THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE, WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?

Quite sickening, this head-chopping jamboree, the act, its broadcasting, its dreadful, protracted arrival but also the victims, themselves; just who the fuck do they think they are, Bruce Willis?

This bloke, Haines, he had young children, what was he thinking about? His gruesome murder will define their lives. Yeah, that's my Dad, having his head hacked-off by some nutterbastard, want my autograph?  

Never mind all his showy good works, somebody who claimed to care about him - and there's a plague of them -  should have given him a sobering slap round the ear, told him, get a job down LIDL or whatever they have in fucking Croatia, where he lived, just don't make me have to watch you getting your head cut off, eh? Prick.

Terry Waite started it, another posturing egomaniac, whose great ambition was to be Man of the Year on the front cover of Time magazine; Archbishop of Canterbury's Special Envoy to the Middle East, he was styled, like some mediaeval Papal legate, a bigmouthed beardy gabshite, world's full of them. 


Anyway, he was kidnapped and Ahmed, not giving a fuck  about the Archbishop of Canterbury, kept Big Tel for years.

Simpering, right-on, boyish journalist John McCarthy  was another one whose fate was supposed to concern me for years, as though I had personally begged him to go into that shithole and send me despatches. 


John had a pretty bint back at home whom the media loved, as she devised new ways, fresh anniversaries of capture and so on to keep his name in our faces, keep their love alive. Only trouble was that when JohnBoy was released it turned out he didn't love Jill Morrel any more, bless. The nation was denied a happy ending;  still, him and Big Tel got out with their balls still attached and their heads on.

And there was another gobby captive, Brian Keenan, 
an absolutely unendurable little Irishman.

Hailed, in the way of these things, as conquering heroes, this trio of nitwits was  awarded some gong or other,


Order of Stupidity, I hope. 
 
Today, there's always some daft civilian fucker in captivity, journalist  or aid worker;  it's a brainless taxi driver, just now, went-out-there-to-help-people, he did, great bloke and everything, just got shit for brains; probably thought,  Wow,  he's so fucking good, himself, that nothing bad could happen to him,  that Ahmed would see the very real and meaningful difference between him and some RAF bod bombing his kids' playground, between him and some vicious Lancashire BovverBoys, togged-up in Her Majesty's best and beating civilians to death.  And now, all who knew him are honour-bound to participate, to join the walk down  Decapitation's broadcast aisle. Who, for fucks sake, would want to be helped by somebody as unpardonably, selfishly  stupid as David Haines or Alan Wotsisname?   Not me, anyway, keep the fuck away from me, do-gooders.

The obvious do-gooding for do-gooders to do is to scream and fucking yell at government and military on all sides, shout and bawl at intolerable fucking Imam beardy bastards and Sheiks and fucking Rabbis, chaplains; military chaplains. was there ever such fucked-up and contradictory a profession, sprinkling holy water on the cruise missiles?  But no, they all, followers of Death's caravan, they all probably describe themselves as partners, tooled-up warriors and gormless tent-erectors like Haines, water-carriers like Wotsisname,  all working together, knee-deep in blood and fucking sanctimony.

It would be in everyone's interests if Haines et al just restrained their egos for a while and realised that thay are actually making matters worse, holding, as they do,  Villainy's coat for him, tempering. minutely, his excesses, fooling themselves and seeking to fool us that Good, actually, you know what, is Triumphant. Fucking idiots,  the more they meddle, the more they save a handful of thirsting lives here and there, the more empowered grow Mr Death and his Sergeants; they should just, in the  parlance of the Newpeople, not go there. Let Justice hear her own voice and raise it.

This, if it is anybody's work, this poxy sanitising of Carnage, this is soldiers' work, not taxi drivers'. This is the work of the United Nations, the work of heavily-armed men in body armour and APCs.  To recognise that, of course, would be to - at the very least - increase the costs of the Death Industry and - at worst - to  illuminate the Stone Age imbecility of statespersons, clergypersons and  Brigadier Generals Rupert Golightly Jockstrap, the world over.

This repulsive creature, Jihad John and his cameraman, they only wield the blade, the true conspirators reside in the White House
 and  in the palaces of Saudi Arabia




- both of whom permit and encourage similar atrocities to be perpetrated on their own citizens 

- is in their unsung, unprotected, unpaid and unpensioned  service that these foolish men died;  it is for the useless strutting of David Cameron and the buffoonery of COBRA that Haines lost his life.

And although we might legitimately enquire why it is that in light of recent revelations of national, industrial-scale beasting in every strata of society the NSPCC didn't just quietly and decently disband itself, if we seek a darker, more farcical interpretation of the new nature of Charity we need look no further than the world's current leading philanthro-bandits, Tony'n'Imelda Blair.

Oh, the Sisters of Mercy, 
they are not departed or gone.