DESERT ISLAND STANISLAV, BROWN OVER ISRAEL.

This is from a year ago, when Brown and not Mandelstein was in charge, sort of; many others have re-posted stanislav, no reason I don't; it is the week-end

Tuesday, July 22, 2008
stanislav, a young polish plumber said..

LATE NEWS

On his fund-raising tour of the Middle East, UK prime minister Gordon ben Brown addressed the Knesset. From The Jerusalem Herald and the Tel Aviv Daily Mirror.(ed. Toilets Maguirestein.)

"My fellow Hebes and motherfuckers, as a son of the Scotch synagogue I say to you Shalom and thank you all for inviting me to preach in your parliament and borrow some money.

You have always been most accommodating in this area, especially in the Twelfth century back home in York, although I believe there was a bit of a communication difficulty in the easy repayments plan.

If Labour had been in charge then I would of course have taken the Hebe moneylenders into public ownership and only driven them into the sea as a very last resort - or if they refused a reasonable offer of work, down at the job centre, as we are now proposing to do in our own Final Solution.

The poor and the workshy deny lebensraum to the very hard-working and relatively poorly-paid wealth creators in the banks, the Party and the non tax-paying Russian underworld.

It is my policy, which I am sure you will all support, that we have eine Reich, eine Volk in which the poor, if they can no longer work for the rich or pay taxes, become worthless, so into the sea they must go; it is what we in the Party call compassionate Nazism. A bit like you with the neighbours up in Lebanon.

Y'know, when I was a wee boy my father was a Scotch Rabbi and so I am very much a Hebe motherfucker myself. And proud of it, only not in Palestine of course. Or South America. And I scarcely mention it with Frau Merkel. Not that I have anything to do with Germans.

In Scotland we didn't have the windows broken and the Swastika daubed on the walls thing but apart from that it was all quite Yiddish. Only we call it Presbyterianish. And instead of chicken soup our mommas made us nutritious and tasty chocolate bars fried in batter, a bit like Gefelte Fish. Only quite different

There is no God but God and Mohammed is his prophet, as our Muslim friends say, not that we have any Muslim friends making oil in Saudi Arabia. And yes, my fellow Hebe motherfuckers, I do solemnly commit my armed forces to going in there in Iran or wherever, in their rusty old LandRovers; I mean, of course, trusty old LandRovers just as soon as a) you give me some money, only not through Mr Abrahams this time and b) we borrow some ammunition off Uncle Sam.

This offer of course depends on enough of them surviving the best efforts of the schwartzer goyim untermenschen in Afghanistan and them all not coming home in tastefully flag-draped coffins and sombre music to Brize Norton and giving me an arseache in the fucking coroner's office.

As a way of recognising my own Hebeness and the very great debt we shall all owe you once you give me the money I propose to bring into government, alongside Obedience minister, Mr Jack Torture, the right honourable member for Tel Aviv, Mr Gerald Boys-Kauffman and the noble Lord Janner-Holocaust.

And if it moves the deal along a bit we could have a Holocaust Day not just once a year but once a week, maybe sing: On the Twelve Holocaust Days of Christmas, my true love (Ed Balls) sent to me.....etc or even hold it daily, along with the citizenship obedience prayer.

In fact I could re-name the whole fucking country Holocast Island, make everybody wear skullcaps and eat anchovy sandwiches on that shit famine bread you like so much.

It is the run up to the Olympic Games, just now, and people all over the world ask me about the security implications, might terrorists take hostages and even kill them? Right load of bollocks is what I say, such a thing would never happen. It's like saying there will be a return to Tory boom and bust which there won't be even though there is. And in England, anyway, we can rely upon the Chinese Secret Service, who have allowed me to put them in charge of the Metropolitan police, under, of course, our magnificently uniformed Commissionaire, Sir Iain Bendover and our security minister, Admiral Lord Liberace-West and just for once, lets never mind what it says in the Good Book about sodomites and fire and fucking brimstone, if you fucking please, some, even most, perhaps all of my best friends are arse burglars.(Ed Balls)

The former Chief Rabbi of the Northern Ireland Hebes, Archbishop Professor the Right Reverend Lord ben Paisley of Shankill Road ButchersRus, has recently resigned his office; with his many doctorates - all of them properly purchased and invoiced from the University of eBay - and his own private synagogue, his most sticky-fingered Reverence, Doctor Iain and his son, Dr Iain the Second, have shown the Ulster Hebes how to do business in a modern plutocracy and we shall not look on his like again, Oi vay, although his fellow architect of Peace Through Torture, Mr Martin Kneecaps does have an engaging twinkle in his roguish eye and I am sure a few of us here wouldn't mind getting tied-up with him.

My prudent stewardship of the UK economy - burning all the money- has set us fair for weathering the shitstorm which I have created. I have instructed the British people to both borrow and spend like there's no tomorrow and to, at the same time. save every penny because there is an all too real tomorrow in which they will all have no pensions, not from the state, because I have aforementionedly, Mr Deputy Rabbi, burned all the money and not from the private sector because the directors have used all that money to pay themselves bonuses in order to attract the right kind of people.

A simple, prudent strategy, inflate the only asset which people have, encourage them to borrow and spend it in the High Street creating a false boom and when the artificially high value of the asset deflates, everybody gets fucked up the Khyber. It's called my no more boom and bust strategy and it has woked very well. Up until now.

My prudence will also have the effect of stimulating the pawnbroking sector of the economy, probably the only sector I have not single-handedly abolished.

What about the future, people ask. Well, my Hebe motherfucking brethren in Christ, as a way of burning any future money that people don't yet have their hands on. I have prudently written massive sums of future PFI debt down in the back of my rough book, where no-one can see them. This means that they won't have to be paid back until long after I am dead and up in Heaven with my father and all the other Rabbis.

It just goes to show that we in the UK have worked out how to deal not only with the economy, which is why I am here with the begging bowl, but also with with the terrorist threat, you just let 'em all out of jail and put them in government, whilst simultaneously prudently burning all the money.

You can still learn a lot from us, even though you have bought the Labour Party outright, just think how much better and more inclusive it would have been if instead of executing Mr Eichmann you had made him deputy prime minister, like we do. Murdering psychobastards can make surprisingly effective political campaigners. As I don't need to remind you.

I look forward to a positive response to our loan application and assure you that your money, like ours, will soon go up in smoke and you will never be troubled by seeing it again. But then you're used to that.

