I'm sick of them, now. I was thrilled when they were found alive and when they started coming up. Didn't matter where they were from, it's just shit, that, being trapped, like those blokes in the Russian 'sub, the Kursk, was it; better just to be killed straight off than all that running out of air shit, upsetting the viewers, well, some of us. I firmly believe that Formula One fans follow these racing cars all around the world hoping, praying, gagging for Lewis Hamilton or Jensen Button to crash and get toasted, they'll be the ones who had their fingers crossed for a cave-in, down there in Chile.
But they're going onto US telly with that sad and faintly disgusting creep, David Letterman, maybe going to join in his decades long nervous breakdown.
So, tell the viewers, Pablo, or Manuel, whatever you're called.
Ninety days underground, how was that?
Eet was sheet, hombre, eet was sheet.
That's Pancho, folks, from Chile, let's hear it for Pancho.
After the break we have some regular Americans....
They could have been from anywhere, the miners, didn't matter a fuck, the heart went out and the stomach turned over,. Now, the whole thing is like a nationalist party political broadcast, Chile this and Chile that and that pimp bandit, El Presidente,
What'selike? You must be fucking joking.
waltzing or is it tango-ing, Berluscone-ing his way around the world, as though he, himself, was down on his hands and knees for two months, digging like a bastard with his bare hands, rather like Comrade Snot, now of the Kirkcaldy Oxfam Shop, and all his shit about saving the world and it being the right thing to do for the country, and only he could have thought of it because he was a son of the fucking manse, but normal, really, ordinary and yet the cleverest boy in the school and heard voices in his mad, snot-gobbling head and no, he wasn't gay, how could he be, hadn't he married enthusiastically, in his early fifties, couldn't wait, and Sarah-George was his best thing ever, especially now that he was working in the charity shop, because nobody wanted to pay to hear his crap, his nailbitten Claw of Doom metronoming on the lectern, his jaw doing that drywank jawdrop thing Dah-Dah-Dah and bits of snot all over his tie; El Presidente was gobbing away, just like Snotty did, only in better English, surreptitiously, obliquely, taking the credit for the rescue, even though the State had fucked things up in the first place, deregulating the mines and letting the el-Mafia run them.
Not happy with that shameless tub-thunping, he was giving people lumps of rock, well, giving 'em to Queens and unelected prime ministers. And how does anybody know that they're genuine rescue rocks? Not like they're from the Sea of Tranquility, brought back by NASA. Coulda just been picked up off the ground. You know what politicians are like, especially Dago ones, probably kept all the real rocks and is flogging them on eBay - are they Dagos, the Chileans, don't know anything about Chileans, are they Christians, for instance? Could be head-shrinking cannibals for all I know, like we have in the wilder parts of Scotland, best part of England. I know they make Cabernet Sauvignon and have dangerous mining operations, proper businesses, see, like Zombie George Spunkface wants us to have, none of that regulation bollocks, health and safety and all that.
Betcha anything that those number-crunching folk over at the Taxpayers Alliance have something to say about health and safety, eh, waste of their taxpayers taxes which, as we all know, are different, more important, than any old ordinary taxes that other people, not in The Taxpayers Alliance pay, well, other people, everybody, actually, everybody pays taxes, apart from rich people. Don't hear the TPA going on about rich people not paying any taxes at all. And you don't have to be in an alliance, to be a taxpayer; some of us actually don't mind paying taxes, me and mr mongoose, for instance; the social wage, is what taxation brings, roads and stuff, I can get in my SmartCar, here in the far North and just drive straight down, largely without let or hindrance, to Land's End, the roads are signposted, driveable, drained and illuminated, the vast majority of people drive more or less safely, millions and millions of cars don't collide. OK, it can all be better, much better, but that is dependent upon a radical, revolutionary change in the way we order our lives and in the people whom we pay to decide on things; the elimination of career politicians and the selection, for limited terms, of non-careerist, independent, non-party public servants is the only sensible goal if we would reverse the Ruin which twentieth-century parliamenties have wrought.
The TPA's incessant whining about taxes, as with the output of most self-selecting ThinkTanks, is cheap, populist, redneck horseshit. They should shut up and fuck off, the TPA, go and look after their parents, or their greedy bastard illiterate fuckpig thirty-something children, maybe tell them that No, Julian, you can't have everything you want, not even if we shoot all the benefit scroungers, actually, Darling, Mummy and Daddy won't be able to leave you every penny they ever made, with interest, it's because of all those nasty taxy-waxys that the nasty govament makes us pay. Yes, Darling, Clearly, it's frightfully unfair.
