Wednesday, 20 April 2011

GORDON SNOT. WILL YE NO' COME BACK AGAIN?

There was something about him, something heart-stoppingly horrible, could he be viler next year than this, more cowardly, more bombastic, and yes, he never disappointed. Week after week, he discovered, invented fresh ways in which to humiliate himself;  just when you thought that he couldn't be any more shameless,  any more disgusting, his moral compass would lead him into new pastures of self debasement. When you thought that no man born of woman could make himself  appear more repulsive than he already was,  more pathetically unsuited to his task,  up he would pop, on Youtube, grinning like an incurable lunatic, as though he had been filmed in some emotionally desolate, hopeless Victorian Bedlam.

Oh, please, like me; look, I'm nice, look how nice I am.
Biting his nails, eating his snot, pretending to be normally married, 


No, no, no, becoming a father  in one's fifties, everyone should do it, its The Right Thing For The Country, especially if you want to be elected prime minister, which I won't be.

spilling his  delusional beans about saving the planet, poor mad monster, he couldn't  just disappear, when he got to be unelected prime minister,  couldn't do that Macavity thing, no, he just had to get dosed-up with Largactil or whatever he's on and come out fighting,  and then running away again, to some poor foreign land  or to an infants' playground or an old people's home,






somewhere safe, somewhere he could boss others around  without fear of challenge or resistance, somewhere they couldn't hurt him


You know, by sending Tommy out to Afghanistan it saves Ahmed the trouble of coming to British streets to kill British citizens  and that's The Right Thing For The Country. Is this fucking thing loaded?

claiming that his every manic, back of the envelope delusion was The Right Thing For The Country, The Right Thing For The Country,The Right Thing For The Country, an endless mantra of self congratulation, this poor, mad, gauche,  blundering, angry big fairy became the nation's Identified Patient. Come out, Gordon, we taunted him. Betrayals came from every corner of NewLabour's filthy, blackmailing, child-molesting,  money-laundering swamp;  attempted coups and putsches, regular character assassinations; the poor, old, stuttering, gibbering bastard received hatemail between hard covers, serialised in the Sunday Filth.

Manning it up with GI Joe, grinning his Domestos grin, Y'know, I'm a fighting man, too, look, I've got my tie off, that's how much man I am.


and then,




The Old Lady Blues. 

A madman barking in his limousine at the ordinary, whom he claims to champion, casting around for others to blame for him not fitting in his own skin, It was Sue's fault, he whined, reality, it was Sue's fault, falling through the branches of self-awareness, unstoppable, fetching-up on some radio studio killing floor, crawling back, an hour later, to grovel at the old lady's door, had he but known it, kissing his political arse goodbye .

And finally, in the bunker with Big Al Campbell and Lord Mandelstein, of all people, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the children on deck for emotional cover; rotten and  mad to the end, Ambition's cracked vessel finally keeled over, bottom-up.


And no big job, sorting the world's finances, not even a job in the States, the drunken, wife-beating Cape Cod  mafia now all dead, instead, friendless in Fife, Gordon Snot sees his glory days trashed and slandered, his history rewritten by skymadeupnewsandfilth, even his henchmen distancing themselves from his legacy of poison and Ruin, his counsel and presence unsought, unwelcome..

There was  something about him, indeed, something bad but fascinating, a distillation of rottenness clad as virtue. It's not that he was a socialist because he wasn't, none of them were or are;  it's not just that he's a  rotten lying fuckpig,  they all are, a nasty bully, a hypocrite, a thief, a warmonger, a torturer, a ponce, a slag and a shiteating, cocksucking reptile,  they're all like that, What was unique about Snotty was that his entire political life was like one of those dreams  we all have - when you're walking down the street and realise, ashen and terrified,  that you have no trousers on - but in his case it wasn't a dream, it was his phone-throwing, nail-biting, snot-eating, monstrous reality.

The thirteen Brown years are well-deserved tragedy for him, an entertaining tragedy for us. And when we look at CallHimDave or Glegg or Milliband or the intolerable Huhne and Cable we see but a cheesy feebleness, an Oh, for fuck's sake, not him againness.  It took eleven years before I could not bear a  single moment of Brown, just had to turn him off; eleven months has done it with the current house of commons - Austerity, Libya, AyVee, Jesus fucking wept, who has the energy to care about all this shit when the body politic is a Saville Row-suited Black Hole, get too close and you lose the will to live.  I saw Huhne on Newsnight, all petulant and indignant, droning on about how we all needed AyVee to give us  a govament of  LibDem millionaire cocksuckers shitting in our faces from now until Kingdom fucking Come and I thought that if he carried-on like that down the 'pub the regulars'd stick his head down the toilet, pull the chain and then turf him out on his poxed-up arse;  Snotty, on the other hand, if he were to treat us to one of his Son of the fucking Manse, Moral Compass, Let The Work Of Change Begin, Endogenous Growth, Quantitative Easing, Right Thing For The Country  sermons we would listen in awe and then  strap him up tight in  a straightjacket.


It was mr tdg who described Brown  as patient not agent, more mad than bad and my young friend, stanislav, often  said that if Brown had any real friends they would see to it that he received immediate and profound psychiatric help; both were  probably right, although that is little comfort to those ruined and killed by the NewLabour scam. But one only had to look at Snotty, think about him for a moment and  it would fuel an epic of rage.  Funny, isn't it, that whilst Cameron and his gang are probably a neck ahead of NewLabour in the rottenness steeplechase they fail to spark the same incendiary bile and hatred as did  good old Snotty,  that of course  -  that exhaustion with braying scoundrels, that flight from Decency's barricades,  that casting aside of the cudgels of Righteousness - that is also part of our new national  heritage of Snot and Ruin.

