MURDER, HOW TO GET AWAY WITH IT. AND HOW NOT TO.

 

The deputy first minister of Northern Ireland is handsomely paid, resourced, pensioned and protected by the British taxpayer. As is the case with Tony'n'Imelda Blair, the security costs in relation to  McGuinness will be unlimited and will be paid until his death. Millions and millions of pounds, to protect an acknowledged mass murderer, the most successful criminal of our time.

Serial killer, Marty Kneecaps, has never worked, is a career revolutionary sadist and  at my expense  leads a life of luxury, fawned upon, even though his psycopathy is ill-disguised and although cruelty, menace and  viciousness crackle around him, like electricity. McGuinness is a freak.  Although, by any evaluation, he should be held in a secure institution for the criminally insane,  this psychokiller is welcomed and entertained by the British monarch 

 

and by our motley crew of first and prime ministers. 

 

First ministers 4 Justice.
Och, aye, intimidate our electorate and tell them lies, well, that's just what you have to do for their own good and anybody says otherwise is scaremongering; Project Fear.
Aye, yer no' wrong there, so yer not, Alec.

Marty is also feted abroad,  by a community of fellow monsters, anxious to acquire from him what he impudently describes as his conflict resolution skills, his knack for peace-processing,  by intimidation, by torture and by murder.

During the Ulster war, largely instigated and waged by the now deputy first minister, then commander of the Provisional IRA,  nearly fifty thousand civilians were injured and of the three and a half thousand killed, eleven hundred were members of the official security forces, approximately three hundred police officers and eight hundred members of HM armed forces.

 Challenged about his astonishing  criminal record, Marty, the repulsive shit, counters that he deplores the  killings on all sides, so he does; many bad things happened on both sides, so they did,  as he bombed and shot  his way to power, but since he wasn't responsible for all of them, he's not responsible for any of them, sure, how could he be?  British Govament, it was all their fault. When it comes to effrontery, even Gerry'n'Cilla could take lessons from this monstrous piece of filth.

Nearly fifty thousand civilians were injured during what is euphemistically termed The Troubles. Many of those responsible for this orgy of largely nationalist slaughter were either not prosecuted or were released early from prison sentences, prime minister Blair's and president Spunky Bill Clinton's view being  that the only way to burnish their piss-thin,  tinny legacy was to stop the IRA killing, torturing and maiming people.  And the only way to accomplish this   rudimentary compliance with Decency's rules was to pardon their previous crimes in the hope that they wouldn't commit any more; it is a stratagem unique in British jurisprudence, the pardoning of mass murderers, torturers, arsonists, bombers and vigilante kneecappers  in order to ensure their future good behaviour. Oh, yes, and then permitting them to frighten and persecute their way into elected office. Bit of a mixed message, that, to put it mildly, from an establishment which never does deals with terrorists.

Harry Roberts, on the other hand, a London criminal,  during the commission of a 1966  armed robbery,  participated in the murders of three police officers, sounds a lot but it wouldn't even be a practice run for Ulster's deputy first minister;  he'd manage three before breakfast. Since his conviction, Mr Roberts  has been in prison for forty-eight years, and at the age of seventy-eight has been granted conditional release on parole. One would think that the Devil, himself,  after an Eternity of murder, mayhem and noncing, was being granted a Royal pardon, a seat among the beasts in the House of Lords and a country estate.

Marty Kneecaps is immune from prosecution for  hundreds of times as many police murders as Harry Roberts committed.  He enjoys similar immunity  in the matter of tens of thousands of people maimed, burned, blinded and seriously injured, as well as in the matter of billions of pounds worth of security costs, of damage and compensation claims  - more than enough to fund a five-star health service - being borne by we, the taxpayers. This startling state of affairs is hailed as a triumph of statespersonship. And while it  is second-nature-easy  for Spermface Osborne to blame poorly-paid dinner ladies and cleaners for their greed, blame the weakest for NHS decline, you'll never hear the pasty little crook say, Actually,D'YouKnowWhat,  it's partly Martin McGuinness's fault that we are short of money, even though, obviously,  it is.

