Tuesday 29 December 2009


One o clock in the morning here and there is no sign that our friends and bankers, the Chinks, are about to stay the killing of some poor nutter, tried for his life in a procedure lasting all of thirty minutes. Makes my blood run cold, that execution shit, always has, even if the condemned is guilty, as he sometimes is, but there is something especially horrid about how the Chinks go about it.

I never joined anything in my life and I can't bear those career abolitionists, apart from Clive Stanford, the dead man's brief, they are all over the radio, just now, gobby bints from Reprieve, or some such, but at execution times I'd light a candle, or something, anyway, some little ritual, just me, and for whomever the bell tolls. But we're steeped in it, now, blood, torture, whatever protects the wealth and positions of Power, that'll do. Oh, brave, new world.

Here, in New Presbyteria, the son of the fucking manse, Brown, is strangely silent on this one, usually so keen to dictate his demands to a world even more indifferent to his haunted wants than is his own cabinet, Brown has left it to some last-minute Bunkerite who no-one has ever heard of to go through the motions, telling China what is The Right Thing To Do. Not even BananaBoy, whose brief this is, has raised his inbred, babyface over the parapet, better employed nobbling the UK Courts on behalf of President Hillary Trousers.

We read and are told that, once, there was a time of gunboats, that once, Her Britannic Majesty's passport counted for something among the Savage; I don't know if it's true, doubt it, actually, seems to be plenty of historical atrocity perpetrated against memsahibs and Sisters of Mercy and tobacco planters and now there is no longer even a myth, the grandstanding Jihadimonster saws-off our heads on camera and ugly, angry, pushy chinks shoot us in the back of the neck, no doubt billing the relatives for the cartridge, like they do; ugly, angry, pushy chinks, tooled-up, shove us around on the streets of London, policing their Olympic Games procession and nobody says fuck all; Brown, outside Number Ten, spasticking himself to attention, mincing and gulping, like some furtive, retarded, ungainly Mandarin courtier, as Chink arranges the photo-opp. Ah, so; courage; courage, his counterfeit virtues ghost-written by the vile, the stooges, the horrible fucking bastard. We saw his courage, then, his dignity on behalf of the nation which didn't elect him, as he allowed the Chink to angrily gesture him into position.

His self-exculpatory prefix or suffix, grows longer - all this shit, which started in America; all this shit, which took the whole world by surprise and nobody could have predicted; all this ruinous shit, none of it is my fault, indeed, I am the only man who can fix it, all this shit; without me, all this shit would be even worse; all this weather shit, we have made a start, it's shit but it's a start and as I saved the world's economy I can save the environment, which isn't my fault; all this shit in Afghanistan, the more bodies come home in boxes or in wheelchairs, it just goes to show that we are winning, the enemy is doing so badly that they are reduced to killing us, well, not us, exactly, and we owe a great debt to Tommy Atkins, only not as much as we owe the Bank of China.

And there's the rub, as Doctor Who might say. NewLabour governs, if it governs at all, not from any national or regional or class base, or in accord with any values tradition; even the cock-waving man of the people, Prescott, applauded the abolition of Clause Four, but from whichever jargonised sophistry is in fashion, focused-on by imported or home-grown psephologist-retailers, members of the SpAd Army, an unprecedented horde of freeloaders and rentboys paid and pensioned by thee and me to spin the truth so dizzy it gave up and slunk away. Much of it was warmed-up Clintonalia and now they ape the dreadful Obama and his insufferable, platitudinous I-Know-Bestisms,as though Brown hisself was the first I Have A Dream Nigger Premier, instead of being an unelected, bullying, blackmailing cabalist, good for fuck all. So, in an entirely unprincipled gang of thieves and slags and pimps and charlatans it was unsurprising that the then Home Seckatry, Blind Boy Blunkett, voiced his delight at the apparent suicide of Doctor Harold Shipman; trashy, populist, tabloid and improbably, tragically priapic as well as being deeply dishonest and corrupt, Blunkett, like so many recent cabineteers, carnivalised the weighty business of government and imitating his beloved, fawned-upon masters, Tony and Imelda, whored the offices of state as they had never been whored whilst, fired-up by a forest of chips on his shoulder, he gleefully dismantled rights, customs and traditions which the Labour movement, among others, had fought hard to establish; on leaarning of Shipman's death Blind Blunkett famously said he wanted to call for a bottle of taxpayers' champagne, doubtless to drink in bed with someone else's bicycle wife, in celebration, as though such was conduct befitting the home secretary of the United Kingdom. Having a retarded, bent blind man shit in your face is a humiliation which would have seen other peoples on the streets, here, though, instead, grown-ups anxiously awaited the next Harry Potter book.