9 comments:

mongoose said...

I am not convinced, Mr Ishmael, that Brown could not have been sorted out by a good, firm stop-being-a-cunt smack in the gob. About thirty-five years ago, it is true, and it is all too late now, but there lurks somewhere under there a wee shred of the late-night-when-there's-nobody-to-hear truth. My mate, the mad shrink, once said that stuff isn't pathology until it has happened twice. Brown practised his bullying, cowardly, deceitful panto time after time after time. That's pathology. The pathology in this case of utter cunthood. And, I think, that the poor bastard, in the the wee small hours, knows it. All those previous hours and years. In the manse all alone with his aged parentals, and in the kirk at daybreak listening to mad, bad dad spitting his miserly, anti-kindness god-bothering, Grammar School at six, university at seven - but not a "good" university, not like the rich bastards - and all the endless hard-working-families-no-more-boom-and-bust-theinvestment-I-can-tell-the-House humdrum-now cant of it all and here we now sit. Dead but for the dying of the light. And they laugh at me too. The poor bastard, a bullet would be a kindness.

Oldrightie said...

Snotty's presence was a window to that inner world inhabited by all politicians. Deluded, thick and soulless misfits with an arrogance born of utter inadequacy as human beings.A pox on all their houses.

Anonymous said...

What an epitaph, eh?

"Here lies Snot. Exemplar nonpareil of cuntitude".

yardarm said...

Did he escape from mad scientist`s laboratory, animated by a rogue thunderbolt ? A strange, lumpen, maladroit, man/child/beast wearing his inadequacies like an endoskeleton, lurching unrestrained across the political landscape.

It says it all about the Labour Party that no one had brains or bottle enough to challenge him and that his catamites are the only alternative to the coalition goons, fuck help us.

And what future for Ole Lumpy ? A world eager to shower rewards on the unctuous heap of shit in a suit Blair has ignored Gordo`s sense of entitlement. A retirement among the discreet young men of Martha`s Vineyard ? As long as its well away from us.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Anon & Mr Ish

I've already got Gordon Brown's headstone ready to go; let's not be hasty. Loved the bit about the 'frustrated obituarist' the other day - where to stop?

Gordon Brown

Hic Jacet Cunt

In the search for authority if not power (for he had power - being unopposed in their internal election screamed abuse from the rafters) but in his search for authority over you & me, Terry & Susan he forwent all vestige of politeness, of refrain, of invitation and became an unwelcome imposter in the smooth goings on of tradition.

That war is fake, that economics is hokum, that politics is blackmail, that state is device; however cold it makes us feel, Blair had a mandate.

If as Mr Mongoose's buddy says, twice is patholgy, then what is 3 times? What is option if the best choice is pathology, mistake, error?

I haven't really wittered on about it but I don't think Flashman is the 'unelected PM' - I do think he's the unelectable one but that's a different thing and British history is repleat on such semantics. Elections are painful things; they are civic, they are polite - and to be screwed is the height of elections; when you lose you fucking lose.

I kinda respected Charlie kennedy's resignation speech ( not that he either wrote it or listened to it) but he said when politics ends you it fucking well ends you. The measure that a man constructs his cathedral shall be that where the foundations have requirement for advice. Politics has to be about agreement and no amount of caucusing or analysis will be able to convince people of the merits. Politics should be conducted in the open and in the glare of the public but it seems that whatever the fuck they call themselves MPs are far too happy to use Boulton, Marr, Robinson, Rawnsley, Heffer, fucking Gillian Duffy and use that as some kind of metaphor, that one can extrapolate to form a cogent plan to deliver salient fiscal ability rather than, you know, holding public meetings, asking people, wandering into Town Halls, Boozers, Churches, Events and just saying 'how do? i'm standing for election and this bag of shite has landed on me desk, whaddya think?'

It's like politics is run by distracted, disaffected, emasculated idiots - since when did chatting to a constituent take subservience under some media cunt? I dunno if it's oratory or trust, being able to string a sentence together or just plain old fashioned respect but if MPs wanted political media changed they could do a fair bit about it. Mr Mike Hemming seems to be onto something.

Gordon Brown is a footnote and that's pretty damming.

Hope you have a lovely Easter & such.


Muchos gracias Senor

DtP

Mothers Ruin said...

I miss Gordon. You knew exactly where you stood with him in charge. On the opposite bank.
Unlike today's comedians, he was so awful we laughed along with him in his excrutiatingly God awful one liners.
This current crop of alternative jokers just doesn't have the same delivery and patter of the master, but the nastiness of the stag do comic picking on the unfortunate who emerges from the gents just in time to be set up for the killer line.

call me ishmael said...

There's talk, at the Guardian, of him being appointed head of the International Mother Fuckers, can that be right?

Mike said...

Mr I: you've ruined my holiday in Thailand with this piece on snotty.You won't be surprised to learn that nobody here gives a stuff about Libya. What's it got to do with us a taxi driver said (I translate loosely from the Thai patois). No doubt a Canadian taxi driver would say the same, but they are involved. From a viewpoint in Hua Hin, it definitely looks like the West versus Libya, which can only lead to more death an destruction.

Mike said...

Mr I: you've ruined my holiday in Thailand with this piece on snotty.You won't be surprised to learn that nobody here gives a stuff about Libya. What's it got to do with us a taxi driver said (I translate loosely from the Thai patois). No doubt a Canadian taxi driver would say the same, but they are involved. From a viewpoint in Hua Hin, it definitely looks like the West versus Libya, which can only lead to more death an destruction.