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.