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
I emailed Swiss Bob, as I figured he had to be a more experienced blogger than I was and asked him this,
“Thanks for featuring Immediate Response on your site. I have just started blogging and you seem integrated into a vocal community. I wondered if you would mind giving me some top tips on spreading my blog about a bit. Would you mind checking it out and sharing some of your wisdom?”
To which he replied,
“Find some blogs that you like, comment on them using your blog profile, an avatar/picture will help (mine is the Matterhorn for ‘Swiss Bob’), if it’s of you and it’s attractive even better, but the usual warnings about the Internet apply, as the blog is in your own name, you might as well. People can find you through your comments. (Update: I just visited your blog, you’re no horror show J put your picture on the main page)
Create profiles for CiF, the Telegraph, Coffee House, the most popular sites, leaving comments and occasionally links back to your own blog, these may be frowned upon but you need people to find you. Try to be inventive and amusing, not just “I’ve posted this: xxxx”.
Blogger has the ‘Blogroll’, see righthand sidebar above the archive at the bottom of the blog, these are sites I link to, other people link to me. Lots of people go round asking to be linked, I don’t bother, if they do they do. Old Holborn has just linked me again, being a base and popular fellow, he sends me quite a few visitors, as does Mr Theo Spark of ‘Last of the Few’. (Update II. I’ve just added you to TDP)
Add yourself as a ‘follower’ on blogs you like or that cover relevant subjects. Does WordPress have a widget like this? Check out what widgets are available to you.
If you’re interested I would be happy to post anything you have and link to your blog. I can’t say you’ll get tons of visitors but it’s a start. We have an opening for a defence correspondent.”
I said,
“Thanks for the advice – I really appreciate. It’s like a whole new world. I am have never considered myself a techno biff but for some reason I can’t seem to work out how to get that pic on the front page! I ‘ll keep trying. Thanks for adding me to TDP – I have added you to mine too, which means that you, as my only reader, can now click back to your own blog! Viral marketing at it’s best!
Did you waft the Defence Correspondent carrot under my nose to see if I was interested in taking the gig? I would be interested if you did. I don’t suppose there would be any money involved would there? Do you have a definition of what you expect from your DC?
BTW – I googled CiF, as I am such a luddite I didn’t know what it was and the result was:
California Interscholastic Federation Construction Industry Federation Common Intermediate Format Cum in Face (internet Escort Slang)
None of these seem particularly linked to blogging! C”
He said,
“Very funny. CiF is Comment is Free (except it’s not, unlike The Daily Politics), the Guardian’s ‘blog’ pages, actually not the best place to attract visitors from but depending on your politics, it’s fun to bait the loonies. Telegraph Politics blogs can provide hundreds of visitors, as can Coffee House . Guido Fawkes is good for quite a few, as is that mad old bugger Old Holborn. There are obviously many others, like Mrs Dale.
The post of Defence Correspondent really is an offer, you could do it under your own name, or a pseudonym, I really don’t know the identities of some of my authors, and no there’s no money in it, because there’s no revenue to speak of (six months Google ad revenue wouldn’t buy us a decent dinner). This may change, I’ll let you know if it does. What I would like is inside info, and I don’t mean secret, little stories from the front line, what’s happening in Afghanistan on the ground, what problems the troops are facing etc. And feel free to come up with your own ideas.”
I said,
“That sounds great – I am in. The inside story from my perspective I can give you. I am quite active on the military forum ARRSE – I am not sure if you have heard of it but I will plug the fact that I am now your defence correspondent, which will drive people to your blog. I’ll think about what I think the opening gambit is going to be and I’ll make it a good opener.”
And the Bob announced it to the world. So that is how it happened…….cogitating now. I am about to draft my debut post for http://www.the-daily-politics.com and annoyingly I don’t think it’s going to include any of the ideas from the ARRSE http://www.arrse.co.uk which means they are going to berate me and hand my “arrse” to me if they even bother to read it! Oh well, I can’t live my blogging life worrying about what anonymous bunch of folk on a mentalist military forum think of me.
Mr Tiny Speaker nearly shows Mrs Tiny Speaker's drawers to the boys.
The Filth-o-graph can reveal that Mr Tiny Speaker is worse than the last bastard, Gorbals Mick.
Mr and Mrs Tiny Speaker, already on a huge salary and armour-plated pension, insist that the taxpayer stump up for a large TV and DVD player, because of the children; that the free flat be redecorated to the tune of £45, 000, because of the children. Oh and Sky, too, because of the children.
Mr and Mrs Tiny Speaker, or you and I, have also spent just over a grand a week on entertaining - piss ups - since the wee fellow was elected. Plus ca change, plus ca meme chose.
Mr and Mrs Tiny Speaker out walking, one of her steps to two of his.
Mr Tommy Sheridan, Leader of the Himself Party, faces the cameras as he fails to take the Glasgow-North Westminster seat. I didnae do it an' I wisnae there, it's all that bastard Murdoch's fault. It's a braw big conspiracy by yon capitalist lackey bastards, so it is.
Balding Mr Bondage, a Big Brother HouseMate, a mature student, a career bail-ee and the man who single-handedly buried socialism in Scotland was on this occasion appearing without his Comrade-Wife and co-accused, Gail, Miss Primart 2006, and said that he would be back, only not, if as seems likely, he was in HMP Barlinnie. Again
"D'ye fancy spanking ma airse, hen, maybe stick a wee ice cube up ma jacksie? "
Mr Sheridan enjoys a non-chauvinistic exchange with a young woman.