They have a fucking mission statement, the TPA, dunno what it is, anytime I hear the word Mission, misapplied so, I think: Drunk, Nonce or Non-Specific Arsehole. Missions are what soldiers have, airmen, and the other ones, the ones with no air cover, they do missions,too; ordinary people have aims and objectives. Anybody come near my house, talking about fucking missions, not that they would, not even the fucking Jovas, impudent fucking bastards, most likely being deterred by the sign: Presbyterians Will Be Hanged, And This Means Jovas, Too, but if anybody does, come here talking about his fucking mission, I'm gonna kick his fucking missioning arse up an down the lane marked Private. It is part of the colonisation of the language, this mission shit, MBA doggerel, by the largely illiterate, the infuriating gabshite, who says Clearly before his every pack of stupid, cliche-bound, Devil-As-Ever-Is-In-The-Detail shitbrain lies. I read the word mission and that was all I needed to know about the TPA. Mission statements are what those awful fuckpigs at Marks and Spencer have. And Tesco. Save More By Spending More. Easy.
They seem just like Tories without parliamentary seats, the TPA, small govament, private sector is best; shit a fucking red-white-and-blue brick they would, jumping up and down on the toilet screeching, the greedy, grasping jumped-up pseudo middle class imbecile wankers, if any of their services were withdrawn before they can engineer some exclusive alternative, like that insufferable git, Toby Young, of the free-private school alliance.
Bald cookery writer, Young.
Fuck off, Toby. Or we'll set Julie Burchill on you.
Prick's writing in the Filth-O-Graph, today, that Barack Obama isn't quite black enough, needs to be a bit blacker, says Whitey Young, the braying, racist cocksucker; mixed race, you see, doesn't quite tick Toby's boxes, wants Barack to be a full-on buck nigger. Jesus fucking wept, only in the Filth-O-Graph. Or the Times. Or the Sun. Or the Mail. Or any of them, nasty racist poison disguised as commentary. Toby fucking Young - why is anyone called Toby? - wants to run schools for his wretched, ghastly spawn and probably to rub shoulders with the spit-spraying misfit, Gove, the gobby, apologising idiot; giving parents a choice, giving himself a choice, and fuck everybody else is what he means.
Oh, yes, much easier for Jemima and I to have all of our delightful and gifted children privately, in very special and suprisingly cost effective private hospitals, yes, especially if something goes wrong, requiring intensive lifetime care, it'll only cost us pennies,you see, because we take the money from the riff-raff, who aren't as well equipped as us to work the system, we need to have have a private health visitor, pay privately, but only a little bit, for all the innocculations, drive them to private schools on private roads, pay for our very own private police constables, yes, and courts and prisons, too; drink private water from private taps; have private libraries, and parks and private, yes, private public transport and best of all privately care for our elderly, demented parents who might spend decades farting and dribbling and not knowing who the fuck they are, or us, tubes up their noses and pipes coming from their dicks, stinking of piss. Think of all the taxes we'd save, if only we could get away from this dreadful notion of society, and people pooling risk, working together so that all can be cared for. Well, Clearly, it's simply not good enough.
Can't think why anyone pays them any mind, meself, the TPA. Anybody with a hole in his arse knows that local govament, taking its cue from MediaMinster, is corrupt and useless; fucking Rotarians and fucking Masons buying-up fucking councillors by the coachload to whatever the twinned fucking town is; counting the TPA pennies isn't going to shame them from office. Just look at the so-called parliamentary expenses scandal, last year, business as fucking usual, now, every last fucking bastard of them guilty of at the very least guilt by association, of turning a blind eye. And them supposed to be lawmakers. Oh, fuck me, was I thieving, well, of course, it wasn't my fault, I'm an honourable fucking member and look, I paid the money back; just as soon as I was caught out, I said to Mrs Cameron, Samantha, Darling, we have to pay a few quid back, but don't worry, we'll get it all back again when I'm prime minister, no, don't worry, you won't have to touch your millions, or mine.
But anyway, rescue celebrities, it's a bit much, innit. Get down on their hands and knees and thank God, or Whoever, and never go down underground again; that's the ticket. Not as though they did anything brave, is it, just sitting there, underground, any bastard can do that. And many of us might have to, as the Toby Young Taxpayers' Alliance Pig Society kicks us all into reverse gear, onwards, to the 'thirties. Coalition my arse, wankathon, more like, for horrible fucking bastard public schoolboys.