Col. von Fawkes of the Israeli propaganda unit, relaxing.
The bankers' blogger, Guido Fawkes, probably doesn't relax like this but he irritated someone and they put this together and there it is, the cyber biter, cyberbit. That's what happens. Out there. Metaphore or simile, judiciously stoked they run and run and run.
The Colonel denies ever launching the rumour of there being pictures extant of Gordon Brown in a nappy, on a rocking horse, daubed in shit, sucking a dummy; any number of frantic, deranged parasexual conditions, positions and costumes were said to be captured on film and used as leverage against the then chancellor as he busily burnt all the money in a furnace below Downing Street. But somebody started it and enough people believed it, wanted to believe it, that Google has one hundred and twenty four million pages of Gordon Brown Rocking Horse Nappy. It doesn't matter if it's real, as long as people believe it.
These things take off. As stanislav, a young polish plumber, this writer launched the delightful confection, among others, that Ms Jacqui Smith's previous career had been as a cookery teacher in BurglarsVille High School, Redditch and it runs to this day, the most inept and mediocre home secretary in history is, in the minds of many, always a jumped-up cookery teacher - and isn't it the case that, what with the hubbyporn and the bathplug and squatting in sister's broom cupboard, Schmidt acted just how you would expect of a greedy, belligerent cookery teacher propelled into wholly unsuitably high office? The reality, in Schmidt's case, has outrun the metaphor. Jacqui Smith, you couldn't make her up, her taxpayer-salaried husband-assistant writing, under a nom de plume, to the local 'paper, praising the local MP, pretending she wasn't his Mrs, that he was just a regular guy, spontaneously commending his elected representative; considering that it was I paying him, not the Labour party, that - the crass, cynical,illicit propagandising - for me, was the graver SchmidtSin and in a proper country he'd go to jail.
People may have believed the cookery teacher spoof,, they may equally have believed my contention that "Sir" Michael White, surely the most obnoxious Guardian hack, ever, carried kneepads, the more conveniently that he might fellate Labour government ministers. Michael Kneepads White, Toilets Maguire, Ruth Man Kelly, the BBC's grunting, hunchback, transsexual, Mr Kirsty Wark, Jack Torture, The Nutter With The Stutter, the individuals who inspired these caricatures brought them to life. I hope that someday, twenty years hence, someone accosts the forgotten Jacqui Schnidt with the words "Wasn't you that cookery teacher, fucked-up as 'ome seckatry....?"
But that these caricatures ran and ran was not evidence of widespread cyber gullibility but of a wish to label, announce, proclaim, define by suffix, prefix or substitution that something was very rotten in what von Fawkes usefully described as the media-political nexus. These terminologies provided a lingua franca shorthand of Dissent. And they run and run, McRuin, McBroon, Snotty, Mandelbum, one, Hoon, an utter fucking waster has seen his name become an alternate form of Cunt.
But however vilified were his partners in crime, Brown remained the grand, nose-picking enigma, imagined frenziedly masturbating as he fled from crises and responsibilities, disappearing like McCavity. Questions were asked, claims made, theses written predicating that Gordon Brown was a closet gay, a bondage freak, a nonce, mentally ill - Fawkes's "the prime mentalist," enraging those hustling a crust in NutScape or whatever they call the mental illness charities business but delighting many less correct souls - was infantilised, the snot-eater, medicated, disordered, bad tempered and violent, stuttering, gibbering , gulping as well as him being justly ascribed the usual characteristics of politicians - greedy, untrustworthy, larcenous, hypocritical, inebriated and degenerate, good, as we say, for fuck all, the face of the modern career politician for sure, but something else, too, something beyond.
There is no equivalent in the French or the Russian Revolutions, to the sheer volume of heartfelt hatred which our cyber-literate dissenters have blogged, texted and twittered about Gordon Brown, no parallel anywhere to the raging cataracts of criticism being so luxuriantly, explicitly descriptive of his imagined private sexual identity, gurning, pouting, shit-eating, cock-sucking, one-eyed, kiddy-fiddling arse bandit doesn't begin to do justice to the rich catalogue of names which Brown has been called. What is it about Brown, which attracts this speculation? I hope to show that it is nothing more than a validation of the adage, You can't fool all of the people all of the time, that Brown's disgusting habits, gaffes and maladroitness stem not from shyness or childhood injury but from a great big dirty secret, which many have guessed.