My name has a Scottish version; not so much a version or variant, actually, come to think of it, but an entirely different name, something that is common in Scotland and which sounds like my name, often, therefore, in Scotland, I am addressed by this name, instead of my own; it is no big deal. Lots of people have names which are easily mis-spelt, mis-pronounced, misheard; it's not the end of the fucking world.
It seems to be a perfectly straightforward, human error to see or hear James, when the name is Janes, perfectly natural and normal, something which must have happened frequently to the irately bereaved Mrs Janes and to her late son.
Being the prime minister of the United Kingdom must be a taxing job; responding, as recent incumbents have chosen to do, to a round-the-clock inquisitorial media, the knowledge that one's every minute gesture, every aside, is long-lensed by fuckwit papparazo whose only concern is the debasement and misrepresentation of democracy and and if one is simultaneously managing a huge portfolio of responsibilities for which one is demonstrably unsuited it must lead inevitably to a slip of the tongue, or in the case of the letter to Mrs Janes, the pen. Prime Minister Snot will be aware that his every utterance, his every scribbled line, is a hostage to fortune; yet he, nevertheless, in sending hand-written notes to the bereaved of the Afghanistan Nightmare, tries to do the right thing.
People who started off, fifty years ago, with illegible handwriting have had, since the introduction of self-taught word-processing, little reason to practice, much less improve their often irredeemable scribble, some days, I can't even manage my own signature much less draft an intelligible hand-written note to the postman. There are occasions, though, when, if sincerity is the motivation or its demonstration the purpose, we must put pen to paper.
The savvy thing for Brown to do with his consolatory billets doux, like the one to the wretched, unpardonably querulous Mrs Janes, is to have some stooge type them out, proof-read them, double-check the details and then for him to sign them; this, rather than his cack-handed spontaneity might have appeased, if anything would, the most recent, snarling TommyMummy, although, as with so many of her gobby ilk, the fantasy of blood-free soldiering outweighs, in her life, the harsh reality that the enemy shoots back, plants bombs, kills big handsome son and if it wasn't Brown's mis-spellings which deflected her own probable guilt and certain anger, it would have been something else, maybe the fact that each and every guardsman, bombardier or riflleman does not have a personal, indestructible helicopter at his disposal, an impenetrable force field surrounding him, so he can shoot out but no-one can shoot in.
But via The Sun, an arsewipe of a 'paper, Mrs Janes, rebukes Brown for "eighteen times missing the dot from the letter i" - no, really, it's there, in The Sun, he also uses the word sincerely twice, once in the body of the writing and once as a salutation, these, Brown's idiosyncracy and lack of inspiration a mark of disrespect, not only to Janes, herself, but to all the dead, probably, by extension, to all the highly literate readers of skymadeupnewsandfilth, renowned throughout the world for their painstaking spelling, grammar and pronunciation, innit, Gotcha! You couldn't make-up this shit.
SPELLED Jamie incorrectly and then corrected it by scrawling over the last letter.
COMMITTED four other spelling mistakes: Greatst for greatest, condolencs for condolences, you instead of your, and colleagus for colleagues.
He also wrote the letter "i" incorrectly 18 times - mostly by leaving the dots off them but once by using two in "security".
And he ended with a repetition - writing "my sincere condolences" and then signing off "Yours sincerely".
Tragic ... Guards hero Jamie Janes
Mum-of-six Jacqui went on: "In the days after Jamie's death I got letters from Prince Philip, Buckingham Palace, the Defence Secretary and his regiment.
"They were all written from the heart and made me feel Jamie's death was important to them. Then I got Gordon Brown's. I only got through the first four lines before I threw it across the room in disgust.
"I re-read it later. He said, 'I know words can offer little comfort'. When the words are written in such a hurry the letter is littered with more than 20 mistakes, they offer NO comfort.
Mr Corpse, formerly an Australian, now an American, owns much of the mass media in the UK, where he doesn't pay any tax and has bred a nest of vipers to continue his wicked work when, the sooner the better, the horrible fucking bastard is dead.
Mr Corpse owns many so-called opinion-makers such as Michael Portillo
Matthew Parris
Michael Spit
and
SPELLED Jamie incorrectly and then corrected it by scrawling over the last letter.
COMMITTED four other spelling mistakes: Greatst for greatest, condolencs for condolences, you instead of your, and colleagus for colleagues.
He also wrote the letter "i" incorrectly 18 times - mostly by leaving the dots off them but once by using two in "security".
And he ended with a repetition - writing "my sincere condolences" and then signing off "Yours sincerely".
Tragic ... Guards hero Jamie Janes
Mum-of-six Jacqui went on: "In the days after Jamie's death I got letters from Prince Philip, Buckingham Palace, the Defence Secretary and his regiment.
"They were all written from the heart and made me feel Jamie's death was important to them. Then I got Gordon Brown's. I only got through the first four lines before I threw it across the room in disgust.
"I re-read it later. He said, 'I know words can offer little comfort'. When the words are written in such a hurry the letter is littered with more than 20 mistakes, they offer NO comfort.
