Nay-dine, Honey is that you?
(Charles Edward "Chuck" Berry 1957)
Poor Nadine Dorries; half, maybe more than half of the shit-eating slimeballs in the commons do second jobs, more properly first jobs, many of them, like catastrophically pisspoor educashun seckatry, Michael Spit,
when in opposition, earned far more from Rupert Murdoch's Times shitrag newspaper-of-record than he did as an MP, in fact it was his MP-ness which legitimised his dreadful, spit-flecked columns - and, as we saw at Leveson, Micky is Rupert's man unto death - for they were awful, tub-thumping rubbish - nothing of a new philosophy of education in a world upended by globalisation and hand-held media voodoo devices; nothing of teachers dragooned into being servants of the wider economic HellChase, of LuvEmToBitsMyKids fuckwit parents seeing professional educators primarily as child-minders - nothing of any intellectual merit, or even intellectual curiosity; no recognition, at least not publicly, that young Jamie and Kyle are carrying around, on their persons, clever little devices which can access and contain a writhing, thrusting juggernaut of pornography which would have made Caligula faint and by which Jamie and Kyle are judging their pubescent girlfriends. None of this, which is what you might expect from a concerned education minister; no, instead we see just a nasty, vengeful, reactionary incompetent, bleating endlessly for a return to nineteen-fifties values, values which never existed, not even in the nineteen-fifties and which, even if they had, would be irrelevant in WikiWorld. No, he's an arse, Spitty, but turd-polishing earnestly for his immensely wealthier colleagues in the Tory cabinet, Spitty at least knows his place. I call him Spit, incidentally, because I used to watch the wretch, years back, on some late-night BBC pseudo politics show, generally debating, or filibustering, with Dame Polly Toynbee of Majorca and Tower Hamlets; so fond of the sound of his own voice was Spitty, that during his incessant expositions on this or that affair of state he would gather bubbles in the corners of his mouth and eventually they would drip obscenely down his chops, a more modest man would have brought his speechifying to an end and whilst the camera was on her Dameship, dabbed at the corners of his mouth, before launching another I'm so Clever I Could Eat My Own Shit tirade on, as we mentioned in the last thread, any subject under the Sun, Spitty's verbal reserves, whilst neither illuminating nor entertaining took on such an andless, diarrhoeaicly liquid nature that in a spitting contest he would have thrashed the arse off His Grace, the Lord Hatterjee of Spitbrook and Claridges. So desperate for a journalistic by-line, incidentally, remains the slooshing, slobbering prick, Gove, that he managed to get his imprimatur on the frontispiece of, God save us, tens of thousands of King James Bibles,
issued, on his ministerial iinstruction, to Britain's schools. You woulda thought, wouldn't you, that Archbishop Beard might've issued Mickey Spit with a rebuke about vanity, but no, render unto Caesar, or in this case, render unto fucked-up, saliva-dripping Tory orphan.
The artist formerly known as Canterbury.
What, argue with the govament? Me?
Don't you know who I am?
I write the odd bit of cosmetic complaint but there's no way I'm telling a minister he's a cunt. Even if he is . Even if they all are. Which they all are.
Anyway, many of them earn six figures prattling in the 'papers, just look at the Shagging Albino, Johnson, troughing twice his mayoral salary from the Barclay ZombieTwins at the Filth-O-Graph. More of the right honourable and learned ones earn a fortune down the courts, only appearing in MediaMinster at prime minister's unanswered questions and non-lawyer, non-scribbling tosspots, people like Andrew Spiv,
Yes, bribes from industry help me keep my snout in the real world, I mean feet.
former privatising health seckatry, when in opposition, earned, in his own words, Just fifty thousand a year, pimping, only took a minute or two a month, that's how brilliant he is. They are all at it. And if they're not, they'd love to be.
John Tedium Redwood,
Redwood, fellow of this, master of that,
director of something else and, Oh, yes, MP
achingly, earnestly didactic when wearily outlining the national economic ailment, is paid huge sums by the businesses for whom he is actually pimping; lobbying, they call it. And it's quite legal.
But poor old Nadine; Christ, you'd think she was running a paedophile brothel. All she's doing is disappearing for a few weeks, at most. Countless honourable and right honourable spivs find that they simply cannot carry out their duties unless they travel on fuck-finding missions to the world's most expensive and exotic locations, at our expense. But Nadine's a woman and she has dissed, as we now say, the public schoolboy numbskull charlatans on her own frontbench, open season on her, therefore, for wimmen-hating, apoplectic Tory burghers.
But leaving all that Nadine stuff aside, the member for Kircaldy, as befits a ranting, screeching, footstamping, nail-shredding bully, blazes a moonlighting trail all his own.
Playing with his cock.
Since losing the election, Gordon Snot has been seen once, just once, on the green benches, and then only to grind his own unconvincing Murdoch axe, sourgrapesing his former partner in crime. Oh, he's there, nods the cuckolded halfwit and New Labour's Mr Showbiz, Alan Postie Johnson;
I sing and play guitar, y'know.