I am old now and of a race which could read before it went to school and when I was young the cool thing was for kids to be reading books written for adults. Some teachers put me in detention for reading Salinger instead of J. Meade Faulkner, others didn't. But now midnight bookshops throng with wordy fuckwits, desperate for the latest episode, claiming they read this voodoo shit to encourage reading among their verminous little consumers. I never heard such rubbish as the various Potter apologias. And while they so indulge we lose habeas corpus and welcome double jeopardy.

No wonder then, after the depradation of such jurists as Blunkett and Schmidt and Shirtsleeves Reid, that the judicial murder of one of our own by a tyrannical foreign power excites so little governmental ire. And he's a wog, anyway, probably deserves it, most of them do. Preacher Brown has stuff to say about almost anything that might possibly hint at a connection to the preoccupations of normal people; like all politicians he feigns an interest in football and in the children which he has so catastrophically fathered with Sarah-George, his official wife - I'm a young parent, too, uh uh uh uh uh uh uh, so, vote for me - he claimed, once, to enjoy breakfasting to the Arctic Monkeys, whoever they may be and in his Man From C&A sports jacket and flannels he strolls the riverbank with Sarah-George just like any pair of long-term psychiatric patients being eased back into the community; clunking his nailbitten Claw of Doom on any nearby surface, squaring-up his papers twenty times a minute; dribbling, gulping, his DryWank Jawdrop portending major facial surgery, grinning his Domestos Grin like an imbecile at every camera, mad Gordon offers his sol-you-shuns and his precictions for every sporting fixture, every desperate, starstruck contest in the sewerworld of Cruelty TV, gibbering as though taking a break from a crazed, frenzied masturbation marathon, brave Gordon, a normal son, a normal husband and parent beguiles us with his interests in the mundane, the prosaic, here is not some deranged megalomaniacal, one-eyed, nail-biting, snot-eating, cowardly freak and bully who burnt all the money and turned everything to shit on the never-never; no, here is the man who ended the boom part of boom and bust, the man with no nails, the prime minister of sinister, a man who couldn't count the change in his pocket twice and come to the same figure but fuck me, he knows what the people like, EastEnders. And Strictly, whatever that is.

But on the matter of a UK citizen being murdered, well, we've been here before, haven't we, least said soonest mended. the vicious gerontocrats in Peking are valued allies in the war on the people, I mean Terror, and among our most important fellow tyrants, sorry, trading partners and it's not for me to interfere in their internal crimes against humanity. I have my own to get on with with, here.

Maybe Brown's cowardly, McCavity silence bespeaks a painful self awareness, better late than never, although much too late to remedy his crimes. Maybe the mad bastard, maelstroming his way through sol-you-shuns and stratagems and plotting the tripartite festival of competitive lying which will be the election knows, at last, that aside from a How Low Can He Stoop, clinical curiosity, nobody, least of all the Chinks, nobody on Earth gives a fuck about what he says.

It's four-fifteen now and skymadeupnewsandfilth has reported fifty-three year-old Mr Shaikh's execution. And that British pretend premier, Gordon Snot, has condemned it. In the strongest possible terms.

Posted by Picasa


On one of the Beeb's end-of-year gabfests the other day, Gavin Essler was chatting with some fellow but alien journalists, an Arab, a Kraut and a New York Timeser among them; one of those Reithian, Nation Shall Speak Shite Unto Nation events; I'll let you be on my programme, if I can be on yours.

On the subject of troughing MPs, the Yank, some hairy babyboomer, now metamorphosed into that which he once professed to hate, gluttonous and know-it-all bombastic, was of the opinion that it was all down to their salaries being so terribly low, only sixty-thousand pounds, who would work for that? Hang about, Effendi, said Ahmed, that's quite a lot of money. To most people. But the consensus among the assembled madeupnewsandfilthers was that it was peanuts and that it was no wonder that blah blah blah, the politico-media nexus which Col. von Fawkes of ThePizzaHouseOfBlood rails against and which we chide here for its filth and fiction, especially that of Mr Rupert Corpse and his merry band - Gove, Portillo, Clarkson, Jenkins, Aaronobitch and scores of other smiling fascists - and which operates a loyalty scheme open exclusively to journos and politicians, entirely to the detriment of the populace, there it was, on the telly, for all to see. Sixty thousand pounds, all expenses paid and free to work at any number of other jobs; not very much money.

