliations and yet we do, even though here, here in this ghastly fuck-up, here in this contretemps of a life, is tragedy so pungently, so assiduously self-wrought, so accentuated by clod-hopping, slipshod, ruinous cack-handedness, so fractious and self-destructive, so craven cowardly, so bloody, so wickedly cruel, so back-stabbing hypocritical, so absolutely, start-to-finish fucking awful that Shakespeare would shrink from its dramatising; King David, psalming it, would falter.
skymadeupnewsandfilth are done with him, Brown, and would fillet, instead, the gormless Milliband and whoever carries his woodwormy, blunted and misaligned spears. It is only we, here, Ruin's cyber-boulevardiers, who have the stomach for Snotty Brown, he is our creature. And in wishing him the worst we are but true to form, constant, noble even. For without us he can feign forgiveness, annoint himself in the oils of hypocrisy, Ah, he can whimper, a prophet is without honour, in his own land; Ah, history will be kinder to me. And at least I have the pension which, thanks to me, few now have.
Sarah's desserts are - fairly - of interest. In seeking to normalise such a horrible fucking bastard she will have made accommodations far outside those usually accepted in matrimony but will have anticipated far greater rewards, one of which, we must assume, was a lengthier term in Downing Street, and a departure less humiliating - parading her children, as though in rebuke to an ungracious electorate, was another of those needless, stagey, counter-productive gestures in which Snotty seemed to delight, beating his retreat, as it were, en famille, for the first time publicly, the manner of his going as crass and blood-curdling as his Let The Work Of Change Begin arrival. Sarah, a powerful, PR career woman must have agreed to, maybe even devised Brown's ghastly stratagems; she was in any event at his side, we are told, throughout his premiership, joining him enthusiastically on platforms, cheerleading, praise-singing him, as had no previous prime minsiterial spouses, not even the shameless, sticky-fingered, jumped-up, shrew-faced, cheap hustler, Glenys Kinnock, ever led her windbagging ginger nonentitybastard, the money-grubbing fuckpig, Neil, by hand on to the stage. It was always a high risk strategy, Sarah's, dependant upon the kindness of others and almost unbelievably stupid; that she signed-off as Leader's Wife with such nonsensical bravado was, like the GayPride posturing, typical of her. Going through the motions is what the hand-picked zombies do at party conferences and those at Manchester applauded Sarah and her man to the rooftops but after that, even for those gullibles, Sarah's spell, if there ever was one, lies, like her snotty, bullying, incompetent husband's, forever broken. And serve her right, cheeky cow.
There is, thanks to London's finest, one less divorce lawyer than there used to be but that still leaves plenty, no doubt Sarah Brown will know who they are. Now that the Project is well and truly over, she would probably rather be anywhere else than where she is today, nursing Snotty's wounded vanity, all the way from here to the cemetery. Whether the Browns are sundered by the chill winds of blighted ambition or joined together in holy deadlock we, here in Ishnaelia, equal opportunities enthusiasts from way back, cordially wish a good, virulent pox on the both of them.