Do you think, Alan, maybe it was that which made your Mrs run-off with your bodyguard?
At least, Michael, I'm not a fairy.
No, quite. And nor am I.
he's there, just not actually in the chamber, insists the Johnson cuckold, from the SlutSofa of Andrew Slag's This Week show, he's definitely there, doing things. Definitely.
But only some of the time is Snotty working his behind-the-scenes magic, Alan, for the ghastly, gibbering, snot-eating Presbyterian freak has a new, global position. Young parent Brown, when not doing his bit for people down at the Kircaldy Oxfam shop, is now the UN's special something-or-other, pontificating on Life in Pakistan, and how it's a fucking disgrace that we've let them away with all this Moslem shit for centuries. Seems that the madness light which illuminated his war crimes burns still brightly in his fevered mind, still fuels his bombastic I-Know-Bestism; the teenage girls of Pakistan, they should be our focus. Why's that, then, Snotty? All of our own bloated, drunken, brawling, incoherent teenage girls sorted out, are they?
Didya see that Pakistani child, bytheway, wotsername, the one shot in the head by the Talimen? Isn't she utterly fucking unbearable, she's like the young freakmonster, William Miscarriage, at that Tory conference way back, before before, blethering on, like a grown-up, but more like a dog walking on its hindlegs. FuckMeJesus, you just know how she's going to turn out. Her Dad needs a kick up his arse. Wossisname, Mohammed Pushy Parent,
Christ, I hate those bastards, their fucked-up brats play the piano or do adding-up like they were fucking robots, off to Cambridge at ten or eleven, wrecked on the rocks of parental ambition by twenty. Remember that horrid little cunt who was an expert on antiques, poor, pathetic little fuck. This Pakistani kid is like him, repulsive little brat, lecturing the world, while Daddy smirks on the sidelines. If one believed in Dalai Lama-style reincarnation one might see this gobby little child as the spirit of Whisky Maggie, articulating with pure Thatcher clumsiness and insincerity her crunchingly inarticulate Manifesto of Horseshit.
I wouldn't care if she was Mozart, which she isn't, I'm not interested in teenagers' opinions and nor should anyone else be. If the people of Pakistan want their women educated then let them sort it out. Never heard of any Asians flying over here to stand with the Suffragettes, or the Roundheads. Gordon Brown is such a cunting awful son of the fucking manse that he still believes, despite all the evidence contrariwise, that the world agrees that he knows best.
She's at school in Edgbaston, now, getting the celebrity pupil treatment, for now.
We must hope that it doesn't last and they start pulling her hair and flushing her essays down the toilet. I used to know those Edgbaston schoolgirls, mean, snotty bitches they were.
I have mentioned, before, in reference to Welsh Guardsman and gabshite, Simon Weston,
Disappointed Wannabe Crime Commisioner, Weston.
amongst others, that getting hurt isn't actually heroism, and nor is getting better. Everybody tries to get better, it's hardwired, it's not heroism. It is of course deplorable that this kid was shot but she's ok now, unlike countless thousands of her compatriots, scores, hundreds of children in Ireland, in Africa, in Palestine, in Syria, all over the place there's children being topped by headbangers, Uncle Sam does them by the score, at home and abroad; this girl is lucky, she should count her blessings, cultivate some modesty and shut the fuck up.
Funny, too, how no-one accuses her and her family of health tourism. No, go on, it's not in bad taste, there must be tens of thousands of Pakistani children who would benefit from a trip to an NHS hospital, mustn't there; the water's shit, there's fucking floods and famines and earthquakes; the little buggers live in mud huts with cattlleshit everywhere and they're oppressed on one side by Barmy Benazir Bhutto's sticky-fingered, would-be dynasty, on another side by vicious, headchopping religious fundamentalist nutters and from the skies by Obamalama's atrocitydrones, shot at them by crewcut, psychobastard, momma's boy, gangraping fuckpigs, sitting in a bunker in fucking Idaho, or some other Uncle Sam shithole state. One way and another, Pakistan must be littered with injured children. Funny how only little wotsername was singled out for Mercy's Airlift.
stop press, since writing this, the wee darling has signed a three million pound book contract, maybe Jeremy My Name'sHuntNotCunt or Nigel Farrage will ask her to pay for her treatment. As if.
Don't know, anyway, if Snotty's UN position gets him loads of free trips, on which he can take the dreadful beard, Sarah, but probably. Probably he does. And what with that, the one day a week in the Oxfam shop - giving something back - and the clandestine, ex-camera operations in Westminster, no-one can accuse the distinguished SnotMuncher of neglecting his parliamentary duties for more than two years. Even though that is exactly what he has done, disgracefully, despite the absurd protestations of the ridiculous Alan Johnson.
Poor Ms Dorries, however, will, in all probability, by doing a second job, bring herself and the entire shithouse of honourables and right honourables into disrepute. Unlike, say, Mr Huhne, who in the words of so many of his colleagues, has suffered a dreadful family tragedy. Whisky Maggie headbutted her way through the glass ceiling ? A role model for women? You have to laugh or you'd fucking weep.