 It is hard to find official figures on the costs of the Troubles, troubles which, incidentally,  could and should have been avoided, could easily have been short-circuited in 1969 by the arseholes then in  MediaMinster, had they simply extended universal franchise to Ulster - one man, one vote - none of this McGuinness shit would have happened.  I was there, in Belfast,   when it started, a perfectly legitimate civil rights protest ny nice, mainly young, non-sectarian people; met by government intransigence, it was allowed to be  escalated and hijacked by the then marginal Provos.  Maybe it is government's collusion in stupidity which makes it reluctant to provide proper accounts.  But fuck them, the bent politicians and crooked mandarins, we can make a guess.

Academics' estimates  of the military bill range between half a billion and a billion  pounds but, as we know,  courtesy of prime minister Snot, War Money is Magic Money, comes from contingency funds, doesn't therefore, really exist, doesn't actually cost anything;  half a million pounds missiles, they are not paid for with real, schools'n'ospitals money, but with contingency funds which never run-out, never need replacing,  don't actually exist;   but, look, lessbeclear,  you  can't expect ordinary stupid people to understand that, they must just be told.  And on top of that, Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap often says that wars like this provide valuable training for his chaps, or is it his people, these days,  - in passing, I think the Army was fucked from the moment its members started talking of one another as colleagues not comrades,  but that's another story one linked to the army widows' TeeVee careers, the exhibitionistic Amputees 4 Harry and the Royal Cheshire Torturers Regiment, aka The Queen's Own Beasters -  giving them an opportunity to get in there and do a real, magnificent, professional  job of work and anyway, we already pay for the forces,  may as well get some service  out of the bounders;  doesn't really cost anything, y'see, because  we have the soldiers anyway, so what's the point of a standing army if it's sitting down on its arse, may as well get their balls blown off in Ulster as anywhere else.  Actually, therefore,  according to Whitehall, the thirty-year war in Ulster and on the Mainland didn't cost a penny in military terms; we could just as easily have sent eight hundred Tommies off to their deaths practically anywhere and as for all the guns, armoured vehicles, helicopers, body armour, we would have needed all that anyway;  Golightly-Jockstrap, in fact, was actually, at the end of the day, when all's said and done, the bottom line is that he was only sort-of spending his own pocket money;  the Devil, as we MenOfTheWorld say, is in the detail, detail which, on the grounds of national security, we never release. But take our word for it, we wouldn't lie to you. And as for looking after the hitherto healthy but now limbless, eyeless and bowel-less squaddie, well,  that's what the Poppies are all about, isn't it?  Ulster, then, probably  a net profit, miltarily speaking, we should, as a matter of fact,  shake McGuiness's gravedigger hand, old man;  wossat, we often do? Yes, yes, I suppose we do.  Yes, even her Majesty.

But what about the decades-long blitzes, 

 

on Belfast, Enniskillen, Lisburn, 

 

Omagh, Warrington, Manchester, Birmingham, Coventry, Guildford, 

Now youse  had better just pay attention.
Them two wee lads in Warringtom, they just had to be blown to fuckin' bits, so they did.
For Ireland's Freedom.
And let me tell youse, there's nobody in Sinn Fein regrets them deaths less than me.
Mr Gerry Adams, responsible for thousands of murders.
Years spent in custody for same - none.

Commnder of the IRA, Martin McGuinness.
Fought a war of terror against the British state, its security forces and civilians, men women and children,  their lives, limbs and properties. Fifty thousand assualted and wounded, four thousand murdered.
Years spent in custody - none.

 One of the McGuinness expenses  is the still-ongoing search for Ulster's Disappeared, IRA victims snatched, tortured and buried in the bogs, on his orders.

And what about Canary Wharf, 


Hyde Park?  

We have already erstablished that murdered troops and civilians don't matter but lots of these locations have been completely rebuilt, must've cost billions. Billions of pounds of schools'n'ospitals money. No? Oh, right, city centres need rebuilding anyway, so Marty and the Monsters did us all a favour, hurrying us along, towards a shiny, glass-fronted Cathedral of Consumption in every town. The construction industry and the citizens of these places, they  should shake Marty's widowmaker hand?  Yes, of course they should. And it is of course tragic that children were blown to smithereens, of course it is,  but we mustn't get involved in the blame game, must we, gets us nowhere, quite frankly.