I will close now, my fellow Hebe motherfuckers, with an old Yiddish song we used to sing at Highland Bar Mitvahs:

Al-laaahhh Akhbar, Al-laaahhh Akhbar, Bismillah, No we will not let them go, not for forty-two days, No no no no no no no, All the lassies say Och, Aye, Donald where's yer foreskin ?

Thank you, thank you, no business like showbusiness. Cheques or cash will do. But preferably cash. Thank you. Shalom! Heil Hitler! And have a negilah day."

(Silence.)
July 22, 2008 4:06 PM

EVENSONG. BACH TO BACH

POSTCARD FROM CUBA

If he drinks all the water it proves he's a terrorist and if he drowns it means he's refusing to co-operate in the democratic process.

.

Donald Rumsfeld, the former US Defence Secretary, resigned to spend more time with his thumbscrews.

Reichsfuhrer Rumsfeld is described as a thoughtful man, a poet, a great American and a great friend to the United Kingdom, or the yellow-bellied Limey cocksuckers, as he described us at one of his well attended torture seminars.

FROM HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE, DECEMBER 2010

THE REPORT

OF THE PUBLIC ENQUIRY
INTO THE GLORIOUS AND HUMANITARIAN INVASION OF IRAQ

AND INTO THE BENEFITS WHICH HAVE ACCRUED
NOT ONLY TO THE SURVIVING PEOPLE OF IRAQ
BUT TO THE WHOLE OF MANKIND

CHAIRED BY

HIS EXCELLENCY LORD CHILCOTT
OF
THE BAHAMAS

PREAMBLE

My Committee, every last one of them members of the Establishment and all shortly to receive peerages and directorships in keeping with their sacrifice found as follows.

1, CASSUS BELLUS

We found that, try as we might, we could find absolutely no reason for the UK to engage in an illegal invasion of a sovereign state which had shown us no belligerence. This does not mean that it was wrong to so do. Sometimes there may be reasons for such action but we just don’t know what they are and it is up to God to judge Mr Blair. We therefore acquit HM Government of doing anything wrong. As you knew we would. Because, fuck me, you don't expect me to tell the whole fucking world that our former prime minister is a cheap crook and a warmongering bastard. Now do you ?

2, CIVILIAN CASUALTIES

That many Iraqi civilians were killed or wounded or made refugee or tortured is, we feel, sophistry; these things happen in wars, especially illegal ones and those so bereaved, injured, uprooted or mistreated should think twice before becoming involved, they have no-one to blame but themselves and certainly not President Blair.

3, THE AFTERMATH

The Committee has concluded that Mr Blair should remain as President of Europe and we should all forget about all this shit, draw a line in the sand and move forward to our peerages.

4, THE SERVICE PERSONNEL

The considered opinion of the Committee was Fuck ‘em, can’t stand the heat, stay out the fucking kitchen.

5, RECOMMENDATIONS

1, In any future wars started by Mr Blair on behalf of his employers in the United States we, the Committee, would like to be, so to speak, in at the ground floor, on a percentage from the get-go, this will help all concerned to get their stories straight, well in advance of the exhaustive and far-reaching cover up. Like this one.

2, The nation should acknowledge the sacrifice made by the Empress, Imelda Blair and gift to her, in gratitude, Buckingham Palace, having first throwh Her former Majesty out on her arse.

Long Live The Emperor.

.

EVENSONG, JS BACH, GLENN GOULD

THE WAY IT IS, A CLIMATE OF INSULT.

A CLIMATE OF INSULT

Our right honourable friend, Jack Torture, MP, PC often claims, hissingly, self-regardingly, that he, more or less on his own, did away with Deference, as though being deferential was a crime against humanity, such as the many he, himself, has committed.

Straw, his remarks aimed at a generation he presumes knows nothing, refers to the so-called counter-culture movement of the sixties, in which he took no part whatsoever, and which, had he then been in power would have suppressed with Stalinist vigour and which has it's origin not in Straw’s rancid party politics but in Showbiz, in the work of the US beat poets, of Lenny Bruce, of Private Eye, Peter Cook's Establishment Club, Ned Sherrin's TW3, of the British blues and jazz players –Davy Graham, Chris Barber, Alexis Korner and so on – and then in the consumerist druggy doggerel of the Beatles and the dandified, junky chic of the Rolling Stones, the complete Otherness of Bob Dylan and in an Undergrund Press which, momentarily, permitted a different voice; Straw, a then pimply outcast, a nerd, a square, a straight, nevertheless claims authorhip of such rebellion as was briefly here mooted, before becoming, itself, a dedicated follower of fashion. Deference Straw hisses, sagaciously, needed to be done away with - aside, of course, when it is quite properly due to holders of great offices of state, such as he.

Rather than an end to deference – to position, often inherited or to custom and practice unquestioned for centuries – which is fine and in a sense progressive, Straw actually allies himself facetiously to the mythical Summer of Love and with the stagey bad manners of John Lennon and not with an overdue reassessment of bourgeois protocols and hierarchies which was being carried out journalistically by Tariq Ali and Mick Farren, Felix Dennis and Richard Neville and in the Courts by John Mortimer and a clutch of literati.

In his remarks, last year, to Andrew Neil, about being the scourge of Deference, Straw claimed that such would be his chosen epitaph, his explanation, to the young, of his life and purpose, as though he had been, as his mentor Blair claimed, in his youth, a cute little rock ‘n’ roller.

You wouldn’t expect much else from a man who, as Foreign Secretary lied in his rotten, hissing teeth to the United Nations; WMD, swore Straw, a devout political Christian, are about to be launched against us by these Moslem devils, only not the ones in my constituency, of course; we must attack, slaughter, raze to the ground, he insisted, kow-towing to Uncle Tom Coh-lin Powell, himself a stupid stooge who now, too late, realises and admits that rather than being le premier nigger superieur he was easily manipulated by the Bush gangsters, his gross, stupefying, beribboned vanity conniving in the fiery deaths of myriad black and brown children, to the glory of Jim Crow’s white, corporate America, the KKK Internationale.

Bombing innocent people is perhaps the height of bad manners; and for all his simpering, faux-judicial sanctimony, his clumsy attempts at linguistic sophitication, his laughable magisterial air, Straw was and remains an uncouth thug, jumped-up, graceless, bowing and scraping backwards, selectively deferential, before monarchy, like some robber baron nouvelle, his hands stained, his breath reeking, his robes dripping blood, his face, to quote another cynic, looking like something Death brought with him in his suitcase, the epitome of NewLabour, his whey-faced, obnoxious son, groomed and sinister, behind him.