Unlike Murdoch's unaccustomedly grammar-obsessed slags, I haven't read the offending letter, it was, or should have been entirely private and special, valued all the more, really, for its inconsequential fuck-ups. For a change, it is not Field Marshal Snot, here, playing politics with dead soldiers but whichever wretch currently runs the Sun for Rupert, in concert with the one person who, were we not so empty-headed, trivial and stupid, Ruined, would have kept schtum. They are not all undignified and spiteful, the relatives, although blinking and stuttering, knowarramean-ing in bereavement's morbid but sought-after floodlights, far too many disgrace themselves and the memory of those slain. Here is a letter, to go with the belt and the helmet and the tunic, here, from the prime minister of the day, and, alright, his handwriting is shit but at least it's personal, a piece of history, actually, the boy's gone, now, let's behave with some dignity. I know, let's hold this letter up to ridicule and debase, entirely, the idea of private correspondence, let's tape the 'phone calls; Jamie woulda loved that, does my mouth look big in this?
Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all Rotten cowards one and all, me lads, rotten cowards one and all And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.
And you'd think that they was 'oly, with their kissers all turned down And a look so bleedin' pious you'd think the angels 'ad come down, the angels 'ad come down, me lads, the angels 'ad come down And blessed 'em all, for bein' such a sorry bunch of clowns. A sorry bunch of clowns me lads, all standin' in a row. Got-up like tailors' dummies, the lowest of the low.
They do this once a year, me lads, the flags and all the tears But we live with their rottenness, for years and bloody years.
Was the improvised explosive, done the damage to the lads And they might have fared right better had they been in armoured cabs, But they never spent the money, so the lads all 'ad it rough While Bobby Bleedin' Ainsworth, 'ad is nose stuck in the trough, 'is nose stuck in the trough, me lads, 'is nose stuck in the trough. 'E 'ad 'is fingers in our pockets, an' 'is nose stuck in the trough.
Some is living in an 'ostel, some is livin' on the street There's some 'as got no ears, no eyes, and some 'as got no feet. And some 'as got no feet me lads, and some 'as got no feet. Oh, it's hard to go a-marching, when you hasn't got no feet.
And some 'as melted faces, make the children look away, Make their wives and girlfriends shudder, though they'd never like to say That there's worser things than dyin', like comin 'ome this way. They can do wonders, now, with plastic Or so the doctors say.
And some is off on jailhouse leave, and can't be here today, The Judge, y'see, he banged 'im up for ever and a day. 'E banged 'im up for fightin; but that's what soldiers do And when he's got no war to fight, 'e 'as trouble getting through Trouble getting' through, me lads, when all the shootin' stops And no-one wants to know 'im, just the prisons and the cops The prisons and the cops, me lads, stick in a soldier's craw Cos those what sent 'im killin' is far beyond the law.
If I but stole a fiver, now, from comrade next to me I'd be on charges, sharpish, there, for everyone to see They'll never get their collars felt, however much they steal It's like that Alan Duncan said, a splendid fucking deal. They write the rules, then break 'em, say they didn't understand. They're shitting in our faces, up an down the bleedin' land Shittin' in our faces, just as hard as e'er they can.
Pissin' in our pockets and spitting in our eyes And travellin' on the gravytrain to the house of bleedin' lies. An Armistice, all of their own, and no-one got no blame They just paid a few shillings back and carried on the same. Carried on the same, me lads, for now and evermore Stuffed like pigs and drunk with power, while we go off to war.
The members and right honourables know only how to lie And cheat and steal and fornicate, whilst we march off to die In some benighted wogland, some jungle, veldt or bush Or in the hills and mountains of the Hindu bleedin' Kush The Hindu bleedin' Kush, me lads, you'd think they'd understand That the killing fields of Afghannystan are No Man's Bleedin' Land. No Man's Bleedin' Land, me boys, and it was ever thus They shoot from caves and run away, in the Hindu bleedin Kush.
There's Charlie in 'is medals, heir to the bleedin' throne, The one what we're out fightin' for, while he's sitting safe at home. E'll 'ave yer Mrs, like as not, you give 'im 'alf a chance He just takes what he wants, you see, it only takes a glance For he is true nobility, the country's pride and joy Whilst we are noble savages, cannon fodder to deploy. They'll send us up to fiery death, and out in unsafe trucks And when we're blown to Kingdom Come, why, no-one gives a fuck.
But when we come in sixes, with coffins draped in flags They look a bit embarrassed, like, they're just a bunch of slags Just a bunch of slags, me lads, all standin' ramrod straight They'll smile and say So sorry, just a simple twist of fate I would have gone myself, you know, but I'm important here, We also serve, we lousy pricks, who only stand and wait.
You can put your bleedin' poppies where the Sun don't never shine For hypocrisy's your only creed, you ain't no friend of mine You ain't no friend of no-one's, if the truth was only told To the boys you send to bleed and die and never to grow old. It wouldn't do for your sons, all to the manner born To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn That's the stuff for me and mine, our bodies ripped and torn.
So you can put your bleedin' poppies where the monkey put his nuts The only thing we've seen from you is cuts and bleedin' cuts' And some ain't got no bullets and some ain't got no boots And some are boys of seventeen, just bleedin' young recruits Bleeding young recruits, me lads, all blown to smithereens, They never saw their twenty-first, they never left their teens.
See, they're only paper flowers and you're only paper men And if the call to valour came you'd cut and run again. But paper flowers, that's the thing, to show you are sincere And shiny shoes an' overcoats, that's why you're standin' ere. We're soldiers of the Queen me lads, and not this sorry bunch Who steal their houses, dodge their tax and steal their bleedin' lunch They're one step down from parasite, a squalid learning curve Lets hope before they meet their end, they get what they deserve.
Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.