Oh, yes, Polly Mascara was there, smug and pious and unlovely as ever, a hack, forever demanding her right to manage the poor on behalf of the rich, ie herself; despite her strident, blue-stocking, life-long support for thieving, warmongering filth like Brown, Blair and Mandelstein, despite her unfailing ability to misread the signs, misinform her readers and despite her couching her affection for Oxbridge patriarchy in the glib rhetoric of equal opportunities, none in the Street Of A Thousand Arseholes has yet outed this ghastly, pampered shrew for her towering hypocrisy, none save Richard Littlecock, the blustering plague dog of Murdoch's Fleet Street - once tabloid meant tablet-like, potent, quick-acting, remedial, now, thanks to shitbags like McKenzie and Morgan, Littlecock and that brawling baggage, wotsername, Wade, tabloid means shit, bad medicine, vicious, lying cruelty.

The tax-avoiding Guardian/CP Scott Charitable Trust, enables the editor, Alan Arsebridger to pay himself half a million a year and Polly about a hundred and fifty. It does make MPs look like second-raters but it makes most of us look like beggars. Fuck 'em, anyway. New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Financial Times and the Mail on fucking Sunday; not one of them could see Ruin marching down the Threadneedle Street. Waste of fucking paper in real life and a pollutant in cyberspace.

Here, although the author is unduly optimistic about Blair being nicked, is something from the States, fit to be called journalism. Business, American style.

American-Based Guantánamo

posted Monday, 28 December 2009

American-Based Guantánamo

Thomson Correctional Center, The New Guantánamo

Relocating Guantánamo

Obama’s dwindling band of true believers has taken heart that their man has finally delivered on one of his many promises--the closing of the Guantanamo prison.

But the prison is not being closed. It is being moved to Illinois, if the Republicans permit.

In truth, Obama has handed his supporters another defeat. Closing Guantanamo meant ceasing to hold people in violation of our legal principles of habeas corpus and due process and ceasing to torture them in violation of US and international laws.

All Obama would be doing would be moving 100 people, against whom the US government is unable to bring a case, from the prison in Guantanamo to a prison in Thomson, Illinois.

Are the residents of Thomson despondent that the US government has chosen their town as the site on which to continue its blatant violation of US legal principles? No, the residents are happy. It means jobs.

The hapless prisoners had a better chance of obtaining release from Guantanamo. Now the prisoners are up against two US senators, a US representative, a mayor, and a state governor who have a vested interest in the prisoners’ permanent detention in order to protect the new prison jobs in the hamlet devastated by unemployment.

Neither the public nor the media have ever shown any interest in how the detainees came to be incarcerated. Most of the detainees were unprotected people who were captured by Afghan war lords and sold to the Americans as “terrorists” in order to collect a proffered bounty.

It was enough for the public and the media that the Defense Secretary at the time, Donald Rumsfeld, declared the Guantanamo detainees to be the “780 most dangerous people on earth.”

The vast majority have been released after years of abuse. The 100 who are slated to be removed to Illinois have apparently been so badly abused that the US government is afraid to release them because of the testimony the prisoners could give to human rights organizations and foreign media about their mistreatment.

Our British allies are showing more moral conscience than Americans are able to muster. Former PM Tony Blair, who provided cover for President Bush’s illegal invasion of Iraq, is being damned for his crimes by UK officialdom testifying before the Chilcot Inquiry.

The London Times on December 14 summed up the case against Blair in a headline: “Intoxicated by Power, Blair Tricked Us Into War.” Two days later the British First Post declared:

“War Crime Case Against Tony Blair Now Rock-solid.” In an unguarded moment Blair let it slip that he favored a conspiracy for war regardless of the validity of the excuse [weapons of mass destruction] used to justify the invasion.

The movement to bring Blair to trial as a war criminal is gathering steam. Writing in the First Post Neil Clark reported:

“There is widespread contempt for a man [Blair] who has made millions [his reward from the Bush regime] while Iraqis die in their hundreds of thousands due to the havoc unleashed by the illegal invasion, and who, with breathtaking arrogance, seems to regard himself as above the rules of international law.”