The freedoms, which Myth would have us believe were wrung, non-deferentially, from Power’s hands in the nineteen-sixties, are nowhere evident. We are photographed, morning, noon and night; thousands of new, imprisonable offences are manufactured in some Euro-punishment Hellhole; we can now be tried for the same thing twice or, presumably, as with the Irish referendum, however many times it takes until the right result is reached, the mouthy, unaccountable careerist chief constable satisfied; our correspondence is subject to surveillance and storage for future examination, perhaps in case something, quite legal now, may yet be criminalised and we can be retrospectively held to account; we can be hoisted off to the Land of the Free to be given nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-years, just for thinking. The police can and do shoot, beat, enclose and abuse us at will, without fear of penalty; nothing new there, really, just a question of degree. The Executive, its last criminal chief officer applauded to the skies by the legislature, seeks our ever longer detention without trial, empowers bands of jobsworths to invade our homes, our businesses, our vehicles; if you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear, comrade citizen; wars on drugs, wars on terror, wars on crimes, wars on smoking, wars on drinking, wars on obesity; never was so cowardly a gang of reprobates and degenerates so studiously martial; a government of knaves, at war with its citizens, plundering our coffers, selling-off our landscapes, trampling on our civic and natural history, an orgy of haphazard planning decisions, spuriously green, vastly profitable to a vandalous handful, yet utterly meaningless in planetary terms, blights a land- and sky-scape unchanged since the Ice Age, nothing, neither the work of God or man, is safe from New Labour, all is now the servant of government, the land as well as the people; whence came such tyranny?

The entire apparatus of Power, as never before, skews all before it, towards its own interests. A handful of malevolent freaks owns the national press; the national broadcaster run by effete totalitarianistes nouvelle, fronted by Establishment gabshites, ensures that political coverage stops far short of reporting - much less interviewing - Difference, broadcasters and Westminster politicians all joined in a gross daisy chain, each up the other’s arse, like some devilish, de Sadeian tableau from 120 Days of Sodom, de-coupling occasionally, to shit in our faces.

The hereditary Dimblebys, arguably the most influential current affairs broadcasters - by dint of their father’s connections - studiously leaping on any voice of dissent which has not been, in advance, excluded from their dreary pretend shows and strangling it, maintaining, at all costs, a status quo of filthy, smirking, Hoonish rottenness. On next week’s Question Time the panel will consist of War, Plague, Famine, the broadcaster and writer Will Self and the Tories Security bint, Dame Pauline Neville Corpse, clap when you are told to by the floor manager. Or else.

We now have a twice-disgraced Gilbert and Sullivanesque baron, a First Secretary of Everything, a freaky blackmailer, a man brilliant enough to run Trade and Industry like none before –Oh, Peter is so wonderful - yet too fey to understand his mortgage application form, scolding and tut-tutting us for our impertinence in questioning him; his shabby, snot-eating, putative master skulking in dark places, shredding his nails, grinding his teeth in misery, yet unembarrassed that his former tormentor now keeps him in place and keeps him in line;

this, the United Kingdom, is gay Ruritania, closet pansies bitching at one another over the national corpse; gay wives, gay husbands, a cottaging elite, gay admirals and field marshals posturing and twittering, this way and that, at the prime minister’s bidding; select committees flirting outrageously with this ghastly man, Mandelson, as though parliament was Danny le Rue’s nightclub, whilst chiding us that we should do better by them, tighten our belts, that they might slacken theirs. I would rather have had the Deference, myself.


The hard-won freedoms of the ‘sixties, then, recently colonised by Straw, are an advertising construct, beloved of Q Magazine and other industry organs; we are more shackled than ever before. What we do have, however, as was touched upon the other night, by Mr mongoose, is a freedom to be rude,

“…..(some) fucking eegit, who thinks that because he has an insult in his head that he is somehow as good as the next horrible little bastard.”

our deferential, formerly polite and considerate - No, after you – restrained and inhibited civic environment, has become, this last quarter-century of Blatcherism, a Climate of Insult.

This is what we do; this, the national sport; this, our bread and circuses; this, the cake we are let eat. We are free, now, as never before, to insult one another.

Jeremy Kyle, Graham Norton, Jonathan Ross, Jimmy Carr, hideous grotesques all, paid millions of our taxpounds to be insulting, to be, inevitably, role models to our little consumers. No discernible talent distinguishes such as these, other than bad manners. The inescapable Steven Fry reads, sneeringly, insultingly, from an autocue as though it were a toilet wall and considers himself Wildean genius made smug, corpulent, farting flesh, his lame guests and his biddable studio audience an admiring coterie at a Savoy luncheon, gasping at his brilliance, as though this tuneless, repetitious, cack-handed bore was Noel Coward, rarely a minute passing without all hymning buggery, drooling at ejaculation.

Previous generations of otherwise worthless, narcissistic luvvies, Bruce Forsyth, for instance, were song-and–dance men, could do a turn, had some tradecraft, love it or loathe it, these were card-sharping journeymen, prestidigitators, jugglers, piano players, dancers and comics, soft-shoe shufflers, fire-eaters, sword swallowers, jongleurs moderne, troubadors; a trade as old as speech itself, older than whoring, is showbusiness.

The Big Brother House, though, isn’t show business but the first UK example of Cruelty Television, of insult made entertainment. Never seen but a fragment here and there, enough to avoid. Don’t know what the X-factor is but if it boasts Simon Cowell or Sharon FaceLift or Piers Moron among its presenters that’s bad enough, cruel enough, insulting enough for me to miss. These are individuals whose only talent is to be effortlessy cruel, in Moron’s case effortlessly unprincipled, too, not the worst tabloid editor in history but the most shameless, little Piers, waving his lawyers at any who question his probity.

It may be argued, of course, that contestants on these shows deserve everything they get – the bullying, the cheap shots, the roaring, cat-calling disapproval, Gladiator style, of the worthless studio audience - but fabulously well-paid programmers and controllers have a duty of care not to expose the slow-witted, the easily-led and the vain to cruelty of this sort, to ineraseable insult from the likes of Cowell.