That the cruelest lampooning of Brown resides almost solely in terms of sexual perversion voices a tenor of insult unique to him, the revulsion which people feel for and express about him would lay low any normal young parent, such as he risibly claims to be, yet nothing dents his Messianic belief in his exclusive, even Divine right to lead us all into Ruin. Any normal person, so castigated would say the fuck with this shit and go and do something else, wouldn't they, but my experience of people like Brown is that they keep secrets even from themselves and most of the time he doesn't even know how inexplicably loathed and detested he is, he gladhands with his fellow Euroleaders and we must assume, thinks that to those who matter, he matters. Brown's is a deep and strange madness and I ventured a couple of posts back that no understanding of what makes Brown tick - or tic - no comprehension of the scale of his folie de grandeur is possible this side of autopsy.
Why is this? What is it about Brown that he can mince around the capitals of the world, ludicrous and jeerworthy, as though he heralded, or was, the Second Coming while, at home, he is hated in strange, suspicious and frightened bogeyman ways? No prime minister in living memory has been so traduced; alien visitors would surely contend that no-one so ferociously and sustainedly abused from all sides could reasonably be entrusted with serious responsibility, should, in charity and decency and mercy, be taken to a place of soundproofed safety. Here, our resident alien, Piers The Smirking Prat, waltzes Brown across a grim, self-exculpatory floor and back again, grinning, to a national tumult of derision and catcall.
Even the so-called quality papers, the guardians of the status quo, only thinly disguise their revulsion at Brown so studiedly and archly, in mutually sly cahoots with Sarah-George, McCannesquely Dead-Babying their way through prime time with Piers.
Overseas readers may be unaware that in Ruinous UK, Daytime TV is partially dominated by ghastly barrages of self-revelation and irresponsibility from John Prescott's Underclass and their shortcomings as couples, parents, siblings then being ruthlessly condemned by worthless prick presenters; it is cheap and revolting television, its depths commanded by a vicious, snarling boy reporter called Jeremy Kyle; Brown's DeadBaby shit and his Oh Fuck Me I Was Injured But Carried On Courageously rubbish was crafted by he and Piers to excite such an audience, in the vain wish that, identifying with his vacuous soap opera grievance, it might vote for him. Vote for Snotty, He Even Left His Breeding Ruinously Late. He's A Tosser Like You. A Member of Ruin's rank and vile.
Complaints have been, historically, of incompetence, greed, venality, drunkenness, extremism, unsuitability. No-one in politics has ever been so reviled as Gordon Brown, and this national beasting of the prime minister is not consequent upon the financial Ruin which he has so assiduously nurtured over a decade and seen recently triumphant, no , he was detested, viscerally, long before his talents delivered rotten fruit, certainly in my case and I know in others', too, this goes back to his emergence as Smarmy John Smith's Shadow Bogus Tractor Statistics Spokesman and heir apparent. Brown has always looked like a wrong 'un, a freak, a bully, a frantic wanker; a creepy, beasty bastard.
The brawling forums of cybercomment are awash with innuendo and often just frank accusation - Why is Brown always being snapped with kiddies in school, has he been vetted, as we would be; no, of course he hasn't. But why not, he certainly looks shifty. If it looks and smells wrong, evolution teaches us, it is wrong; Brown is a wrong 'un, and it ain't just his one eyedness.
He is awkward, can't hardly walk in a straight line, jerks and spasms and twitches, stutters and splutters and gulps and that thing, the jaw thing, the dry-wank jaw drop, the obsessive squaring of the papers, the nail-bitten Claw of Doom flagellating, with manic purpose, the despatch box or lectern, the blitzkrieging with phony statistics, the wrong-time-wrong-place Death'sHead grimace; these, individually, or even in small handfuls, do not illustrate beastly lunacy, a soul far gone in rottenness, rank and putrid but altogether, in this ballooning, shifty carcase they certainly do, he looks as though his sins were fighting their way out into daylight's closure, as though, inside his wretched, obnoxious, wriggling skin sound Mayhem's alarm bells.
The skymadeupnewsandfilthpress of Murdoch and McKenzie and Toilets Maguire is ever quick to invent paedophiles requiring vigilanteism, whilst advertising, on other pages, granny fucking phonelines, teeny fellatrixes, flourescent barbed wire dildoes, semen-hungry asian babes and Jesus knows what other family-newspaper-values activities for, presumably, the determinedly masturbating family. Show them a story, however, of PaedoSheriff&Advocate, a properly bent Scottish firm of lawyers and fuck me, most will run a mile. The Herald and the Scotsman busy, daily, analysing the minutiae of Scottishness under Salmond's blustering Tribesmen or JockLabour's shifty thugs are both too self-important to expose Establishment noncing. You could light up the night sky with a bonfire made from editorials in the Glasgow Herald or the Scotsman damning Noncery, generally, and yet a scandal so gross, so vile, a cover-up so brazen, so intricate; a catalogue of offence so foul that it should bring down the governments North and South goes unremarked in the press, here, in smart successful Scotland, home of the Enlightenment.