MARK ? COUP ? EQUATORIAL GUINEA ? STUPID BOY COULDN'T EVEN FIND IT, NEVER MIND OVERTHROW IT. JAIL? DON'T THEY KNOW WHO I AM, COME TO THINK OF IT, I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM, DO YOU? WHAT? MOTHER? NOT YOURS, SURELY? PUT CONRAD BLACK ON THE CASE, HE'LL SORT IT. JAIL? WHAT, HIM, TOO? ALRIGHT THEN, PINOCHET. WHAT? DEAD? FUCK ME, THE PLACE HAS GONE TO THE DOGS SINCE JOHN MAJOR'S BEEN IN CHARGE.
Paying tribute ahead of Remembrance Day to the 93 British troops who have died in Afghanistan this year, the Prime Minister said: "These men are our heroes today."
In itself, being killed is not heroism. Beyond All Shall Have Prizes - and worthless degrees - we should now read in NewLabour’s hollow mantra, All Are Heroes.
This, foraging for glory by association, is Snotman’s latest wheeze. Anyone in uniform is a hero, every one of them;for no other reason than that they are working towards his diseased, monomaniacal plan for Global Presbyteria Nouvelle, or at the very least him not being carried off in a back-to-front jacket. In pronouncing all heroes Snotman lionises himself, the shabby, cowardly hypocrite, a man who all his idle fucked-up life has despised Tommy.
Every death and every wounding, every emotional traumatisation, each one is horrible and regrettable but they are not necessarily heroism. They can’t all be heroes, can they? Heroes do happen but by definition they are abnormal; we don’t have regiments of the Queen’s Own Heroes instead there is an award system which honours levels of heroism. I don’t know how these things are evaluated but I don’t recall there being any Afghanistan equivalent of Rorke’s Drift, the last VC I recall was young Boharry, in Iraq.And then there’s this….medal inflation.This, if true, is pure Brown/Blair/Mandelstein shit, spread over into the army…..from the Guardian:
"Army set to review medals system after soldier's arrest
Major who was award military cross questioned under caution about claims of 'overblown' narrative in medal citation
The army is expected to review the system of awarding commendations for gallantry amid fears of "medal inflation" for embellished accounts of bravery from the battlefield in Afghanistan.
The investigation, the first of its kind in more than 300 years of British army history, comes after the arrest of Major Robert Armstrong, who was awarded a military cross for "consistent bravery and inspirational leadership" when a convoy of British and Afghan army vehicles was ambushed last year in Gereshk Valley, Helmand province.
Armstrong, 35, of the Royal Artillery, was detained by Royal Military Police on Friday to be interviewed under caution after claims from another officer about the "overblown" narrative in his medal citation.
Armstrong was attached with the 1st Battalion The Royal Irish Regiment in Helmand last year. The officer's citation said: "While mentoring the Afghan national army vehicle patrol Armstrong showed consistent bravery and inspirational leadership. As a result of his calm leadership under fire, losses were prevented and the lives of those injured were saved."
The "under fire" aspect of the citation is disputed, it is understood, and other actions Armstrong attributed to himself were allegedly carried out by other officers.
Lt Col Edward Freely, the commanding officer of the Royal Irish battle group, could also be questioned, the Sunday Telegraph reported.
Freely was responsible for writing all of the citations that led to 17 awards being given to members of his battle group. The haul included three Conspicuous Gallantry Crosses, a feat unprecedented in the army. Sources told the paper that all 17 honours and awards could be reviewed if the investigation found substance to the allegations. The spotlight would also fall on other regiments, with potentially dozens of awards looked at.
The investigation was described as being "in its very early stages". An army spokesman said: "The integrity of the operational honours system is a matter of utmost importance to us. Any suggestion that it has fallen short of the very high standards that we set ourselves are taken extremely seriously and are investigated thoroughly.
"We are aware of an allegation that a citation on which a gallantry award was made on the March 2009 Operational Honours list was factually incorrect. The Royal Military Police Special Investigation Branch are investigating the matter and it would therefore be inappropriate to comment further whilst this is ongoing."
A total of 177 honours covering operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were announced by the army in March.
"This will be used as a stick by those in the army who claim that the current system is unfair and open to abuse," a military source told the Sunday Telegraph. "It also raises question marks over the integrity of the armed forces, which is based on honour and trust."
The number of medals won by the Royal Irish Regiment in the last tour of duty in 2008 is in marked contrast to those awarded to the unit in 2006 in Helmand. Then the battalion, which sent 100 volunteers to serve alongside members of 16 Air Assault Brigade, won a solitary Mention in Dispatches while the brigade won more than 60 awards."
Darren and Wayne may well, quite naturally, be heroes to Mum and Dad or the Mrs but they are not actually keeping Ahmed off the streets of Birmingham by shooting at his cousin in Helmand and in any event they are, whatever they are doing, just following orders, Brown would have it that they are sat at his table, deciding strategy,that they heroically agree with him on the merits of his lunatic mission, the fucking horrible, shameless, deceitful bastard.
But part of this hero-shit malaise stems from the sentimentalising - and disturbing - public posturing of Army WAGs and, especially, Army Mums, all of whom seem to have been taking Gobby Pills, undermining, by their whingeing and whining and bleating, the fortitude which - preceding heroism - is supposed to be the soldier’s meat and drink;a bereaved mother on C4 News tonight, stammered and stuttered that It Is All About The Boys even though it is not, it is all about the foreign policy of the UK, of which the boys are willing instruments;it is always a cruelty of skymadeupnewsandfilth to give these women the opportunity they crave, far better they grieve in private.