But it is not just the low-brows who insult a capitve prey, listen to Mad Melanie Phillips or Claire Fox or, in his heyday, the nasty pinch-faced litlle faggot, Starkey, on the delightfully titled Moral Maze. There is cruelty and insult for you, a gang of useless, posturing “commentators” bullying and tormenting, an audio-crucifixion of some poor heterosexual, academic, vegetarian or Muslim, for the epicurean delectation of members of the Radio Four audience, listening at home, carefully and in a very balanced way, drinking FairTrade tea, in their cardigans and support hose, mouthing silently to themselves Go on David, Stick It To The Bitch, Go on My Son. Starkey’s delight in insult has led him to vast riches and splendour as a TeeVee historian, although he remains and obnoxious little prat

Regular readers here will contest that the People cry out for this shit, for this wickedness, they watch it, they deserve it and maybe they do - but I don’t deserve it and countless others should not have civic life polluted by insult, learned from greedy nonentities on the telly.

The celebration of the unworthy is everywhere. Screaming gay footballers having sex with one another, via some poor groupie in-between; toasting, is it called, roasting? I don’t know what kind of men these are, the premiership gang-rapists, other than the wrong kind, needing a very good, sudden, sharp, unexpected, ferocious punch in the face from a proper bloke, the force of Decency smashing their gleaming, sponsored teeth, stars in their eyes, the acrid taste of hot blood suddenly, shockingly in their throats; instead, these freaks strut the land, insulting all before them, immunised, indemnified by celebrity, hallowed.

To insult, deprave and corrupt, to be boorish and vile, one to another, these, under Straw, are our freedoms. Without even examining the insult added to injury inflicted by spiv bankers or scrutinising the cassus bellus for our squandering, abroad, Tommy’s life and limb as well as our good, fascist-kicking name, we can see from just the everyday, the mundane, the prosaic, how low we are sunk, Lily Savage, a repulsive, insulting drag queen, the New English Rose; East Enders, wretchedly violent, priapic, misanthropic, cruelly slandering an entire class, teaching our young amorality and hysteria, peddling instant gratification, lionising cruelty, refining Insult weekly; Insult, the new national treasure.

And as we do unto to others, so we are done unto, the large print giveth and the small taketh away. No more Boom and Bust, Ruin, instead, writ large and small, legitmate expectation dashed; retirements, long planned-for, husbanded frugally in advance, laid waste by those guaranteed luxurious longevity, garlanded in ermine, wafting from one QUANGO to another, Ashdown, Kinnock and soon Prescott, nobodies playing grandiose ambassadors, commissioners, plenipotentiaries. There is a tiny, tiny story, almost too trivial to tell but shockingly illustrative. In the taxpayer-funded constructors’ gold-rush which is the Olympic games, already three times over budget, compulsory purchase orders have thrown hundreds of allotmenteers off plots which they had spent a lifetime cultivating, their allotments, tiny scraps of rich dirt wheron they learned rest and renewal and Creation’s cyclicality, plots where they clung-on to sanity and peace, amid an ocean of urban alienation, bulldozed. Imagine. Now, they must buy their broad beans at Tesco’s, like good consumers; a tiny wee story, just another handful, their work made Insult, their lives made Sorrow.

Some freedoms are won, it is true; homosexuals may live largely unmolested, women are much less discriminated against; blacks and Asians, if not entirely integrated at least not firebombed, inventing, quaintly, their own niggers, coons, jungle bunnies and ragheads - the Albanians, the Poles; the nonce is still everywhere, low dives and high places, conspiring, trading but often, now, despite the best efforts of Pope Nazi and the noncing monsignors, children are believed; we live longer, better and healthier, enjoy freedom from illnesses which carried off our grandparents. Such advances, however, are not those to which Straw falsely alludes; they are not freedom of thought, much less freedom of assembly, freedom to organise, to dissent, to march, to travel, we have no freedom to chastise our employees, to picket the parliamentarians, who keep the matter of their regulation closely to themselves, playing, in the four-yearly festival of competetive promising, musical chairs, as though this meaningless ritual sufficiently policed their serial, collective criminality.

The next time, then, that men and women of a certain age pontificate about How Freedom was Won, Deference O’erthrown in the 'sixties, look ye around at Insult rampant. And punch them in the face.

A SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP; WE DO AS THEY SAY.

THE UK HIGH COURT WAS TOLD BY THE US NOT TO RELEASE INFORMATION RELATING TO THE TORTURE OF A BRITISH RESIDENT WHILST HELD BY TEAM GUANTANAMO. IF YOU RELEASE THIS SHIT, WE'LL BUST YER ASS.

story from the daily telegraph

PRESIDENT HILLARY TROUSERS
DO AS I SAY, LIMEYS.

The former Guantanamo Bay detainee Binyam Mohamed Photo: AP

Mrs Clinton personally told the Foreign Secretary that the US government would consider the dramatic step if a short summary of the treatment of Binyam Mohamed is placed in the public domain, the High Court was told.

A hearing was told that the move could cause "serious harm" to Britain's national security and potentially put the lives of British citizens at risk.

Karen Steyn, representing Mr Miliband, told two senior judges that members of the Obama administration, including Mrs Clinton, had made clear that intelligence sharing between the two countries "would" be reconsidered if the court went ahead with plans to publish the information.

The high level intervention follows a protracted legal wrangle over whether a seven-paragraph summary of Mr Mohamed's treatment at the controversial camp on Cuba, drafted for inclusion in a High Court judgment last year, could undermine national security if it were to be published.

Lord Justice Thomas and Mr Justice Lloyd Jones reluctantly agreed to leave the passage out of the judgment on August 2008 because of evidence from Mr Miliband of a potential "threat" to cut off security co-operation if the classified evidence was made public.

It later emerged that this was based on communications between the Government and the outgoing Bush administration. The claims were the first time the threat has been attributed to senior members of Mr Obama's administration. Mr Obama has promised to close Guantanamo Bay and has already published detailed evidence of the treatment of some detainees there.

As a result the judges reopened the case earlier this year and have been considering an application from parts of the media to finally place the information, which is based on US intelligence evidence, into the public domain.

Mr Mohamed, 30, an Ethiopian who was granted refugee status in Britain in 1994, was detained in Pakistan in 2002 on suspicion of involvement in terrorism and then "rendered" to Morocco and Afghanistan.

He alleges that he was tortured by his captors before being sent to Guantanamo Bay in 2004 from which he returned last year.