This episode of Bonny Scotlandism, alluded to the other day, is not from the heroes of the press but from from the website, stolen kids
SK-H001 - THE SHOCKING STORY OF HOLLIE GREIG 
In the summer of 2000, Hollie told her mother, Anne, that she had been repeatedly sexually abused by her father, Denis Charles Mackie and brother Greg. The abuse had begun when Hollie was just six years` old. Hollie said that Greg had also been abused by his father. Anne Greig reported this immediately to the local police station in Aberdeen. During the course of that summer, Hollie, who has Down`s Syndrome, began to provide more names of abusers. It transpired that Denis Mackie had been sharing his daughter with a ring of sexual abusers, which included a serving police officer with the Grampian force, Terry Major and an Aberdeen sheriff, Graeme Buchanan. Medical and other evidence supported Hollie`s account and Grampian Police accepted the truth of Hollie`s statement. Nonetheless, no action was taken by Grampian Police against the perpetrators and despite Anne Greig`s persistence, the Procurator Fiscal, now Lord Advocate, ( Scotland's equivalent to the Lord Chancellor) Elish Angiolini prevented any police action taking place.(Eilish owes her position to the spectacular, early resignation of her predecessor, Boyd -Lord- Carpenter in the midst of a scandal surrounding a policewoman, Wendy McKay and three quarters of a million pounds hush money being paid to her by the Socttish establishment) (my bracketed info) In fact, the authorities instead attempted to discredit and intimidate Anne by having her forcibly taken to a mental institution, with the intention of handing Hollie back to her abuser father. Fortunately, Anne Greig had the presence of mind to have herself checked by a leading psychiatrist, who proclaimed her perfectly sane, a view with which even the institution were forced to concur. In the years that have followed, Anne Greig has persisted in her attempts to bring the abusers to justice, not only for the sake of her own children, but also to prevent these dreadful practices continuing against others, which includes adults with learning difficulties as well as children. It was only in 2009, when the News Of The World courageously broke the story, concentrating on the hitherto unheard of fact that Hollie had received payments from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority for crimes that have not even been investigated. The measures to cover up this terrible story continue unbounded by the authorities. Several years ago, Denis and Greg Mackie went to live in Portugal. On 8th May 2007, immediately following Madeleine McCann`s disappearance, Anne Greig, accompanied by a victim`s support witness, went to her now local police station in Shrewsbury to tell them to alert the Portuguese Police, as despite the proven case of paedophile abuse, neither of the Mackies had a record of any kind. The McCann team has accepted that the Mackies ought to have been questioned immediately. It is now understood that the British Police failed to pass on these details to their Portuguese counterparts. Hence, the official cover up has even extended to detracting from the Madeleine McCann investigation. Investigators have already informed us that discoveries of other paedophile rings in Scotland has been discovered, but it is clear that certain senior figures of authority are prepared to obstruct the course of justice and allow the known sexual abuse of some of society`s most vulnerable people to continue unabated, just to save their own skins. The Hollie Greig story is now widely known by the media, police, legal, medical and political professions. The facts are beyond dispute. The only question that remains will be as to who has sufficient decency and courage to bring this and other issues to a just conclusion.
Robert Green Investigator .
The piety of Victorian Britain, of course, concealed a putrid trade in child prostitution, whether for the presumed sport of deflowering, as they called their rapes, a young virgin or from a wish to engage in the brutality to which Power ultimately becomes slave, the trade in children for abuse was rife. Now, however, we expect better, we expect the powerful to protect the weak. You must be hollowly fucking joking.
The amateur investigation into Hollie's experience reveals cynica, professional obstruction and the customary harrassment of the victim/s in the hope that they will stop maligning their betters and as background to this particular Scottish case we should remember that despite pleas from the families of the massacred children, for their release, the papers on the Dunblane atrocity have been sealed for seventy-five years. That's seventy five years, who, pray, is that protecting, if not the great and the good and the Brown? The web howls and screeches with conspiracy theories about Dunblane, as it does in relation to three Jock Law Lords' conviction of Mr al Magrahi for the Lockerbie bombing, the closest observers of Lockerbie, including bereaved father, Jim Swire, insisting steadfastly that Mr al Magrahi was framed by Jock Jurisprudence. The best in the world, they say, up here.