Army WAGS blog their own strategy for victory over the fuzzy-wuzzy, geopolitical experts by dint of marriage to a soldier, one of them exasperated by Ahmed’s failure to grow not poppy but pistachio nuts, such a nice, green thing to do. One of the Army blog sites, ARSSE, claims to be the One True Voice, the only legitimate commentary on a matter of huge public interest and concern;the Internet having become the voice of sentimental Mutiny, Wives and Mums barracking us for our objectivity, Tommy Blogger warning us to shut our civvy gobs.
All heroes, you see. What this does, of course, while temporarily bringing a glow of pride to Mum, in the longer term devalues the outstanding, the valourous; blogging and grandstanding, Tommy and his family become part of petty celebrity’s White Noise, meaningless trash.
The Fallen and the Wounded are a rebuke to us all; those, comrades who survived; those, bystanders, unable to prevent the slaughter, often, as now, the vain folly of some madcap politican, sometimes a matter of national survival and those, the wicked who send others to die pointlessly, they are rebuked, stand, solemn as they may, at Cenotaph and War memorial.
But if we fail to distinguish between duty and heroism, as the Mums, Wags and Snotman would have us do, we are fucked, a nation of Ruritanians, bemedalled, in gaudy costumes. Fucking the economy is one thing but devaluing the opportunity of man to really distinguish himself is, in our martial nation, an achievement quite extraordinary.
"I simply cannot support you while you are head of a corrupt government." "But we've had the full and far-reaching cover-up into MPs expenses, what more d'you want?"
(Field Marshal Snot and Hamid the Pimp get their stories straight.)
We will not, cannot, may not, should not, dare not and fucking well better not fail in this mission to do whatever it is that President Obama decides to do. People imagine, Mr Tiny Speaker, that because of my stature on the world stage, that I am the Supreme Commander of the World's Forces, which I am, but since Mr Obama has ten times as many troops there as we do and we have to borrow bullets and helicopters off him we have to let him have some say. But I assure the house, Mr Tiny Speaker, that I am in complete control of Afghannystan and I will not put our people in Harm's way unless President Obama tells me to. Which he does, all the time.
I hear people's reservations about my brilliant campaign, Mr Tiny Speaker, which has lasted eight years and achieved fuck all, I hear their comments and in a democracy they are allowed to make them, so they should all fuck off to a democracy somewhere, not that they'll find one in Europe. They'll soon find that it's not all it's cracked-up to be, Mr Tiny Speaker, and I would like to inform the house, dah, dah, dah, dah, Mr Tiny Speaker that on Sunday we will be remembering the very brave men and split-arses who have died to keep our streets free for people, ordinary people, Mr Tiny Speaker, kept the streets free, Mr Tiny Speaker, for ordinary people to get shot and beaten on, yes, and Tasered, too, Mr Tiny Speaker, by the magnificently professional members of the local Lodge. And of course the magnificently professional members of the Chinese Secret Service, when they drop in to show us how it's done. And perhaps my friend, dah, dah,dah, my friend, Mr Tiny Speaker, in the Northern Ireland Assembly, Mr Kneecaps McGuiness. We will never do a deal with terrorism not even if it costs tens of thousands of lives, like Afghannystan will, and in the end we put the terrorists in government, which we could have done in the first place; we will never, Mr Tiny Speaker, never do anything like that which would betray our brave service men and women - British corpses in American coffins, that's what I promise - and that we will not make a deal with terrorists, even though we will. It is the right thing for the country. And I commend myself to this house, Mr Tiny Speaker. (sings in doleful, brown voice) To think, I did all that, and may I say, not in a shy way, Oh, no, Oh, no, not me, I did it my way...
Shouts: Siddown, ya mad bastard! Mad as a fucking hatter!
Mr Tiny Speaker: I think the Ayes have it, the Ayes have it. ,
This is no case of petty right or wrong That politicians or philosophers Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers. Beside my hate for one fat patriot My hatred of the Kaiser is love true: – A kind of god he is, banging a gong. But I have not to choose between the two, Or between justice and injustice. Dinned With war and argument I read no more Than in the storm smoking along the wind Athwart1 the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar. From one the weather shall rise clear and gay; Out of the other an England beautiful And like her mother that died yesterday. Little I know or care if, being dull, I shall miss something that historians Can rake out of the ashes when perchance2 The phoenix3 broods serene above their ken. But with the best and meanest Englishmen I am one in crying, God save England, lest We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed. The ages made her that made us from dust: She is all we know and live by, and we trust She is good and must endure, loving her so: And as we love ourselves we hate her foe.
No, only joking. But now that I am going to be Fuhrer, I mean, PM, everybody says so, I have to speak to the people of Britain as they deserve. Like a load of naughty children.
You-Will-Not-Have-A-Referendum. And that's all there is to it. Instead, you must do as I say. I know what you want and what you want is whatever I say you want. Otherwise there is no point in me being Fuhrer. Is there? Come on, now. Who do you want? Me or that other bloke? Because, let me tell you, he wouldn't give you a referendume. So there. A clear choice for the British people. Gordon Brown, he won't give you a referendum on the joining the New World Order and promises cuts in public services. And me. I won't give you a referendum on joining the New World Order and I say there will have to be cuts in public services. It's a clear enough choice. Vote for trans-pair-ency, vote for sol-you-shuns. It is the right thing for the country.
C'mon, now, off to bed with you, it's past bedtime.
Well, they're not quite dropping like flies, it's not like the Somme or anything but five in one go isn't bad.
