Norman Tebbit is now an old man, his wife disabled by the doings of noted conflict resolution expert and statesman, Mr Marty Kneecaps, deputy first minister of the house of horrors which is the Northern Ireland Assembly.
Ever since he was forced to return the Range Rover donated to he and his wife by Mohammed al Fayed - of whose bribes his Lordship of course knew nothing - Tebbit has grown more unpleasant, his incessant Why-Oh-Whying sometimes like a national rash, the answer to his querulous, whining enquiries is, obviously, Because of you, you cunt, and your fellow spivs, flogging-off the national silver and holding Greed's coat for him, that's Why-Oh-fucking-Why, Lord fucking Telecom.
One can understand there being bitterness in his daily round but his own wounds do not warm his snide cold-bloodedness; he was a ghastly reptile before the Brighton bombing and he remains hissing, scaly, untrustworthy and venomous.
He is adored, yet, by followers of his Filth-O-Graph blog, by other sclerotic old men who delight in addressing him, in their comments, as my Lord or your Lordship, as though he was a noble warrior king and they his sturdy yeomanry; not for them the notion that he is a cruelly disgraceful old bandit and they a bunch of cranks clinging in their dotage to their illusions of Whisky Maggie is a shiny armoured delusion, unoxidised by the rainfall of Time's realism but burnished, instead, by Lord Snide's undimmed hatreds and resentments, by his readers' fretful, aged alienation.
It may well be the case that his recent - customarily veiled - references to the Great Noncing Cover-Up by his government are an attempt to get his own retaliation in first, as we now say, blaming others for his own actions.
Tebbit was close to Savile, not a crime but surely a huge misjudgement, perhaps worse than a misjudgement; what ordinary person could not be repelled by Sir Jim's bespoke bestiality, his monstrous, bullying ego, who could admire him? Well, Tebbit did.
And who would not sue the ghastly trollop, Currie, for her remarks, below, regarding Tebbit's acceptance of another nonce into the inner sanctum. If I was him I would have had the lawyerly mr umbungo all over the case.
Tebbit often whines that he is misquoted, misrepresented over his On yer bike remarks, he never meant it quite like that or didn't say it but few would doubt that his thinlipped, cadaverous, greedy soul meant exactly that, and worse. Wasn't his gang of bent spivs determined that (someone else's) employment was a price worth paying, and do we not see, all around us, the generational consequences of their filthy cynicism?
The sneer is Tebbit's default expression and as he sneered at those dashed on the rocks of his vicious policies so he licked the arses of the City gangsteriste noueveau, begging for his crumbs. It is easy to see him sneering, too, at the fate of worthless social services rentboys, what were they, compared to Greed's Crusade.
Somebody should ask his fucking Lordship about this Morrison business. And be quick about it, before he, like his mate, Jim, is feeling Satan's poker up his arse.
Well, of course, if I had known that the kiddybuggering and killing were fact and not rumour, I'd have privatised them. And yes, probably taken on a non-executive directorship after retirement, but not for the money, just to protect the taxpayers' interests.
Jolly nice chap, Jimmy Savile, and rather sharp.
Self-made man, just like me.
In 1986, Edwina Currie wrote in her diary:
‘One appointment in the recent reshuffle has attracted a lot of gossip and could be very dangerous: Peter Morrison has become the PM’s PPS [Parliamentary Private Secretary]. Now he’s what they call a ‘noted pederast’, with a liking for young boys; he admitted as much to Norman Tebbit when he became deputy chairman of the party but added ‘However, I’m very discreet’ – and he must be! She [Thatcher] either knows and is taking a chance, or doesn’t; either way, it’s a really dumb move.
The lady's not for turning.