We have always promoted here the work of Scotland Against Crooked Lawyers, google them if you have a strong stomach and normal blood pressure, unlike many they have no agenda but justice and their back pages will offer a flavour of Scotland's unique rottenness, of the place from which Ghastly Gordon Brown derives his only phony legitimacy, the place which is keeper of his dark secrets.
We depart here from our customary lofty laments and peruse, instead, the altogether more pragmatic remarks of Mrs Woman On A Raft, from the other day. They relate to historical events in the development of NewLabour by Mandelstein and whoever else was involved in promoting Blair over Brown. We should point out that figures mentioned as being close to Thomas Hamilton, the alleged paedophile who entered a primary school and massacred children and a teacher, were his Labour MP, George Robertson, now Lord Robertson, Michael Forsyth, Tory MP, now Lord Forsyth and the local Chief Constable.
It is claimed that many, aware of Hamilton's behaviour and of the threat he presented, opposed his being granted a gun license - in those days for handguns as well as rifles and shotguns - but were over-ruled by those in power, with drastic consequences, it is claimed that Robertson supported Hamilton's application and Robertson, almost immediately after the shootings was airlifted out of Scotland, out of England and into Brussels in the made-up job of General Secretary of Nato. Hamilton was dead, others kept schtum about their involvement and as mentioned the official papers relating to the events are sealed for seventy years , despite the bereaved's clamouring for their release.
Is there a nationwide paedophile ring in Scotland, involving cops, lawyers and politicians, as there was in Northern Ireland, in Belgium, in the United States? Is Gordon Brown implicated? Today his unsuitability for even basic contact with vulnerable people - or those vulnerable to him - is trumpeted all across the Labour Observer; he is a bad-tempered bully, abusing his junior staff, smiling in public with Piers the Prat Morgan, dissembling, spinning, lying and notably - for this is characteristic of the nonce - unable to contemplate that anything he does is wrong, everything he does is the right thing for the country, even though a blind man can see that it is anything but. This conviction of rectitude, this is the nonce, insisting that the little tart led him on, he is not to blame, though she is ten and he is forty, he would never do anything wrong; this is a dark world, where children are hated, punished and tortured for the sick desires of adults, where, almost Zen-like no blame attaches to the beast. Why are the Hamilton-Robertson papers sealed for seventy-five years ?
Anyone watching the post-Kinnock Labour Party would have judged Brown and not Blair the heavyweight. Mandelstein, with the ghastly Geoffrey Robertson, was a Brownite, to claim, as they do, that Blair was chosen because he was the more telegenic is disingenuous, Blair was, is, bug-eyed, buck-toothed and jug-eared and speaks a grating and patently dishonest tongue, nothing remotely attractive about him; now,though, that skymadeupnewsandfilth has fellated him all these years he looks marginally more acceptable, but he was never a handsome man. What happened? Why despite Blairs' leadership and huge victory was Brown always able to disobey and undermine him? Why was Blair - the butcher of Baghdad - too frit to sack grumbling, groaning Gordon, throw him out of his bunker, with all his schemimg lieutenants? This is preposterous, a prime minister with three large majorities, forced out by his chancellor. What was going on here? Are we doomed never to know? Instead, to be fed tittle tattle by Sir Michael Kneepads White and Polly Last Chance Toynbee, a sthough we are too immature to know these things? Mrs WOAR's contention - that both BLair and Brown were party to a blackmail which enmired the whole nation eventually - makes more sense than anything else I have seen, in years watching Ruin unfold.
Brown's body language, alone or with Sarah-George, shrieks derangement, his huddling for comfort on the Treasury bench with whoever is there is pathetic; consider his casual look, as uptight as a guilty man can look; consider how often his chosen self-description is some of form of "right"; I haven't read Rawnsley's supposed revelations because they are not revelations to me. Watching Brown as Chancellor, browbeating the commons with his tractor stats, years ago, prompted me to write "Stalin is not gay." Here, in other words, is a bent thug. Neither parliamentarian or statesman, Brown was just a punk bully from a club you wouldnwanna go in, comforted by husband and wife teams of praise singers , like Mr and Mrs Balls, neither of them parliamentarians, either, parachuted-in from Labour's undemocratic management team. To any with eyes to see Brown has ever acted like a freak, staying publicly just this side of Reason, and privately straying over into madness. Is he on pills, his weight balloons as though this fine athlete, rugby player and all around All American Boy was completely fucked, grey, paunchy, jowly, seedy, gibbering and spasming, his outside reflecting his inside.