Clark notes that the West’s practice of shipping Serbian and African leaders off to the War Crimes Tribunal, while exempting itself, is wearing thin.

In the US, of course, there is no such attempt to hold to account Bush, Cheney, Condi Rice, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz, and the large number of war criminals that comprised the Bush Regime. Indeed, Obama, whom Republicans love to hate, has gone out of his way to protect the Bush cohort from being held accountable.

Here in Great Moral America we only hold accountable celebrities and politicians for their sexual indiscretions. Tiger Woods is paying a bigger price for his girlfriends than Bush or Cheney will ever pay for the deaths and ruined lives of millions of people.

The consulting company, Accenture Plc, which based its marketing program on Tiger Woods, has removed Woods from its Web site. Gillette announced that the company is dropping Woods from its print and broadcast ads. AT&T says it is re-evaluating the company’s relationship with Woods.

Apparently, Americans regard sexual infidelity as far more serious than invading countries on the basis of false charges and deception, invasions that have caused the deaths and displacement of millions of innocent people. Remember, the House impeached President Clinton not for his war crimes in Serbia, but for lying about his affair with Monica Lewinsky.

Americans are more upset by Tiger Woods’ sexual affairs than they are by the Bush and Obama administrations’ destruction of US civil liberty.

Americans don’t seem to mind that “their” government for the last 8 years has resorted to the detention practices of 1,000 years ago--simply grab a person and throw him into a dungeon forever without bringing charges and obtaining a conviction.

According to polls, Americans support torture, a violation of both US and international law, and Americans don’t mind that their government violates the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act and spies on them without obtaining warrants from a court.

Apparently, the brave citizens of the “sole remaining superpower” are so afraid of terrorists that they are content to give up liberty for safety, an impossible feat.

With stunning insouciance, Americans have given up the rule of law that protected their liberty. The silence of law schools and bar associations indicates that the age of liberty has passed. In short, the American people support tyranny. And that’s where they are headed.


Wednesday 25 November 2009


Posted by Picasa

The Filth-o-graph presents itself as stern protector of traditional values, applause in church, for instance, would be de trop, were it not happening at the funeral of Bill Deedes’ twilight years' sweetheart, Diana, Princess of Wales or, to-day, at the funeral of Staff Sergeant Olaf Shmid, following the oration from his widow, Mrs Shmid, then the unspeakable gaffe, applause in God’s house, becomes the New Tradition. This is the thing with the Filth-o-graph, Tradition is whatever you can get away with. It is a tradition at the Filth-o-graph that nieces and mistresses and mistresses’ nieces are given columns in which to write fucking drivel; it is tradition at the Filth-o-graph that gobby, idle layabouts like Simon Heffer work themselves up to near-heart attack apoplexy over vague nuances in taxation of the poor in favour of the rich among braying Tory arseholes, as if it mattered. It could be a rider, below the gothic mast head, The Daily Telegraph, as if it mattered.

But it does matter in that a once fiecely patriotic, love-it-or-hate-it, principled, right-wing journal now panders to the mawkish cognoscenti of Ruin; that a macabre spectacle in Truro Cathedral, redolent of East Enders, is reported by the Filth-o-graph as evidence of national character.

Sgt Shmid’s widow addressed the nation, largely about herself, from the cathedral lectern thus.

”I have chosen to speak because to look on us as husband and wife was an understatement. He said we were a unit.

”In my eyes my husband, my son’s father, was a warrior. Warrior are unique; our protectors, not destroyers.

"Oz and troops like him join to serve traditional warrior values; to passionately protect the country they love, its ideals, and especially their families, communities and each other.

“In past conflicts, where there was an immediate threat to our shores and our existence, soldiers were never plagued with self doubt about the value of their role in society, and a people and their soldiers were once close to unity.

“We might disagree with a war, however I hope through Oz’s death and my public appreciation and our community’s display of respect here today can serve to bridge that gap and unite us once more with our troops.

“I would personally like to thank you all for coming here today and showing your support

“All the families of lost or injured servicemen should expect our peacemakers to show they are working as hard as Oz did to preserve life.

“For the present, too many die, too many veterans exist in silence and too many are left with horrific disabilities while the rest of the community proceed as if it is business as usual.

“My husband’s death means it can never be business as usual again for our son and I. There is just too much that time cannot erase.
“Most of you will know Oz the joker, always up for a giggle. However, I lived with a very different man, particularly in the past 18 months when I have stood by him through what he described as his toughest, darkest challenge ever.