At a hearing in London on Wednesday, Guy Vassall-Adams, representing the media, argued that keeping the information secret would provide a "veto" to the alleged perpetrators or human rights abuses.

But Karen Steyn, representing Mr Miliband told the court that the Foreign Secretary was convinced that publishing the redacted paragraphs would seriously threaten the "unique" intelligence sharing relationship between Britain and the US, despite the change in administration.

"The conversations that he has had with the US Secretary of State are part of the information that he has taken into account in forming that assessment," she said.

In lengthy and heated exchanges, Lord Justice Thomas repeatedly pressed Miss Steyn on whether Mr Miliband had been told personally that a warning had come directly from the Obama administration.

Insisting that there could be no "wriggle room" on the issue, the judge said: "He (Mr Miliband) understands the position of the US government is that it would risk the intelligence relationship with the United Kingdom with the result that there would be a serious risk to the national security of the UK and that would endanger the men, women and children of the United Kingdom – that is really what Mrs Clinton is saying according to the Foreign Secretary?"

Miss Steyn said that Mr Miliband had made it "absolutely plain".

The judge ordered a transcript of the hearing to be sent to the Foreign Secretary directly to give him an opportunity to make clarify what he meant.

At a press conference in Washington later alongside Mrs Clinton, Mr Miliband said: “Our two countries have a uniquely close intelligence sharing relationship.

“It is a relationship which is based on deep trust and a fundamental principle is that we do not disclose each other’s intelligence publicly.”

Mrs Clinton refused to comment directly on proceedings in the High Court, saying that: “The issue of intelligence sharing is critically important to our two countries and we both have a stake in ensuring it continues to the fullest extent possible.”

.

 

DR JOHN, THE NIGHT TRIPPER. IF I DON'T DO IT, SOMEBODY ELSE WILL

MY NORTHERN SKY, HIGHLANDS, 10.00 pm

MAD OLD LADY TO CONTEST LUTON SEAT.

From skymadeupnewsandfilth's freakyoldbags correspondent, Jayne Tits.

GOOD DOG, ESTHER

A mad dog is to stand as an independent candidate in Luton, should there be a general election. Well, you know,everybody says I'm crazy and I am, says the horrid, mouthy old bitch, but you see I just can't fade away and go into an old dogs' home, not after I have been so famous. Do you want to see my thong? Grrr, grrrr. Vote for me, help teach an old dog new tricks.

Emeritus professor of Newsnight Review and ludicrous Big Brother contestant, Dr Germaine Greer, below

said That toothy old Sheila bangs like a shithouse door in a gale, probably fuck her way through the constitiency, if she can be an MP so can I, 'strewth, I been on as much telly as her. (sings) Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters....

Professor Greer has issued this leaflet as the opening shot in her election campaign,

which, it is said, has Ms Rantzen, seventy-tooth, sorry, seventy-two, biting her tail in rage.

FORTY SHILLIN' ON THE DRUM.

LONDON (Reuters) - The government launched a legal bid on Tuesday to reduce compensation awards made to two soldiers for injuries suffered in service.

The Ministry of Defence is seeking a ruling over awards made to Light Dragoon Anthony Duncan, who now walks on crutches after being shot on patrol in Iraq, and Royal Marine Matthew McWilliams who fractured his thigh in a military exercise.

Duncan was originally awarded 9,250 pounds but that was increased to 46,000 pounds by an appeal tribunal while McWilliams was awarded 8,250 pounds, which was increased to 28,750 pounds on appeal.

The High Court upheld the higher awards, ruling that the Ministry of Defence (MoD) argument that there should be a distinction between the original injury and later complications was "absurd," the Press Association reported.

The legal action comes after two more soldiers died in Afghanistan, bringing the total killed in the bloodiest month for British soldiers in the campaign to 22.

On Monday the government announced the end of the five-week "Panther's Claw" offensive, saying it had succeeded in driving militants out of population centres ahead of Afghan elections next month.

Natalie Lieven, the lawyer representing Defence Secretary Bob Ainsworth, told the Court of Appeal on Tuesday that awards for injuries are made under the Armed Forces and Reserve Forces Compensation Order.

She said the Upper Tribunal Administrative Appeal Chamber had made wrong conclusions about the Order and had set out a number of principles on how it should be interpreted.

"The impact of that decision covers the large majority of cases under the Order and is therefore of very great importance to the Secretary of State and to the proper decision-making in many future cases," she said. Continued...

BEHOLD MY WORKS

This episode of Ruin caught my eye, an everyday story.


"Twenty five years teaching in the university sector, before a disgruntled student took out his ire by stabbing me in the head, and I feel like the traveller coming upon the tomb of Ozymandius, a ruin of self-aggrandising ideology that used to be called education." Mr PT Barnum, from the comments, When The Boat Comes In.


Dear Mr Barnum

That is, indeed, a sorry tale, even though Ruin and Bitter Discord are, here, our business. The personal sorrow and insult smack more harshly than the societal and yours, permit me, might be overwhelming, were it not so sadly commonplace among teachers, nurses, carers of all kinds, rebuked and chastised by Consumerism’s empty-headed spawn; the rise of the fuckwit tracking the ascent of people like Blunkett, Smith and Prescott; the continued pre-eimince of the worthless, soundbiting bully, Cameron and most of all the rank, unelected, snot-eating splendour of the criminal, Brown.

I would differ a little with you, however, on the precise chronology of educational Ruin, although my observations are but a footnote. I remember, in the seventies, looking at a nephew's homework, with a view to helping him understand his teacher's red-inked comments; his teacher could neither spell nor punctuate and could not frame a sentence, so there wasn't really any point in the proposed assistance. My estimation of his teacher's ability was that she would not - at whatever age she then was, twenties, I guess, with a college of education qualification, a Cert Ed, I guess - pass an eleven-plus examination. There, must have been thousands like her,
a decade before Gordon the Ruiner entered Parliament. Tens of thousands

I believe it was the case that there had been an expansion of Teacher Training Colleges, which attracted those not quite sufficiently academically gifted, then, to reach university, on the entirely flawed basis that people could be taught to teach though they, themselves, were, at best, narrowly educated and at worst barely literate. It may be the case that this state of affairs was justifiable by a foreseen need for many more teachers than then existed but if that is the case it makes your own and others' points about a lowering of standards, an all-shall-have-prizes approach to education; the one which, annually, results in those currently teaching lying their faces off about the magnificent efforts and achievements of their hard-working "students," the ignorant, gobby litte bastards who can barely write their own facetious and idiotic Chardonnay names and who can't do a two-times table, yet wave grade A A-levels in our faces, as though they meant something.

