A punch in the face is no laughing matter. Showbusiness, of course, depicts people being drop-kicked and pistol-whipped, smashed full in the face with a nailed boot, yet laughing and grinning ruefully, just a few moments later. The older I grow the more these enactments frustrate me; the human body is, no other word for it, a miracle, its powers of reconstitution and repair beyond the wildest imaginings of technology; to kick it about and wound it deliberately seems wanton and stupid;
to invite violence on oneself is not the conduct of a wise man, for it begets itself, time and again and hurts others; it is the soft words, rather than the vain, gabshite grandstanding, which turn away Wrath.
That the disgusting old whore, Galloway, should be struck, while posing for pictures is a bitter-sweet irony which will be lost on him; that there is at least one person in the UK unenthralled by his shouty, undiscerning celebrity he can probably live with but even that fact will chafe a little at our great people's champion and poseur. It will be interesting to see if, as it should, this episode knocks Georgie off the plinth of his own vanity or if it becomes embellished the more with the facetious mythology of his unending struggle for the creation of a (now) Islamo-Socialist Republic On Earth.
A spiritual Native American, I never permit my photograph to be taken, believing, like them, that it amounts to theft of the soul. That Galloway cannot live without his image being endlessly cosmeticised, tailored and widely reproduced, this alone bespeaks his unworthiness.
See you, Jimmy?
Jim Murphy, however, speaks softly and has, to my knowledge, never, as has Galloway, demeaned himself on Cruelty TeeVee. The Scot, Murphy, has had a bit of a ministerial career without the vast over-promotions given his fellow-Jocks, people like the unspeakable John Thug Cock-Waving Reid or Robin Morality Cook, Des Browne, Douglas Alexander, Christ, there's scores of the fuckers; all of whom seem to me lesser intellects, coarser politicians than is Murphy; these are only character nuances for Murphy is nonethless a fully paid-up, thieving, NewLabour warmonger, with the blood and torture of millions stalking his dreams, or so we must hope.
Courageously, however, Murphy has been on a whistle-stop sort of tour of Scotland, making the case for to-getherism. Aping Johnny Underpants, Murphy pulls into town and stands on an upturned soft-drinks box, well, not very soft, Irn Bru, a drink containing enough sugar to fell, hyperglycaemic, a non-Glaswegian and does a question-and-answer show; fair enough, Reid is too busy enriching himself, sucking on Satan's cock to make an appearance, Gordon Snot is now perhaps stumblingly aware that actually he is an embarrassment and Edinburgh-born Tony Blair is standing ahead, even, of John Reid, in the queue to fellate the Devil. Alastair Darling, another ancient over-promotee, looks as lacklustre, as caught-in-the-headlights rabitty as he did when stood beside Snotty, shovelling my money into the mouth of GlobaCorp. It falls, then, to people like Murphy to make the case.
Intimidation, though, has driven him off. In the main, the tribesmen are utterly, utterly repuslive human beings, wilfully backward, unable to frame their own names whilst sober; ensnared by a history which they completely misunderstand; shepherded from womb to tomb intact only under the supervision of Anglo-Scots and increasingly of common-or-garden English. I know it sounds terribly incorrect but native Scots fill so few crucial posts in the country not because of an English tyranny but becasue they are, themselves, unfit; not all of them but very many spend their lives raging abour things which never happened and wouldn't matter even if they had, Jock is a vengeful, inebriate cross-dressing wife beater, his stupefied malevolence destructive to all but especially to himself, for how much longer must we blame the miserable life expectancy of some Glaswegians on John Bull; when will Jock realise that drinking, gobbling fat, smoking and sitting on your dwarf, scrawny arse is lethal?
POSITIVELY JOCK STREET
That, the Jockism, is not something I say lightly but it is my experience; their discourse is bitter, vile and rancid, they are bullies, Salmond's Brownshirts-in-the-waiting and perhaps now, no longer in the waiting. Heckling meetings is one thing, bussing-in squads of moron thugs and breaking then up is quite another. Salmond, typically, will not condemn his most rabid disciples, hinting that togetherists also deploy Nazi tactics, even though they don't, even though there is not a shred of evidence anywhere in Scotland of a mobile No-vote strike squad, Salmond smirks that there is.
Galloway and Murphy are career politicians for whom I have little if any sympathy; such sympathy as I might feel is baked from the No Man Is An Island recipe; I despise them both, a pox on them and their houses. Of the two events, however, an enraged individual belting a shape-shiftimg, shameless celebrity bully in the mouth and an orchestrated, neo-Nazi mob owning the public space I know which is the more worrisome.