What is it then, with Brown, which deterred him from family-making until the age when most are grandparents? What is it with Brown, which enabled the flyweight, Tone, to push him aside but which also enabled Blair's removal? What is it which sees him get up and start his dark workings at Ruin in the middle of the fucking night and then brag about it, as though he was personifying the Presbyterian work ethic of his mad father? As though, by sleeping normally, we sinned? What is it which makes the flesh creep at the sight of Brown at Auschwitz, in a school playground, at the sight of Brown, alone, signing the Lisbon Treaty, alone though surrounded, picking his nose and eating it, on the front bench of the House of Commons. What is it wich makes him say with such spectacular cack-handedness "...having saved the world?"
Like the cyber metaphors, once said, Brown's assertion cannot be taken away. He thinks he saved the world. He really does.
There should be no doubt that he is stark staring, gulping, gibbering mad. And as to whether or nor he is wickedly bad, involved in those places from which we rightly recoil we need just remind ourselves that if it looks like fish, smells like fish and tastes like fish, then, in all probability. it is fish.
Government by bribery, blackmail and deceit, by murder and cover-up and warmongering; by graft and bung; by slag and pimp and ponce; how could noncing survive at the middle of all this .....fuck....how could it not?
Look North, to Labour's heartland, birthplace; Scotland, the home of institutionalised paedophilia, the home of Gordon Brown.
This is what will prove it: if Brown cuts and runs. This story has an unusual capacity to damage him as it harks back to before Dunblane, when Hamilton was just an irritating nutter, and he does not want that in the General election mix.
Recall this: in 1994 there were various networks such as Compuserve but due to cost and modem speeds, nothing like we have today. If you wanted to publish to a general audience, you had to do what Mr Green was going to do last Friday - go to town and hand out pamphlets. Mobile phones were spreading quickly, though. The country was still reeling from the Bulger case, which Blair had already ear-marked for electoral purposes. It was much easier to keep something out of the public eye.
When John Smith died Brown and everybody else in the Labour party expected the shadow chancellor to go to the top slot. He was better looking in those days and the papers were pre-occupied with Diana and Royalty. He got enough attention to make him a national figure, but he was not in the spotlight. Blair was barely known outside his constituency. (I checked this with activists at the time).
It was a shock, therefore, when Brown announced that he was stepping out of the line, making the leadership contest more of a show-pony affair. Mandy wrote at least one correct letter; Blair was more electable when it came to a mass audience than Brown was. This fact alone was enough, had Brown faced it, to justify doing a deal and it is in his nature to avoid elections.
However, I got a call that day from a source I'd regard as a party insider who said there was a reason why even the traditional socialists would not risk Brown as leader, and that was that he had a fault which even they could not stomach. He had not jumped; he had been pushed.
I put this down to bitchery and smears. After all, if he was that bad, why would they risk him as an MP, let alone as a future chancellor. There is lots wrong with the man - that much is clear, including his own ambivalent sexuality - but providing we are in the consenting adults department, I don't see the relevance. It's not as if the married heterosexual MPs are much to be admired.
But if my gossipy pal was correct, it provides a credible explanation for one thing: why Blair didn't dump Brown when he had enough power to do so. Campbell has lamely muttered about Brown fighting a rear-guard action from the back benches, but so what? He was fighting a rear-guard action from the Treasury and that gave him power and patronage to fight with, which was worse.
Suppose though Tony said this:
"Gordon, I know it and I can prove it. If you fight, it will get out and you'll lose everything you've worked for. Behave yourself in future and I won't mention it again, and you'll get the Chancellorship, and one day I'll step down and you can have your turn."
Now, even if Tony was bluffing about proof, so long as it was substantially true it was in Gordon's interest to back down. Gordon was a historian; he knew a little about digging up bones. Blair was a barrister and knew enough about advocacy and playing cards so as to reach your preferred outcome. At that time he may have thought that Brown would be a tolerable running mate.
Once that deal had been struck, Blair could never mention it again without showing complicity. If he had tried to move against Brown, Gordon might well have played the "Tony Knew" card and they would both go down together.
What nobody reckoned on was Hamilton going bonkers in Dunblane and thereby setting off persistent rumours that he was not alone in his preferences.