Mr Tony Blair.
Instrumental in the deaths of tens of thousands, instrumental in creating millions of refugees and in inflaming, prolonging and spreading multiple conflicts in, so far,  the Midle East and Southern Asia.
Years spent in custody in respect of same - none.

But back to the question of what it all cost us and we are making progress, now, on the matter  -  the military costs were non-existent, soldiers' resettlement costs are a matter for charity and the reconstruction costs are, in fact, a blessing; Angels in disguise, actually, saved us some of the demolition costs, Marty Kneecaps and his Torture Brigade, the HardMen of West Bulfaaaast. Well, nancy boys, really, if you ask me, cruel, cruel arse bandits, 

 

taking BDSM to stunning, exotic new heights;  

burying people alive, what a rush that is, slapping women around in front of their children, and there's just nothing, nu-thing com-pares2 drilling though a young man's knees with a Black and Decker. But no, it was a dirty job, murdering and torturing and somebody had to do it, even though they didn't, not really, not in the sense of being held responsible, and that's the thing that counts, no, if they haven't been charged and convicted and done time they're not criminals,   and in fact they did us all a great favour, actually. And we should be proud to shake their hand, yes,  that's good, that is, proud to shake the hand that held the drill.  Pure poetry, so it is.

And all the health and social security costs attendant on fifty-thousand casualties and four thousand deaths? Yes, but they woulda had to be paid sooner or later, everybody gets sick, everybody dies, right?  So no cost there, to the taxpayer, either. And actually,  members of this house should know that,  challenged by the results of the unimaginable cruelties perpetrated by the deputy first minister and his bumchums, surgeons in Northern Ireland were able to develop a whole raft of treatments for extracting bags  of broken nails from the bodies of teenagers and children and old people, for repairing and rebuilding joints and tendons patriotically ruined by a power tool's intrusion and  expert  twisting about. Aye, conflict resolution, 'swhat we call it. 

President Hillary Trousers courts the American-Irish vote. 
I am sure she's kissed worse things.
But probably not for a long time.

And surgeons, surgeons es-pecially, them's the ones, so th'are, as should be proud to shake the mutilator's hand, for if it wasn't fer us, me an' yon brave boys, there, sure they'da had hardly any work to do. Patron Saint of Surgery?  Saint Marty? Aye, well I wooden mind, so I wooodent.  Only be the right thing, after all, so it wood. Fair's fair.

Our national debt of honour, therefore, is owed not just to Tony'n'Imelda  but also to the saintly Marty McKneecaps, a man who has demonstrated, time and again,  that Yes, you can  torture and kill hundreds  of police officers and hundreds of soldiers, year after year after year;  yes, you can kill thousands of entirely innocent men, women and children, injure tens of thousand, year after year after year;  yes, you can destroy city centres like you were Hermann fucking Goering;  there need be no limit to your own personal and political depravity, clad in Nobility's balaclava, you can bomb the nursery's comfort and the sickbed's sanctuary;  young, old or ill, combatant and civilian alike, shoot them in the back, bomb them in the dark, bury them, alive. And not only will it not cost anything but you will never, ever, ever go to jail, so you won't.

Mr Harry Roberts, however,  

 

Harry Roberts.
Committed two murders, convicted of three.
Time spent in custody - forty eight years.

 and his partial release at the end of his life  and for a year or two at best, is damned as an outrage to Decency and has led some lardy, embarrassingly ignorant and fearlfully ly stupid  Poundland bint 

to call for the reintroduction of the death penalty, although if it wasn't this that  prompted her immoral indignation it'd be something else; for Sergeant Filth and his union to insist, again, that his life and his members' are more valuable than that of any other murder victim's; best of all, this tiny act of tiny mercy has chorussed together all the rotten, wormy, inebriate, poxed-up, crooked and rotten tyub-thumping, rabble rousing  voices  of skymadeupnewsandfilth - what ToryTurd Ian Hislop describes as the free and independent press -  as they  scream and howl for the devising of Infinite Punishment.

Briefly, on the box, I saw some silly old cunt, a child in the vicinty at the time of Mr Roberts's offences, still, fifty years on, engaging in recreational mourning for the cameras, I never got over it, he wailed, why should he be allowed out? I don't know what that fucking numbskull would do if   he'd lived through the Blitz or been born in Belfast at the time I was.

