MR ERIC FATBASTARD PICKLES, MP
My own weight goes up and down, medications and fitness effect it, diabetes, too, and I am two stones over what I like to be and I know that some people struggle, doesn't matter what they eat, they pile it on, other people can eat any old shit and stay slim. It's not fair to criticise people just for beng fat, Heffer though, probably compressed into his suit by an army of servants, like some Asian potentate seem to delight in, flaunt his avoirdupois, wears his jowls and belly like a medal of honour, the fat fuck, as though it signified wealth and status, and lent philosophical, logical weight to his fourth-form rantings-for-money in the Filth-O-Graph, as though babbling, now and again, inexpertly, about Wagner portrayed, or hinted at, an inner svelteness, a clandestine athleticism, when, in fact, he is, in spirit, too, the greasy, self-satisfied, bloated, Goeringesque fuckpig, whom, once seen, is held forever in contempt. Today, he described his fellow fat fuck robbing Tory bastard spiv, Mr Eric Pickles, as Big Eric, the good for fuck all pot calling the good for fuck all kettle good for fuck all; for once, a chuckle from the useless fat bastard's obnoxiously vindictive, contemptible column.
MR SIMON FATBASTARD HEFFER, GOSSIP AND SPIV.
He has an army of admirers, Heffer. Well said, Sirs and Couldn't have put it better myselfers. And they probably couldn't, hundreds of them, cowed by the facile notion that that the lardball is a salty, smartass yet scholarly homme des lettres, when he's just a worthless fat cunt. Ruin. To think that the Filth-O-Graph was once home to Auberon Waugh's graceful, mannerly gadflying and now it peddles Heffer's bloody diarrhoea.
Were it not for his employment by the anti-democratic Barclay twins one wonders where Mr Heffer would earn his daily bucket of lard, there cannot be too many who would pay good money for this infantile drivel, this effete snarling. Big Eric ? Pots and kettles, Big Simon.
"Public services now exist far more for the benefit of those who work in them than those they are supposed to service. They are a socialist government’s means of creating jobs, to the economic detriment of the country."
This, whilst not disputing that there is an element of careerist fatcattery in the public sector - and nowhere more deplorable than in MediaMinster - is rubbish, ridiculous sloganising, unbecoming in what was once a right-wing but more or less scrupulously honest newspaper. Mr Heffer's weekly or bi-weekly assaults on Decency are proof further that Ruin's agents, in the form of Greed and Envy and downright Stupidity, beguile and seduce with tubthumping appeals to a common, benevolent national purpose, one from which they are estranged.
Leaving aside the failure of his grammar and the inelegance of his spluttering prose - mayhap Simon has forgotten, in his eternal affected rage, how to deploy a semi-colon, rendering his second sentence a non-sentence - his endless and tedious diatribe against decent, working people, as opposed to over-gorged, spluttering popinjays like himself, who serve no discernible, worthwhile purpose, may well assist his wealthy masters' interests but they cheapen and tarnish the public discourse, as though MediaMinster had not done enough such. C'mon Fatso, I say, as one Old Edwardian to another, and in the spirit of the piece, have the servants hoist you off the chaise longue and respond; no, didn't think so.
A predictably ardent proselytizer of the questionable and grisly but undoubtedly vengeful blessings of capital punishment, he should take care, Mr Heffer, that he and his, the idle rich and their mouthpiece servants, do not stir things so wickedly that they fetch up in the modern equivalent of the tumbril; windbagging and lardy, he'd only break it, and fall out on his fat arse, bleating, I am far too important for this.
Times are hard, the blowhard demagoguique, here, here and everywhere, might find that his traitorous, splenetic snobbery sees him up against the wall, with the rest of the motherfuckers.
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Some of this I posted on his fat blog, I doubt if it'll stay there, probably enrage his angry masturbating expatriot fan club and be moderated, as they call censorship, in the Street of a Thousand Arseholes.