I think Brown's offence is graver than merely permitting the downward spiral you mention, even though he is claimed to have benefited from the post-war educational excellence - and in any event I don't believe a word that is said about his brilliance,

I don't even accept that he might be brilliant in an autistic sort of way, his misuse of language is deplorable, he doesn't understand what he's saying a lot of the time; his remarks do not bear a moment's logical scrutiny; even if you make allowances for him blackmailing and being blackmailed on several fronts, for the fraudulence of his relationships, for the corrosive effect of his ambition, for his sheer rottenness; if you peeled him he would be at the centre, like an onion, there wouild be nothing there, certainly no education as you or I would understand it, so, since he has none himself, other than that which he mythologises, it is little wonder that he fails to see the penury of our national achievement; excellence, for this gross, fucked-up, beastly hypocrite, is refracted always through the lens of his festering ambition, if he is in power, then all is excellent, QED, unwinnable wars won, poverty vanquished, merely by the saying of it. The farce, the debacle, that is British education is, on Brown’s charge sheet, so small a matter ss to be taken into consideration with his graver crimes, an afterthought.

Where he seriously needs his face punching-in is in that he and his generation of career politicians have lied so consistently that it is little wonder that the nation is awash with filth, violence and dishonesty, that such are the defining national charachteristics. The example is set, they all do it, the BBC, the Prince of fucking Wales, the bishops, the lawyers, the lords, the cops, none can tell the truth but only dissemble, finesse and in Brown's case, just like Stalin, tell the biggest lie possible and keep telling it; he really is an utterly horrible fucking bastard.

When the prime minister of the United Kingdom, be it Blair or Brown or Cameron stands before the world and lies consistently, cheered-on in his deceit by a thieving rabble dependent upon him for advancement, it is little wonder, is it, that the children so misbehave.

To watch this horrid freak, the prime minister, lying as he does is more than I can stomach and I have stopped doing it,
can no longer penetrate the entire dawn-til-dusk miasma of mealy-mouthing and dissembling, I can't do it anymore without it hurting me somewhere, I think somewhere in infancy, Sunday school, primary school, where decency took root and was nurtured, not by obnoxious party political diktat but by ordinary people; I see this Goddamned, child-burning, torturing, misbegotten, cack-handed, stuttering freak lying from before he opens his mouth until after he's closed it and I could fucking well weep for them, my parents, my teachers, the unsung mentors, those who fought hunger, fascism, rickets, unemployment and beyond them, those who died, in struggle, in poverty, in war that Gordon Brown might lie to us, the horrible, horrible fucking bastard.

There is no use to call Shame down on his head, for it is beyond his ken; a criminal prime minister ousted, yet feted abroad by his murderous paymasters; a Speaker ousted, exiled to a multi-million pound pension, to baubles and honours and freebies; the Middle East aflame, bombarded, made refugee; Innocence napalmed, gangraped, bludgeoned, shackled, corraled; jurisprudence UK enmeshed in kidnap and torture vile; the entire legislature rotten from top to bottom, it’s vile, bloodsucking cohort anxious to be within a European totalitarianism, shitting from Louis Quinze latrines into our parochial, nationalistic faces; the national wealth, current and future, funds which we have not yet worked to create, given freely to criminal corporate Usury, that it might lend it back to us with interest, a generation lifted, in one fell swoop, from poverty into debt and feasting atop this ruin, this gross, gibbering nancyman, sermonising of Vaal-ewes and Trans-pairency and Sol-you-shuns; snot-eating his way into history’s scorn and ridicule, this nasty, cheap shit, pout and mince as he may, knows nothing of Shame, much less Virtue.

Gordon Brown needs his face punching-in, it is a national moral imperative. Split infinitives, tenses, articles, cases, these are of no moment in modernised, reformed Britain and to lament such failures is to ossify, to be grunoy but compliant; stupid children can be corrected, the villainy of Mandelson and Kinnock thrown in jail, should we but revolt into Decency.

Vainglorious Ozymandian folly, mr barnum, doesn’t approach the moral cataclysm that is Gordon Brown; Ruin, Slaughter, Waste, Turmoil, Cowardice, Oppression, behold his works and vomit up your souls.

 

EVENSONG, AN ARTS AND CRAFTS MOVEMENT

FAMILY GUY, THE BAG OF WEED SONG.

EVENSONG

DESERT ISLAND DISCS, DANCING WITH JOHN BUNYAN.

PLUCKY LITTLE ISRAEL, BLESSED ARE THE NOOSEMAKERS.

Two British NCOs, hanged by plucky little Israel, 1948,
their bodies booby-trapped.

'Two British spies held in underground captivity since July 12 have been tried after the completion of the investigations of their "criminal anti-Hebrew activities" on the following charges: 1. Illegal entry into the Hebrew homeland. 2. Membership of a British criminal terrorist organisation known as the Army of Occupation which was responsible for the torture, murder, deportation, and denying the Hebrew people the right to live. 3. Illegal possession of arms. 4. Anti-Jewish spying in civilian clothes. 5. Premeditated hostile designs against the underground. Found guilty of these charges they have been sentenced to hang and their appeal for clemency dismissed. This is not a reprisal for the execution of three Jews but a "routine judicial fact."'<sup>[5

(From wiki, the sergeants' story.)</sup>

^{---------------------------------------------------------------------}

Jewish British MP Likens Israel to Nazis

Powerful remarks by Gerald Kaufman during a debate on Gaza in the House of Commons today:

"My parents came to Britain as refugees from Poland. Most of their families were subsequently murdered by the Nazis in the holocaust. My grandmother was ill in bed when the Nazis came to her home town of Staszow. A German soldier shot her dead in her bed.

My grandmother did not die to provide cover for Israeli soldiers murdering Palestinian grandmothers in Gaza. The current Israeli Government ruthlessly and cynically exploit the continuing guilt among gentiles over the slaughter of Jews in the holocaust as justification for their murder of Palestinians. The implication is that Jewish lives are precious, but the lives of Palestinians do not count.

On Sky News a few days ago, the spokeswoman for the Israeli army, Major Leibovich, was asked about the Israeli killing of, at that time, 800 Palestinians—the total is now 1,000. She replied instantly that “500 of them were militants.”