“When he felt compromised, overwhelmed or threatened, I’ve wiped his tears, pulled him up, and fought his fears for him.

“Becoming his widow has been the hardest thing I have ever done with him. I am fiercely loyal to serve him in death as I did when he was alive, however much it is breaking me.

“Hopefully he is watching and knows he is the only man who will have all of me.

“Oz lived and stood for something he believed in. In the end he paid the ultimate sacrifice for those beliefs.

“We now have a duty to not just honour what he stood for, but to live lives which honour the sacrifice he made. Please do not allow him to die in vain.”

“Becoming his widow is the hardest thing I have ever done with him,” is a line of bewildering, contradictory self-indulgence which betrays the shallow, trivial mawkishmess of her utterances almost as much as does the subsequent. “I am fiercely loyal to serve him in death as I did when he was alive, however much it is breaking me.” No business like show-business, eh?

Becoming a widow or a widower is hard for all who experience it, harnessing the event to some specious, catch-all endorsement of some airy-fairy warrior code and suborning the respect of those attending, claiming it represented “support” for her, rather than a separate, formal, obligatory respect for her late husband’s sacrifice, degraded the whole business further; the service and the public presence wasn’t about her and her betrayed marital secrets, it was about him, her function was mourner-in- chief, fortified by family, friends and regiment; hers, not to reason why.

If, in order to appreciate him, we need to be told of his private fears and tears then the bomb disposal cxpert - surely the coolest, boldest, steeliest, most self-negating of soldiers - is in the wrong game. If we cannot automatically and immediately value the duties undertaken by Olaf Shmid and give thanks for him and those like him then clapping like savages in church will not help us.

Olaf Shmid was rather more valuable than one half of a latterday John and Yoko. Rather than falling victim to self-indulgent specatacle and sentimentality, citizens theatrically mourning the dead might profit from asking themselves if they are among those who, not once, not twice but thrice voted for the jackanapes Blair and the ghastly Imelda, licensing them thus to squander, for personal glory and wealth, the lives of Olaf Shmid and Oh, so many others.

Friday 20 November 2009




I would just like to say to the house, dah-dah-dah, Mr ah Mr ah Mr ah Tiny Speaker, say to the house, Mr Tiny Speaker that, dah, the people dah, the people, Mr Tiny Speaker, dah, dah, dah, the people, Mr Tiny Speaker, of Cockinmouth owe me a very great debt of courage and heroism and bravery, the people of Cockinmouth owe me a very great and substantial debt for my courage in not going there yet and paddling around in my wellies, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, all the employees of skymadeupnewsandfilth and nearly everyone at the BB fucking C. And this is exactly why, Mr Tiny Speaker, we are in Cockinmouth in the first place, to ensure that the people of the Lake District are able to send their girls to school, not have to grow daffodils and at long last wear dry socks, something which we, in Downing Street, take for granted. It is very sad news to learn that some PC or other has made the ultimate sacrifice and I shall be scribbling to the family of constable Wotsit to let them know, Mr Tiny Speaker, how very sincere I am in my sympathy for Wotsisname who has clearly taken me as his role model, in being courageous and brave and heroic and doing the right thing for my career, I mean the country. Magnificient, courageous, professional emergency services, that's me. I need hardly mention to the house that as a young parent I, too, I too, Mr Tiny Speaker, together with my wife, Sarah-George, have lost a young child, as I mention it almost every other day, and it helps my career, even though I never, Mr Tiny Speaker, bring my family into politics and in fact never gave a fuck about having children until I became prime minister. So, Mr Tiny Speaker, if anyone has lost a child to the terrorist waters of Lake Windermere or the River Derwent let them know that I, too, have lost a child but its best to draw a line in the floodwater and move on, only mentioning the lost child when it might deflect criticism or at any other time it might prove useful; every cloud, Mr Tiny Speaker, every cloud. And I am pleased, Mr Tiny Speaker, to be able to announce to the house, to the house, to the house, to the house, Mr Tiny Speaker, that we will be bringing forward measures to make flooding illegal. It is the only thing they understand.

A pack of emergency measure will be put in place, Mr Tiny Speaker, to financially assist the people of Cockinmouth to vote Labour, only not as much financial assistance as if they were MPs, doing a very valuable job of work, Mr Tiny Speaker, and have to be able to accept bribes and fiddle the books as they go about the great task of making this land safe for the Taliban, I mean from the Taliban. And the bankers, of course.