There may come a time when whole suburbsful of chaps go out and die for the British Way Of Life - My Free Gardening and Second Home Allowances etc - but until that happens at least the chaps are putting up a pretty good show which we can be proud of. Probably have to exercise the old sorrowful countenance a bit on Remembrance Sunday but no-one ever said my job was easy. Has someone gone out to fetch my Poppy, there's some money in the petty cash, make sure you get a receipt.
Blow out you bugles over the rich politicians...how does that go again?
262 DEAD & Countless Maimed
But that's just so far.
LOOK IN EVERY DAY TO SEE HOW MANY MORE TROOPS HAVE DIED FOR ALAN'S WAY OF LIFE. IT'S A MAN'S LIFE IN THE ARMY, THAT'S WHY HE'S NOT IN IT.
Another five shot dead, as they rested. Field Marshal Snot says, well, you know....at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will not remember to give them the right gear. Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for the bandit Karzai, to no discernible useful purpose.
GERRY & CILLA. SEE THEM MAKE BABIES DISAPPEAR. LOOK, CILLA TALKS AND GERRY'S MOUTH HARDLY MOVES
PLAYING NOW ON SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH
Christmas is coming, the doctors are getting fat Please put a grand in Gerry & Cilla's hat If you haven't got a grand a pony will have to do And if you say we're lying bastards, then we'll fucking sue you.
"Clearly, why should I answer any questions from the police, when, clearly, it's all their fault that Maddlin went missing?"
"No, I love Maddlin, that's why I shouted at her all the time and left her in the dark in a securely locked or a safely unlocked apartment, looking after two other infants while me and Gezza went for a very professional piss-up. So what could possibly be wrong with that? All we want now is for the public to give us some more money. And to get Maddlin back, of course. We know they are behind us, apart from some sickoes who think we might possibly have done something wrong and should answer the police questions when it's their fault that Maddlin went missing in the first place. If only the public can give us a another couple of million, we can find her, even though we can't. Gottleageer, gottleageer."
Dr Gerry McCann's new body double, former constable Brendan O'Thug.
"Frighten the children? No, I always look like this. No, that was a long time ago. And I was an out-patient."
Series: The big issue Previous | Index The big issue The big issue: EU presidency. Tony Blair is the last leader Europe needs
* Comments (17) * Buzz up! * Digg it
* The Observer, Sunday 1 November 2009 * Article history
The presidency of Europe will be highly symbolic and Tony Blair is a wholly inappropriate person to hold the role ("Is Tony Blair the right man to be president of Europe?", Observer Debate, Comment). He misled our country – to secure support for a decision he had already made to join George Bush in the Iraq war. In doing so, he showed total disrespect for international law, the United Nations and the views of his European partners; he destabilised the world and was naively cavalier as to the cost in human lives.
Domestically, he was disrespectful of the rule of law and civil liberties, hollowed out the Labour party and deepened the divide between rich and poor. He cravenly bowed to the demands of Rupert Murdoch, the neoconservatives in America, the extreme pro-Israeli lobby and his friends in the City. He showed poor judgment in his choice of associates. His freeloading was shameful. Indeed, his lifestyle epitomises the worst values of a materialistic age. He does not have the qualities of a leader, but would be an excellent television presenter.
Helena Kennedy
London WC1
And so says Dame Helena Kennedy, poet, playwright and eminent QC - aren't they all - in a piece so shockingly badly written that it would have failed the 11-plus. Kennedy, like many NewLabourites, modestly has a Foundation, no less; we must hope that the doubtless worthy aims and objectives of this body lie entirely outside the area of English grammar.
Kennedy recently chaired something called The Power Enquiry, in which the great and the good, people like million pounds a year GuardianBoss, Alan Arsebridger, gave her their opinions as to how much freedom the people might usefully have; it was as nauseating as these things get, lacking only Germaine Greer with her skirt up round her arse to make it beyond stomaching. Kennedy, sitting unelected in the House of Lords but fiercely egalitarian, made such an impact that the report of the Power Enquiry surfaced without trace, it may as well have been written by Will Hutton.
There is a line in Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts - She had done a lot of bad things, even once tried suicide; she was lookin' to do just one good deed before she died - which seems emblematic of Kennedy's very belated fit of pique vis a vis the would-be Emperor and Imelda; better late than never, Helena but only a little bit. It'll take a little more than this piece of scribble to redress the damage done by Kennedy and her ilk as they Hosannahed the ghastly Blairs into Downing Street. And lawyers are supposed to have such good judgement, innit. ■
The history of the scrawny old bag, Nancy Reagan's, Holy War on Drugs, co-ordinated by White House astrologers and fought, shadow-boxed by countless careerist drug czars, all over the world
Sir Keith Tie-and-Handkerchief-and-Blow-wave, suspiciously over-dressed and over-groomed,
of the Society of Bent Former Chief Constables, GreyACOP; now a former gay Drugs Czar.
is bad enough, trillions of skulezanospital dollars squandered, drugs never so freely available, so varied, so potent, so popular. There are now more junkies, more drug-related crime and imprisonment, a world of abcess and septacaemia, of crack houses and whores, of mayhem and madness and Hoeckler and Koch murder, as pestilentially preachy numbskulls like Brown and Obama
Yes, you can't.
hand Organised Crime one golden opportunity after another; you could be forgiven for thinking, well, anything. While Power employs its servants in gladhanding wealthy junkies and drug fiends like Elton John and Eric Clapton and George Osbourne, the harmless pecadilloes of the rich somehow become monstrous Vice when aped by what the egalitarian Labour Party gleefully calls the Underclass; the millionaire druggy is Oh Fuck Me, Will'sAGoodKidReallyGoingUpToOxford, wants to be prime minister, just needs a caution
Will MadDog Straw. Can't touch me, My old man's the Torture Minister.