That was the reply of a Nazi. I suppose that the Jews fighting for their lives in the Warsaw ghetto could have been dismissed as militants.

The Israeli Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni asserts that her Government will have no dealings with Hamas, because they are terrorists. Tzipi Livni’s father was Eitan Livni, chief operations officer of the terrorist Irgun Zvai Leumi, who organised the blowing-up of the King David hotel in Jerusalem, in which 91 victims were killed, including four Jews.

Israel was born out of Jewish terrorism. Jewish terrorists hanged two British sergeants and booby-trapped their corpses. Irgun, together with the terrorist Stern gang, massacred 254 Palestinians in 1948 in the village of Deir Yassin. Today, the current Israeli Government indicate that they would be willing, in circumstances acceptable to them, to negotiate with the Palestinian President Abbas of Fatah. It is too late for that. They could have negotiated with Fatah’s previous leader, Yasser Arafat, who was a friend of mine. Instead, they besieged him in a bunker in Ramallah, where I visited him. Because of the failings of Fatah since Arafat’s death, Hamas won the Palestinian election in 2006. Hamas is a deeply nasty organisation, but it was democratically elected, and it is the only game in town. The boycotting of Hamas, including by our Government, has been a culpable error, from which dreadful consequences have followed.

The great Israeli Foreign Minister Abba Eban, with whom I campaigned for peace on many platforms, said: “You make peace by talking to your enemies.”

However many Palestinians the Israelis murder in Gaza, they cannot solve this existential problem by military means. Whenever and however the fighting ends, there will still be 1.5 million Palestinians in Gaza and 2.5 million more on the west bank. They are treated like dirt by the Israelis, with hundreds of road blocks and with the ghastly denizens of the illegal Jewish settlements harassing them as well. The time will come, not so long from now, when they will outnumber the Jewish population in Israel.

It is time for our Government to make clear to the Israeli Government that their conduct and policies are unacceptable, and to impose a total arms ban on Israel. It is time for peace, but real peace, not the solution by conquest which is the Israelis’ real goal but which it is impossible for them to achieve. They are not simply war criminals; they are fools."

---------------------------------------------------------

For once, it is impossible to disagree with Gerald Kaufmann, MP, above, except to note that he is foolish in the extreme to expect this shower of shit, any of them, to be even vaguely acquainted with truth and decency, much less stand-up for them.

I expect the families and comrades of the two British sergeants, not shot or bombed but hanged, hanged, mind, by Israel's future prime minister, Begin and his chums, might depart from blanket legitimising of the Israeli state's actions - but no matter, we are where we are, that was then and this is now, the bottom line is, at the end of the day blah blah blah and a dead lieutenant-colonel in the hand is worth two sergeants hanging on public display; hanged by the neck, British troops, as part of some biblical fundamentalism, blessed are the noosemakers, eh?

Neatly, subtly, Israel is cast as allied to us, in fighting the Mohammedan Talimen, when in fact it is we who are allied to her, killing Palestinians. For Jehovah. Abrahamic wars for the new millenium.

But never mind, we are where we are, no point crying over spilled sergeants. Let us focus on the wogs, not the yids, for the yids are sort of white men, nearly-Americans, anyway, only with their cocks trimmed, innit. Plucky little Israel. In the best tradition of UK blogging, let us not trouble ourselves overmuch with the actual history, that Israel is and ever was, as Kaufmann insists, a terrorist state. Not when there’s madeupnewsandfilth to keep us on the straight, Old Testament path.

At some point, it seems the barbarians become statesmen and allies, as with Begin and with Messrs Adams and McKneeCaps: unfortunately, in the case of the late Mr Saddam Hussein,
having eventually, after some effort, incurred the displeasure of the world’s moral arbiter, policeman and executioner, Uncle Sam, the process happened in reverse. One day our stalwart, if boistrous ally, the next the author of the 9/11 atrocity and seconds away from toasting our boys in Akrotiri, public strangulation his only career option. I wonder what it is that Hamas needs to do in order to gain the imprimatur of the righteous, they are already democratically elected at home why are we so down on them and not, just for instance, the monstrous, geriatric Chink regime?

It is ethically arbitrary, this alliance with Israel uber Alles, there is no morality in it and if we sought proof of that we might wonder why a bunch of melon and grapefruit farmers have one of the mightiest - nuclear - armies on Earth, equipped with GlobaDeath's very latest aircraft, in order to surgically dismember its neighbouring infants?

We can be sure that if Israel's sponsors in Washington had permitted her to unleash the full onslaught - which so many fawningly credit her with restraining - then she would have done so, beseeching Jehovah to deliver her to the Promised Land, and fuck everybody else, fucking nutcases. We think Brown the Presbyterian is bad enough, spare us from a legislature full of demented Hymies and Moshes pleading scriptural endorsement of their murders, prophecies, burning fucking bushes; isn't it written, in the Book somewhere, by some vile, angry, vengeful, blood-sacrificing, wife-beating sonofafuckingbitch - some Jehosephat begat Jeremiah and Jeremiah begat and Ruben and Ruben begat Benjamin and on and on - that all those not of the Tribe - ie the rest us - well, God would tell us all to go and fuck ourselves, we must be smitten and engulfed in flames. Is the future of the world really to be linked to this tosh, this bullshit, this herrenvolk-with-psalms nonsense ?

But as well as widepsread murder, terror, sanctions, blockading, bullying and monumental hypocrisy,as well as UN Resolutions ignored - unless they are in their favour - as well as the constant usurpation of others' farms, homes, lands and businesses, these holier-than-thou criminal bastards shame all who died in the Nazi Terror, those who fought, those blitzed, those enslaved and exterminated.

It is as though collectively the West has said That was some bad shit there Hymie, tell you what, just take over these folks's land and give them some, kick 'em around a bit, we'll all look the other way, they're only wogs.

The dreadful irony of this grim obeisance to monstrosity, even should it be rooted in motives shamefacedly noble, regretful, is that by our compliance we legitimise - "My grandmother did not die to provide cover for Israeli soldiers murdering Palestinian grandmothers in Gaza." - not Israel but Hitler.

WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

BOTTLENECK BLUES.