I knew a young social worker in Selly Oak, in the mid-'eighties, she and all of her young, female - and male - colleagues would, almost daily, in the line of duty as officers of the court,  go to places to visit or supervise those whom Old Bill would only visit tooled-up and mob-handed;  Francis and two of the perpetrator's children were murdered, by a man who had been in my office a week previously,  I did tell his caseworker that I thought him highly dangerous but she and the victim had many such on their swollen case-loads, many such but potentially worse;  the Police Federation, never too keen on equal opportunities,  had nothing to say about the murders but then even  the trauma of having his helmet knocked-off generally leads constable Filth to six months' sick leave, his being caught in criminality to early retirement on health grounds.  I don't deplore and regret the killing of a police officer any less than I do that of any other victim but I certainly don't deplore it any more and there is, indeed,  a perfectly  reasonable argument which  says  Better him than me - he voluntarily joined-up to protect me, he is trained, equipped, he is paid and pensioned to protect me, he retires early as a result of having protected me, his wife or partner and his dependants will be well provided-for should he die in the line of duty;  nurses die in the line of duty, are killed by their patients, social workers, teachers, too, risks of the job to which, clearly, there is no absolute deterrent;  if you don't want to be killed a police officer then simply don't be a police officer, job done, evenin' all.

The random apportioning and non-apportioning of guilt has become a commonplace of Ruin, successive home seckatries hating the petty benefits cheat, pursuing the impoverished non-BBC-taxpayer to the ends of the Earth, whilst endlessly and guilefully deflecting any scrutiny of My Noble and Learned Friend, the Lord  KiddyFucker, QC, PC and so on;  the disabled are paraded naked across the pages of the Daily Filth, nonces and war criminals spirited away to Brussels or the Middle East, their dodgy personal relationships, like their expenses, accidentally - Oh, Whoops! - shredded.  Or closed to public scrutiny until after all concerned are dead.

McGuinness, though and Adams and all their ghastly fraternity,  their pardoning is the most cynical reversal of Decency and Common Sense that  I  have ever witnessed - torturers, proud of their scourges, cigarette ends and power tools, waltzing and fucking each other around the legislative palaces, rebuking us for even knowing of their Devilment, threatening us, should we complain, with more of the same. Yet a one-time conventional criminal with but three deaths to his account - nothing, compared with McGuinness's  rapsheet - has leapt over Mayhem's Premier League to colonise our attention, our outrage.

For the Parole Board to have reached this decision about Mr Roberts' final years he must be deemed as not presenting a risk, that he understands the seriousness of his offences and is remorseful. One would imagine that Mr Roberts' forty-eight years in jail would  satisfy even the most vengeful among our punishment-fixated society, that in a country which, though largely faithless,  now, more than  ever, boasts implicitly  of its white Christianity,  a simple, end-of-life mercy such as this would not be controversial;  shame on Poundland, shame on the coppers, shame on skymadeupnewsandfilth, shame on Joe fucking Bloggs, drunk, wife-beater, bigot and ignoramus, shame on them that they would piss on even a moment's Mercy.  

What they want, these insatiable punishment arseholes, what they really really want is Sharia, dressed in a Union Jack; as mr tdg said, were they not too stupid to recognise it, what they will see is the face of their own slavery, leering back at them from Poundland's dark mirror.

They are not all Poundlanders, of course;   Colonel von Fawkes, this year's model Kelvin Mckenzie, for all his Newsman of the People schtick, is Bigotry's Fool, the Brute in Liberty's stolen clothes; vast swathes of the Redneck Forest on the Tory benches would wet themselves at the thought of a good hanging, a flogging or a thousand -year jail sentence,  the Daily Mail panders to I'd Pull The Lever Myselfers, Life Should Mean Lifers, Spare The Rod And Spoil The Childers, people who daily, creduliously fork-up and  swallow-down  the Peace Process Can of Worms whilst working themselves into apoplectic stupor at the though of one old man enjoying a few months of tightly regulated freedom outside Custody's walls.

Fuck UKIP, fuck the gutter press. When they pursue well-connected criminals I will join their hue and cry. In the meantime, I hope Harry Roberts scents  a Spring or two's blossoms,  knows, once more,  the feel of the wind on his face and sniffs a  fragrance more wholesome  than those of other men's piss and sperm. Forty eight years of that is enough.