The lad hustling a few quid, dealing a bit of blow, however, is a MenaceToSociety, his door smashed-in by muscly gay policemen, his bag of weed inflated to a street value of ten billion pounds. Or more, says Chief Constable Gob, of NeverNeverLand Police. Lieutenant-Commander Hornblower, boarding in the Caribbean a veritable Armada of DrugPeddlars' shipping, says, we have captured up to a trillion dollars worth of this filthy stuff. That's ten trillion dollrs worth of filthy stuff won't be getting on to the streets of Britain. Only it will. The biggest drug seizures ever co-inciding with the highest levels of drug consumption ever. Funny that. Almost as though GlobaNarc were steering a few shipments towards HMS Bust, just for appearances sake, And, of course, there's Hizonner, IWouldBeFailingInMyDutyToTheRich-IfIDidn'tPutYouAwayForALongTime. Mr Justice Slag, himself no stranger to altered states of consciousness, can be relied upon to properly determine which bright young thing goes to Rehab,
Society drug dealers, early in their careers.
which worthless young wretch to jail, each for the same offence. The Scourge of Drugs, Aye, right.
Just for the record, wherever two or three are gathered together throughout history they have found something to chew, smoke, drink, snort, inject or shove up their arses in order to get off their heads, to alter, briefly, a consciousness overshadowed by inevitable Doom, by the aforeknown summons from Death's grim Sergeants. Some have achieved Ecstasy by fasting, some by self-scourging with whips and flails; others whirl themselves into stoned trance.
Wherever food and shelter have been secured the cry has gone up, Everybody Must Get Stoned! Arbitrary and wholly unjustified decisions are made by bent politicians in the pay of one vested interest group or another as to via which pharmaceutical avenue man and master might temporarily escape life's cruel tedium, its inevitable, fatal denouement. Grape or grain or poppy or leaf. This is the way it was, is and ever shall be; in the Beginning, was the weed. There is nothing on Earth that even an elected premier could do to alter our affection, our need, for an altered state, now and again; in attempting to do so, the upstart dictator, Gordon Snot, continues a life-long habit of pissing in the wind, burning other people's money.
Eschewing spirituality, transendence and most certainly fun, the sour Presbyterian, Brown, the hypocrite's hypocrite, has sought to harness the nation's, no, the world's energy to bitter consumerism, the horrible fucking fucked-up fucking bastard.
I know everything. I am the Sol-you-shun
Six days shalt thou Consume and on the seventh shalt thou apply for a loan from Ocean Finance - an End, verily, to Boom and Bust. The fucked-up, snot-eating, nail-biting, blackmailing, warmongering misbegotten sonofafuckingbitch who sold us this desolate mantra now wants to police our thoughts and how we arrive at them, just in case, his stooges bleat, we become shizophrenic, lunatics, like them. And furthermore, as I travel round the country behind a regiment of sharpshooters in my armoured Jaguar preaching to selected Labour prospective parliamenary candidates, they all say to me, prime minister, you were right to save the world's economy and concentrate on getting the banks lending again and you are right that every joint smoked means an AK 47 to the Alley-kah-ah-eda terrorists which British troops are doing so much to subdue and are being so successful that many of them are coming home in boxes, or bits of them are, anyway, the troops that is and not our Muslim brothers upon the votes of whom so many of our seats depend, Allah Akhbar. It is the right thing to do, prime minister, stamping-down on drugs, that's what they tell me and it doesn't matter, now, does it, what people say to Alan Johnson, even if they know what they are talking about and he, well, he doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground but is doing an excellent job as home secretary. Other people might know what they are talking about but that is no reason for government to pay them any mind. What people don't understand but I do as I am the cleverest boy in the Manse, is that the more of our troops get killed, the more we are winning in Mr Karzai's Afghanistan. I do wish people would concentrate on real facts like this instead of on soundbites. And the more drugs there are, the more people take drugs, the more drug crime there is, the more people die, the more families are devastated the more money the drug barons siphon-off from the economy, then obviously the more we are winning the War on Drugs.
The greedy, shameless lard bucket,
Porno Jackie,
having determined, with the help of her fellow-porkers
Lembit Skywatcher and Gillian Blonde.
