I mean, obviously, as a spiritual man, I don't wanna pay any income tax. Hare Krishna, man, Peace and like, Love, man. You know?
Flashy Scouse Hindus, don't you just fucking hate them?
Well they said you was high-classed
but that was just a lie.
There was a series on telly, recently, about some appalling Indian hotel which catered to monied riff-raff like these two as well as to minor jet-set filth, it was like Claridges with Curry, every bastard bowing and fucking scraping to rich, bejewelled Hindi filth. It was open-mouthed, jaw-dropping telly, people acting like Maharajahs. I wouldn't give India a penny until they hang some of these bastards and confiscate their money, their homes and their elephants.
A couple of summers ago I saw Much Ado About Curry, I mean Nothing, at Stratford upon Avon, a cast of second-generation immigrant Indian luvvies mocking - none so racist as the caste-conscious - the Goodness-Gracious Empire snobbery of those whom they had thought of as their great grandparents but who are in fact, people alive and well, working in and patronising this shithole of a time-warp hotel. Welcome to the Hotel Raj Britannia. Anni and Wotsisname, the not-murderer-but-murderer-really, would have fitted right in, stuck up their own arses, posing and poncing and dancing their seven-step Hindi vows; maybe they had their repulsive, social climbing wedding knees-up there. The staff would all have lain down in order for bride and groom to walk on them and the guests would have pinned rupee notes to their garish costumes. It was an India far removed from the space-racing biggest democracy on the planet of popular reportage and while Mr and the late Mrs Dewani are of Ugandan origin, their religious and cultural ties are obviously to what we used to call the sub-continent; neither would pass Norman Tebbit's Test Match test, more jumped-up wog and buttonhead wogess than the rich, cultured, Tory-voting European, beloved of Lord Norm of ChildBeastings.
The sister of the murdered Mrs Dewani has appeared on the GlobaTube I don't know how many times.
It's not as often as Bill Roache on Coronation Street
but she might yet give him a run for his money.
Oh, fuck me, Vishnu, if only I had of known that he was a filthy pervert, a bit of a Straight Simon Hughes, maybe I would of talked my little sister out of marrying the filthy degenerate bastard. And maybe she would of still been alive, to-day.
Maybe, too, if the bride hadn't immersed herself in all this showy vulgarity, all this snooty superstition and sham, maybe if the parents hadn't all been such gaudy vulgarians, maybe if she'd married a whaddatheycallem, these oh-so-charming Hindi families, an untouchable, is that it, an unclean one? Maybe if she'd married an untouchable, instead of some preening, neurotic prick, maybe she'd have been alive to-day. Maybe if they'd honeymooned less pretentiously in Paris, she'd still have been alive, maybe if she'd told her ghastly family to go and fuck themselves, she'd still have been alive. But marrying an unclean one, well, actually, and Oh My Goodness Gracious Me, marrying out of one's own caste is so much worse than death, don't you agree, sahib?