Members will know, will know, will know, Mr Tiny Speaker that I am a son of the fucking Manse and so closer to God than most and especially the gentleman, the leader, Mr Tiny Speaker, of the party opposite, who is a useless, Godless, coke-snorting heathen bastard and has no fucking chance whatsoever of making the waters abateth themselves, much less of fooling the British people, Mr Tiny Speaker, the British people, the British people, Mr Tiny Speaker into thinking that we haven't just given their future earnings, in perpetuity, to the banks of the New World Order (prop., not, unfortunately, our old friends, Lord Tony and Mrs Imelda Blair)

And so to all those wet voters in Cockinmouth I say Hold on, I'm coming and when I come we shall part the waters, even as in days of old, verily, I say unto you, a prophet is without honour in his own land, Mr Tiny Speaker, and, indeed on the world stage, too...

(waving of order papers, shouts: Fuck off, Snotty)

....so let us all sing now, together, Psalm 137.

By the waters of Coniston, there we sat down, yea and we wept, when we remembered an election was due...

Tuesday 17 November 2009



The vet said two years ago that he had only a few weeks due to an enlarged heart, he went bad ways after his life-time co-dog, Barney, passed away suddenly. Buster had always wanted to be TopDog and now Barney was gone, he could be, but, y'know, you don't miss your water, 'til your well runs dry and Buster got what he wanted, but he lost what he had and he lives quietly now, TopDog, alone. I took him, recently, to where, six hundred miles away and fifteen years ago, he used to walk as a pup; he wasn't impressed and he was glad to be back in his walled garden, on his sofa, in any of his half-dozen beds.

Anybody who can look in dog's eyes and not see his own swift passing there mirrored misses dog's purpose, and ours.

Posted by Picasa

Monday 16 November 2009


Sir Alex Lard, of Donald Trunp, plc, Chief of the Jock Tribesmen, also part-time prime minister of Scotland, part-time MP and part-time MSP and full-time cross-dressing, obese, inebriate, wife-beating, gluttonous monster, poses in a neat,wee, below-the-knee, Jock S&M outfit, designed for the shorter man with the fuller figure and revealing a tempting glimpse of fetching white calf. The sporran, swinging gently against the genital area. adds a frisson of exhibitionisme-lite for those jaded with beating their wives, interfering with their nieces and nephews or brutally attacking their opponents in the sectarian divide which so characterises Salmond's Smart, Successful Scotland. Asked about this strange apparel one of the Tribesmen's spokespersons said it was a means by which Jock men could announce their manliness to the world, by dressing like big girlies.

Sir Christopher Kelly last week ruled, among other things, that MPs could not also sit in the Jock half-billion pound parliament, the one overseen by the BBC's grunting hunchback transsexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, off Newswank, the Corporation's sinking flagship nightly current affairs comic strip. This will be hard for Lord Salmond to take as he likes to watch the pennies, just in case he upsets his boss, Mr Donald McTrump, who owns Aberdeenshire, and is thrown off the US-owned McTrunp payroll. English readers will recall that the lardy wee bastard, living in a splendid palace in Edinburgh, charged them eight hundred pounds a month for his London food during the months when Westminster wasn't even sitting, not that he ever goes there when it is sitting; still, we are in a recession, albeit that the brilliant, trained economist, Salmond, didn't see it coming until it was here, at which point he of of course knew exactly what to do, the useless fat cunt and times being hard, he needs every penny from his three public sector jobs - the three salaries, the three sets of exes, the three pensions and so on.

When told of Kelly's ruling (itself subsequently downgraded to non-binding guidance, more of a suggestion, really) Salmond's sycophants said that Salmond was standing down from his Westminster perk at the next election, by which time he would have only been drawing his triple salaries for about three years. The extra food allowance, however, would have to be found from somewhere, a smug, wee fat fucker had to eat, after all, and the English had better stump up with some grub money, they had stolen his oil, after all.
Posted by Picasa


Mr Baha Mousa, 26, was beaten to death by British troops in Iraq, this matter is not contested by the MOD and compensation of nearly three million pounds has been paid to the families of the deceased and others tortured by Tommy.