that Jackie's right, advisers advise, ministers must decide what people can do is, herself, a determining, a characteristic feature of Gordon Brown's invalid premiership - as faith in his ability, competence and sanity plummet, the more bizarre and entirely ridiculous become his appointments to cabinet. Although Smith takes the stupidity biscuit Mandelstein is the most shatteringly obvious example of Brown's personal, cowardly worthlessness, his integrity, like his manliness, blowing in the wind; almost all whom he has appointed have been tarnished by greed or stunted by irrelevance and incompetence, many are both bent and useless, insolent bullies, like McNutter, twittering soundbiting bitches like Blears. But even so, as the pig in lipstick, Porno Jackie, slunk away from her ridiculously over-promoted position as the most mediocre, cack-handed and venal home secretary in history bar none - not even Frank Soskiss or the ghastly, warty cocksucker, Leon Brittan - few would have imagined that her post would be filled by the cretinous Alan Johnson. At the time of Schmidt's disgraced resignation, however, Gordon Snot could not even sack his own innumerate, pig-ignorant chancellor, the clod-hopping Jock solicitor, Darling, surely, for fucks sake, a benchmark, a low-water mark in Fuck Me, Jesus, astonishing, even by Labour standards, fuckwitted, staggering, breathtaking incompetence, was able to blackmail his way to a continuance in post, blackmail being the currency of the NewLabour project; Brown, Madelstein, Blair and Blunkett all engaged in their various crimes, each threatening the other with exposure. Battered by bitumen-faced crones like the dwarf, Blears, and the gobby baggage, Flint, undermined by the nonentity Purnell and made ever more ludicrous by the hero-worship of his man-wife, Sarah-George, one would have thought it impossible for the snot-eating, gibbering lunatic, Brown, to have further devalued by appointment-noir the offices of state in his keeping, his gift. It is true that Blair and the horrid strumpet, Imelda, whored the office of prime minister like none before but Brown, closeted with the husband and wife Ballses; the brothers Milliband and freaks like Andy Bubbles and Peter Mandelstein has heaped further ridicule on the idea of cabinet government by his last-among-equals appointment of Johnson as Home Secretary. Darling would not facilitate Brown's post-Smith reshuffle and so Johnson skipped into the home office, as much to his own astonishment as to everyone else's; Johnson, the smirking gabshite, has repaid Brown's desperate maladroitness in spades by sacking an expert who disagreed with the witless Schmidt, the gruesome Blunkett and with the singing postman, himself. With Johnson, the levelling-down of cabinet government must surely now be complete, as we see, now, laid out before us, the Trans-pair-ency of Brownism. Stewing in his rottenness, the truculent imbecile Ainsworth is correct, his cretin's judgements ascendant, the generals', the colonels', the Tommies' irrelevant. Ed Balls, the vicious, jumped-up and safe-seat parachuted double-entry book-keeper, is right, the teachers, the governors, the parents and the employers all wrong. And wiggling his poxy arse at MediaMinster, the revolting slag Mandelstein is right in whatever he says is right, sigh, he's such an operator. Shut down the Internet? Oooh, such a butch First Seckatry.
The disgusting, cock-waving bully, Prescott, rejoices in claiming a work history as a merchant seaman, a title which just about describes a cross-channel barman, although proper merchant seamen, then and now, would mock Prescott's assumed role as steely-eyed mariner, despising him as a glamour-hungry slag, using his union role as a slingshot to more money and influence, more opportunities for sexual predation than he could ever honestly earn. Johnson, now part of a union-bashing government in the throes of squalid defeat, keeps schtum, generally, about his marching 'neath the red flag, the posties' union banner, as though the labour movement was something to be ashamed of. He probably has, in any event, far more experience as a shitminister under Brown than ever he acquired doing something useful, like delivering the mail. Johnson's sympathies and his post-retirement prospects will now lie with the likes of three million a year man, Royal Mail CEO, Adam Crozier, to whom the redoubtable gentleman farmer and young parent, John Humphries, once remarked "Nobody actually begrudges you your salary, Mr Crozier..." Right, John, if you say so, voice of the Nation, as you are.
On drugs, however, or on certain drugs, Johnson does not lack expertise; the man, after all, who as Health Seckatry, brought Alan Johnson's Dirty Disease to so many hospitals, slaughtering so many of the non-economically-active old and vulnerable could be expected to know a little of matters pharmaceutical. Professor Nutt says, unequivocally, albeit in that grandstanding manner which dons affect, that tobacco and alcohol are far more dangerous than hash and that classifiyng hash as dangerous is an act of careless and potentially far-reaching folly; Johnson says it doesn't matter what Nutt says because he's not home seckatry, I am. Gordon Snot said so. And I don't wanna hear advice that I don't wanna hear. Simple.
Mmm, snot, it is the right thing to eat.
Trust me, I am a son of the fucking Manse.
Given that Johnson owes all to Brown we must assume that his position on hash mirrors Brown's - peerages for institutionalised felons, knighthoods for those delivering flying, fiery coffins to the RAF, promotion for those gunning-down innocent civilians, presidencies and ambassadorships for war criminals and fourteen years for those selling a bit of harmless vegetable matter.
How dare this sour, Presbyterian monster, this mincing, gibbering, pouting pansy rule that another may not get stoned as and how he or she wishes, the horrible fucking bastard? And why, given the shitstorm he's in, does he bother?
Well, it may just be that hash, far moreso than booze, is the drug of dissent and Brown's cabal of nonces, ponces, slags and traitors is tough on dissent, tough on the causes of dissent; darkly personified by the numbingly stupid Johnson, the home seckatry of last resort, Freedom's guardians promote CCTV and ID cards as though they were a Bill of Rights, commend to us the abolition of national sovereignty and the appointment of yet more unelected jackanapeses like Blair & Imelda, WhoresRus.
Potheads have always sat quietly, sniggering at the bizarre manouevreings of Mr Angry, Mr Greedy, Mr Stupid and Mr Johnson; for our own burgeoning tyrant class, at MediaMinster and in the Town Hall
the idea that some might not only see through their bogus alarums and excursions but also piss themselves laughing at the adventures of Snotman and his nemesis-cum-reincarnation, Dave Flashman, must be intolerable. We should all noisily skin-up, light-up and wake-up. Time for a spliff outside parliament.
Down with the Mad Fairy, Brown; down with the Dogs of Westminster; Down with the BBC and skymadeupnewsandfilth; freedom to get stoned and think differently, think Other, is the only thing between us and the triumph of les totalitairianistes nouvell. Fuck Johnson, support your local drug dealer.
November 3, 2009 at 10:20 pm