The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
Saturday, 8 November 2014
A UNIQUELY BRITISH PERVERSION
The late Mr Auberon Waugh, satirical journalist and Shire Tory, used to lament the insatiable British appetite for punishment; I wonder what he would have made of Teacher's Terrible Murder and its consequences.
And now we have a fifteen-year-old kid whose - admittedly vile and
stupidity-filled - crime of violence has him denounced as hopeless and
not fit perhaps ever to be released. (I would have thought that a
juvenile cannot be banged up forever, m'lud, thank-you.) And this
apparently bright young man should be among the easiest to be made to
realise his error and to get back on track. Tabloid justice once again.
Pornsters, drunks, guardian's of the nation's morality; just look at them, filth, smirking, on four legs.
Kelvin Patriot. The nation's favourite editor. Yeah, darlin', minute you're sixteen, I wanna see your tits in my 'paper.
There was a pre-tabloid time, mr mongoose, before teenage tits and redneck bluster lit our path, when youngsters behaving like this lad were detained during Her Majesty's Pleasure - a period to be determined by Authority after which the needs of punishment, deterrence and rehabilitation had been met, enabling the release of a readjusted young person, his or her privacy were generally maintained in the hope that good might come from bad. Now, vengeful McKenzieism sits wigged and robed on the Bench.
There was a time, too, before Tony Blair and Jack
Torture sold it, that we had a professional probation service
dedicated to what it called the Advise, Assist and Befriend approach to
I simply say, what's the point of rehabilitating people? When you can, y'know, torture them? I must say, prime minister, that I am minded to agree. And y'know, home seckatry, there is a life after politics, and we could, y'know, join the board of GlobaTorture. Yes, prime minister, and perhaps our sons could inherit our seats. Now, home seckatry, that's pushing it a bit, even for us. a realistically rehabilitative group of thoughtful men and women, so soft and lily-livered and namby-pamby that everyday they would - singly and totally unequipped - visit tough people in hard locations, where Old Bill would only go mob-handed and tooled-up; all scorned, now, the idea of humane intervention and correction by example, by ToryLabour, ToryLiberals and ToryPoundlanders, that braying nitwit, Grayling, demanding less humanity and more cost-effective, privatised punishment.
I was left speechless by this particularly vile Mr Justice Slag, so stupid, so vain, so cruel were his crowd-pleasing jeers but I was also bemused by the victim's family biting on its angry tongue, immune from, indifferent to sudden Death's cautionary tincture - had Mrs Maguire truly been the angel whom they mourned would she have enjoyed the public destruction and torment of her former pupil and his seemingly blameless parents; would she really have endorsed this rank hatred; would she not have seen that, through myriad portals, a virus can enter not just some throwaway ouija-pad but the very mind of one prey to fashionably inculcated alienation; poor lad, his head was fucked by Infotainment's undiscerning phallus and he had invented an identity to please his corporate violators; would she have wished his crass vilification and his endless torture? I don't know but if she had it would seem to be a betrayal of her acclaimed patience and understanding and a failure, also, to understand the risks attendant upon even the glimmering stardom of the classroom.
Teachers choose to occupy a fragile No-Man's Land between the cuddly infancy and the sharp-elbowed careerism of their charges, happy to fulfill a social worker's role for which they are unqualified, teachers are often at risk from child and parent alike and occasionally one of them is picked-off. Magistracide remains, neverthelerss, very rare, all the more reason for the state, in the form of Mr Justice Ramp-It-Up Coulson, not to ape Hanging Judge Jeffries but to seek a remedy of whatever it is which impels a child to stab his teacher over and over again with a breadknife and to find with each wretched plunge a dark self-actualisation. Coulson, one feels, would burn such children at the stake, the worthless piece of shit. He sentenced this child to twenty-five per cent longer than than the boy had lived and as if that was not enough goaded he and his parents with the barely disguised wish that he be shackled and contained forever and ever, Amen. Hanging, it's too good for Coulson. It's people like him make me want to go and live in Norway.
When I was a kid, a copy of Catcher in the Rye sticking out of one's blazer was all it took to define one's rebelliousness; now, yoof is bombarded, seduced by pixcillated existential angst, participates in graphic hunt-and-kill XBox adventures, has simple, unfettered access to the bleakest human imaginings and enactments, his ouija-phone not, as simpering parents insist, a means of keeping in contact with their Luve Em2Bits, Me brats but exposing them to the dark universe of 120 Days of Sodom and encouraging them to participate. Today's Bash Street Kid is also bullied, brainwashed and hamstrung by what they call social media, the cashcows for smirking, bullet-headed American misfits, like Mark Zuckerberg and his vile FaceBooking nonsense. Yoof is told by cynical fascists like Fat Alec Salmond and Gnasher Sturgeon that even though it doesn't know its arse from a hole in the ground its vote is crucial to a properly-functioning democracy; just as long as it's cast for the right organised criminal clique. Exploited and corrupted on every front, our youth; how long until we see US High School-style massacres?
Until we cross that happy event horizon we must, meantime, droolingly relish the witch-hunting viciousness of the oafish Mr Justice Coulson as he damns one of our thoughtlessly damaged fruits
and calls him all the Names of Wickedness.
.......if you cried, you know you'd fill a lake with tears.