In 1980, during an appeal by the Birmingham Six (who were later acquitted) Lord Denning judged that the men should be stopped from challenging legal decisions. He listed several reasons for not allowing their appeal:

Just consider the course of events if their action were to proceed to trial ... If the six men failed it would mean that much time and money and worry would have been expended by many people to no good purpose. If they won, it would mean that the police were guilty of perjury; that they were guilty of violence and threats; that the confessions were involuntary and improperly admitted in evidence; and that the convictions were erroneous. ... That was such an appalling vista that every sensible person would say, "It cannot be right that these actions should go any further." [83]

Alfred Denning was a popular if unconventional judge, some of his judgements compassionate and far-sighted, others, like the one above, damnable; the Birmingham Six, he felt, could be properly left rotting in prison if their release were to result in police malpractice being revealed; better the innocent suffer than institutional corruption be revealed.

And so it may prove with the apparent iceberg-tip 32 cases currently being brought against the Army alleging abuse, torture and rape by troops serving in Iraq. It may be that investigators are aware or find themselves being reminded that should these cases be proven then not only the long-discredited Blair invasion itself will be tarnished far beyond re-burnishing but so, too, will be the hitherto discrete, separate reputation of our armed forces.

Here in Ishmaelia, as in much of the unlicensed commentary on Ruin, we have crouched in that awkward posture of being agin the wars but sympathetic to Tommy, Kiplingising our responses; armchair generals, lambasting Hoon and Browne and Ainsworth for their manifold deficiencies, their deceit and charlatanry, their cruel careerism.

What shall we say and where shall we turn if Tommy, too, is villainous, is Godless, blood-letting Crusader, maltreating Ahmed, as though the Coldstream Guards were the Adolf Hitler Brigade of the SS?

And where should we go, in the solid world, should our name, thanks to our troops, be Torture?

We must await events but it is probably better that counsels such as those of Denning do not prevail for, despite his filthy, faux-paternalistic police statism, everybody now knows that the West Midlands Regional Crime Squad and many of the lawyers involved in the framing of the Birmingham Six were just dirty criminals - Denning predicted as much, should the Six ever gain release, in his judgement above. Convictions, however, of the true wrongdoers were deemed undesireable and no-one concerned with helping the true bombers evade capture and in securing sixteen years imprisonment for the innocent was ever punished.

We have long argued that coming after an illegal Blitzkrieg on a sovereign state the expenses scandal is small beer - if we let them away with Iraq, as we did, then sticky fingers is the very least we might expect; we have long argued that the massively tooled-up US/Israeli hegemony is the most dangerous Axiom of Evil in the world, despite the drunken fathead Fawkes sending propaganda Pizza to its child-killing Nazis. It is inevitable, I feel, that, close-quartered with Uncle Sam's crewcut, gang-raping psychobastard MommasBoys, betrayed by mincing, whoring, lickspittle criminals like Tony and Imelda Blair and directed now by a government which does not know, cannot tell right from wrong, Tommy Atkins will have, in the wost possible way, let down those who won the honours on his bloody flag. An unjust, shitty, immoral war led by thieves and fuckpigs like Campbell and Scarlett, drunken, wife beating coke-fiends and simpering ladyboys like Bush and Blair has probably dragged the regimental colours in the shit and stomped on them.

There may be some way back from Ruin but probably not, given the conduct of our elected dictatorship, of their chief constables, their heads of this and that, of skymadeupnewsandfilth and of bent financiers who, post- Thatcher, now pimp and swagger where once industry and manufacturing stood firm, given what goes on at home and given the threadbare poverty of his cassus bellus it would be little wonder if, increasingly, Tommy, abroad, joins the national shame.


Australian PM Dud apologizes to 500,000 child victims of institutional abuse


Australian Prime Minister Kevin Dud formally apologized Monday to 500,000 victims of childhood abuse in the country’s orphanages and government-run institutional care facilities between 1930 and 1970.

‘Allo caring cobbers, isn’t this great country great. And aren’t we all great here, today, even you lot, who had your arses banged like a shithouse door in a gale ? Isn’t it a great country, Australia? Well, alright, fair dooz, a half a million a you bastards were a little fucked about with, maybe, got wrenched from your folks and made to sleep out in the yard with the ‘roos and the ‘Abos,– and believe me, cobbers, them blackfellas is next in line for Whitey’s Apology or my name ain’t Kev Dudd, - and maybe the Warden or the Priest or the Teacher or some other great Australian role model’d come out there and maybe slap y’all around a bit and slip you a length a the old Didgeredoo, up yer Kyber or down yer throat, possums, but hey, that doesn’t mean that you ain’t all just as much a part a this great country as they are, does it now?