WOTSONTELLY. QUESTION TIME, OUR GREATEST LIVING MP

MR GEORGIO "JOCK" NARCISSUS, MP (part-time)



All these other MPs, they're all wankers, thundered glamourous pantomome dame, publisher, disc jockey, litigant, European property developer, writer, reality TV star and part-time MP, Mr George Gob, above.

Speaking on BBC TV's ever populist Approved Question Time where he shared a platform with Dame Shirley Death, Sir Clive Death, Mr Geoff Death and some intolerably mouthy, yakkety-yakking Tory bint, Comrade George claimed repeatedly that he was the dog's bollocks.

Y'see this beard? I grew this beard. For the People. This suit? This ridiculous pimp suit with the high fastening? I wear this suit for the People. Everything I do, I do it for the People. All the money which my parliamentary celebrity status enables me to hoover-up, I keep all that for a worthy cause, ie myself. The rest of them are all wankers. There is only I, George. I work day and night for the People. Apart from when I'm taking a well-earned break in my holiday home on the Costa del Slag or am unavoidably detained fighting Equality's battles in the Big Brother House.

Asked whether he thought MPs had too much holiday (half the year) Mr Gob joined and closed ranks with his erstwhile foes, grunting in his delightfully belligerent, See-You-Jimmy, Glasgow punk fashion, Fuck me, no, all of us here work our guts oot fer youse ungrateful bastards. Me and Geoff Hoon, working our balls off, day and night. You know in the rough and tumble and hurly burly of parliamentary life it is often forgotten that members have far more in common with each other than they do with you lot. I may not agree with Geoff Hoon being a vile warmongering bastard, a cheap shit and a man witout an ounce of decency but, for fucks sake, if you start cutting his holidays next thing is you'll be cutting mines. Vote Respect. Vote Galloway. The Establishment's man of the People. (sings) There's no business like Showbusiness, like no business I know......

FOUR JUST MEN

FOUR MAD-LOOKING FORMER CHANCELLORS GIVE THEIR VERDICT
ON OUR ECONOMIC PROSPECTS.




YOU'RE ALL FUCKED

By skymadeupnewsandfilth's economics floosie, Jayne Tits.

Four of the grandees of British wotsit have been talking exclusively to me about being fat.

Lord Lawson of Husband's Bosworth said that he used to be the fattest bastard chancellor in the history of the Treasury, there may have been one even bigger, fatter bastard than me during the Napoleonic Wars but I can't be sure, I was certainly fatter than Ken Clarke and Nicholas Soames squeezed together in a striped waistcoat and a bowler hat singing Alexander's Ragtime Band. But anyway, as soon as I ditched my loyal wife and got a trophy one called Tracy or Sharon or something I soon shed the pounds, the avoirdupois ones, I mean, wrote a diet book and have never been slimmer. The economy? It's all fucked-up. Bit like Margaret Thatcher.

No, Je ne regrette rien, warbled Lord Lamont of Bermondsey. I did have some slapper Miss Whiplash renting my house and running it as a brothel but I just pretended I knew nothing about it and it all blew over, rather like the money on Black Wednesday. Fat? Not any more. The economy? Asking the wrong person, my love, haven't a fucking clue.

You're not going to shout at me, are you, whispered Lord Howe of Knifings In The Back, I used to hate it when she shouted at me. And that's why I did it, The speech. You know. The one about cricket, it was cricket wasn't it? Even though in a jolly good fellow sort of way it wasn't cricket. Fat? No, that'll be my wife, Lady Elspeth, but don't say I said so. The economy? Well, yes, steady hand at the tiller, play the game, jolly good show. I think it's fucked .

He's a good boysie-woysie, is Gordon, assured Lord Dennis "The Beggarman" Healey of OldLabour. Tax 'em til the pips squeak, that's the answer. You know, in my day, if you'd blown all the dosh you just went down the IMF on hands and knees and blagged a loan off 'em. Fat, no, not really, but that's probably because I'm nearly a hundred and not long for this world. Regrets? No, that's not me, that's the other bloke, Lamont. The economy? Fucked if I care. Would you ? If you were me? One foot in the fucking grave? Didya see that George Galloway on Question Time? Man's a complete cunt. Talks like he was Che fucking Guevara. Wouldn't a happened in my day.

TOTTYWATCH, THOSE PIZZA BABES

THIS ONE'S NINE YEARS OLD.
PARALYSED FROM THE NECK DOWN,
THAT'LL STOP HER NONSENSE.
BITCH.

AND AS FOR THIS ONE, YOU CAN JUST SEE
SHE WOULD HAVE COME TO BRADFORD AND BLOWN US UP.
EVIL SLUT.

HAMAS WERE OBVIOUSLY HOLDING THIS ONE
UP IN FRONT OF THEM,
AS A HUMAN SHIELD.
FUCKING WOGS.

FILTHY SLAG.

By way of explanation for overseas visitors, the UK's premier tabloid political blogger so approved the recent Israeli incursion into Gaza that he urged his cheering admirers to send the IDF boys Pizza, in recognition of their valour in killing would-be, future terrorists, such as these above.

The Tottywatch feature, on that site, offers wise commenters - incontinent, unshaven, wanking pensioners - the opportunity to describe in sadisitc nonce detail the sexual torture and humiliation which they might, in a cruel, butch, manly way withold from or if the mood took them, inflict upon some hapless female pictured, for that express purpose, in the latest posting; the Tottywatch feature, like a nightmare from the mind of Kelvin McKenzie, is a glimpse into woman-hating Hell. And very popular.

This aside, Mr von Fawkes of order-order, a father, himself, of two young daughters and resident, for tax and propaganda purposes, in the Republic of Ireland, takes his responsibilities as a citizen very seriously and this is why he has only two convictions for drunken driving.

The extreme policing measures applied by Israel and applauded by Hauptmann Fawkes, incidentally, had they been adopted after the 1970s IRA bombing campaign on mainland UK would have seen British tanks and aircraft destroying Dublin, mutiliating all those wee Micks, on the grounds that we were entitled to defend ourselves and in the UK nuking New York and Boston, from whence came so much IRA funding; political history, however, is, fortunately, not a part of order-order, why bother when you can just get pissed and make stuff up?

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Mr PT Barnum said:

...... And in the midst of that prose are references to things that happened before I found that blog, (order-order) such as the pizzakids. I can deduce what might have been said, and if my deduction is correct I can only feel ashamed at having been inadvertantly co-opted to such beliefs.

20 July 2009 09:01

Me, too.