5 comments:
Ever since the General Election, every time I see Pickles I get an advertising slogan from my childhood playing in my head - "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down". I find myself perpetually astonished that someone could smother their skeleton in such an unfathomably dense layer of yellow fat. What is he hiding?
And yes, it is about some fundamental confusion between gravitas, gravy and gravity. Those of us of a short and skinny composition (no merit attached, just nature) find such gargantuan bodies overwhelming and intimidating - we dance away from their lumbering maraudings in terror of being squished. Terror by design?
The fact that Pickles has been front and centre in pushing the cuts, that he revels in picking fights with Leaders of Councils, that his remit is at the forefront of public oppribrium should in no way detract from the point that all his plans have been signed off through the cabinet office by both Cameron & Letwin (seriously, Letwin's authority is really quite substantial). Pickles is a dick, a walking offal repository set forth to to do his master's bidding.
Didn't the Heffer use to work for Billy Hague as some sort of Chief of Staff or something? What a fucking campaign he ran, eh? People keep on speculating as to the demise of newspapers and stuff and I guess those free papers like Metro and I think there's a Murdoch funded one in London, well, one would think their influence is only maintained in North London lounges.
Having some knowledge of Local Government it can truly be said that the people who should be fired, laid off, attenuated are the ones who'll get off scot free. In my time it wasn't so much that people did a job it was the fact that their role prevented their senior doing the job. Local Gov is run on 'deniability first' principles, if you can dodge it - dodge it, let some other cunt pick up the abuse.
The writing was on the wall when Town Clerks became Chief Execs. I had quite a few meetings with Calderdale's Chief Exec and I shit you not but the conversations were mainly about how chuffed he was that the towns now had wheelie bins! FFS - wheelie bins? As Harvey Keitel said in Pulp Fiction, 'let's not start sucking each other's cocks quite yet as there's work to be done'. they've been elevated to a level of complete isolation, of irrelevance, of strategic navel gazing. Sure, I like wheelie bins as much as the next guy but at Chief Exec level?
In the 70's they moved from a West Yorkshire Authority (may have been West Riding) and established about 8 Local Authorities and now the circle comes back again. With the reduction of MP's and the greater areas covered by constituencies redrawing the links with LA's and the coterminosity to constits, I reckon we're about 10 years off regional administrations through the back door. The moves at present are of 'shared services' for LA's such as legal, payroll, HR, Accounts etc which is fair enough on paper but it should never be under-estimated how crass, petty, greedy and vain senior LA officers are.
The only way to beat them is to out-think them and unfortunately because of the tedious incrementalism of change that ain't ever gonna happen. So, what we're left with is thick Cllrs either getting screwed by central gov or their own officers and old people, kids, vulnerable people with care needs etc getting right royally fucked up the arse by Mandingo. Fiscal policy at present absorbs (roughly) 52% of cash and I bet most government spending (at a pinch i'd go for 70%+) goes on salaries and for people in Local Gov to earn more than £100k is just civil rape.
Cunts all indeed - up against the wall motherfuckers, up against the wall.
OT - a West Ryeding Authority would be cool. Yorkshire's an odd county. Looking forward to this Sarf Ryedin' thang on Beeb 1. Ponty, Donny & Sheff are fucking toilets, not worthy of pissing on. Lived in 'ull for 3 year. Crackin' stuff.
I have dined v late in 'ull, Mr DtP, as I was to go to the Reckitt & Colman factory early the next morning. I stayed at a dodgy looking shit-hole called "Maxim's". It was late. I had driven from London. I asked for steak - rare. It turned up looking like a steak and when I went to cut it, it was still frozen. Crunchy. I broke it by pressing hard with the knife. What had they been thinking? "Just sear the fucker on the outside and give it to the bastard."
"Did you want it medium, Sir?", said the poor lad.
Four weeks I worked in that town. Jeez. Never get out of the boat.
Reminds me of that film set in France. The guests of the hotel were fattened on hote-cuisine, only to end up as pate for the next round of guests.
With all that venison, pheasant, partridge, truffles, port, wine etc.. old Heffer would make some pretty tasty pate.
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