Australian children and thousands of young migrants who were sent to Australia from Britain suffered decades of neglect and emotional, sexual and physical abuse at the hands of caregivers. Many children were told they were orphans and others were separated from their siblings.Known as the ‘‘Forgotten Australians,’’ around 1,000 victims traveled to Parliament House in Canberra You know, continued Kev, sincerely, Australia is a really great country even if we did torture and bugger a half a fucking million, yes, a half a fucking million, that’s five fucking hundred fucking thousand children all buggered up, their lives buggered-up, their schooling buggered-up, their families buggered-up and their little pink arses most especially buggered-up and ya know what that means, you know what that means, Bruce, that means that there musta been, had to be, over the years, some children that didn’r get the old Didgeredoo in the shitpipe, so how about that, what a great country. And the other thihg about this shit that I’m apologising for is that despite there bein’ a half a fucking million victims nobody saw nothin’ happenin’ or if they did they didn’t grass their neighbours up; how’s that for a great nation, at least a half a milluio crimes and nobody saw nothin; Fair Dinkum, cobbers.

A thousand survivors gathered in the Aussie Parliament Hall to hear Dud and opposition leader Malcolm Turnbull give emotional apologies. Not a dry eye in the fucking house, there wasn’t.

‘‘We come together today to deal with an ugly chapter of our nation’s history and we come together today to offer our nation’s apology,’’ Dudd said. “ Course I’m not really apologisin’, cobbers and fellow citizens a this great child-abusing, wog-bashing nation – ain’t Australia great? - see, because it wasn’t me did all that shit but hey, I’m a real nice guy and if it gives people nice warm feelings to hear me aplogising fer somethin’ I never done, why that’s just part a living in this great country. And havin’ me make the apology is just like havin’ the criminal shitbags themselves make the apology, before being thrown in the Jailhouse and having their property confiscated and given to the victims. In fact, it’s better this way because this way, we won’t have to investigate many a the prominent citizens in this great country, Australia, many of whom know shit about me an’ my mates in Parliament and who control the votes of large numbers a their fellow – unmolested – citizens. So instead of all that muck-rakin’ and old fashioned and I might say right unhelpful, un-Australian notions of Justice, we are all gonna just bury this shit right here and now by just saying To you, the ‘Forgotten Australians’ and those who were sent to our shores as children without their consent…we are sorry. Sorry that as children you were taken from your families and placed in institutions where you were so often abused, sorry for the physical suffering, the emotional starvation and the cold absence of love of tenderness of care. And now that we got that shit outa the way will y’all stand and sing with me the Naional Anthem a this great country that allows you victims, despite your eariler wickedness, to be its great citizens, ah-one-two-three-four Noncing Matilda, Noncing Matilda, you’ll come a-Noncing, Matilda with me…….”

The Alliance for Forgotten Australian said victims suffered devastating, long-term effects from their experience, including ‘‘difficulty forming and maintaining relationships, trauma and depression, low education levels, widespread illiteracy and poor physical health.’‘ Many victims have spent much of their lives in prison whilst their tormentors have flourished and prospered.

Prime Minister Kev never mentioned compensation at the SorryFest but it is believed that the Aussie government planse to help ease the old age of some of the victims. That’s right Australian of them, eh?

Saturday 14 November 2009


November 3, 2009...2:56 pm

The Daily Politics – Defence Correspondent

Jump to Comments

That’s me that is!


This is how it happened. Ages ago, I contacted the blog and said:

“Please plug my book, blah, blah, blah.”

Swiss Bob, the editor said,



Then I had lunch with a girlfriend and said, “I need to raise my profile as a writer and communicator.”

she said, “start a blog.”

I went away and the blog was born.


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 I went onto ARRSE and started this,


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.

Women Know Your Limits!!!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjxY9rZwNGU


Leave a Reply


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.
Posted by Picasa

Friday 13 November 2009



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.

Thursday 12 November 2009

Posted by Picasa


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
    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 Rupert Corpse, proprietor, skymadeupnewsandfilth.

    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

  • 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
    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?

    Saturday 7 November 2009


    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.


    Posted by Picasa

    Friday 6 November 2009


    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 Robert Armstrong pictured with Ross Kemp: Major Armstrong was attached to the 1st Battalion The Royal Irish Regiment in Helmand Province in southern Afghanistan last year. Full Article at The Telegraph

    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.