BLOGGING A DEAD HORSE SOME MORE.

Squitch said... If blogdom is viewed as a human face, laughing at the futility of existence, then Mein Herr von Fawkes must surely be a rather repellantly-loaded nasal hair. A job for Mr Brown, who seems in need of one, suddenly.

I will assume from your prose that you are a Mr Squitch, Mr Squitch and I apologise if I err.

It was the praisesinging of the Lebanon infanticides which so distressed me - they would only have grown to be terrorists, best kill them now, that sort of thing.

And then, when you look more closely, there is the policy refusal - "Guido doesn't do Iraq" - to discuss the most important political event of the time, while concentrating, instead,  on the comparatively trivial matter of the pounds and pence of the parliamentary expenses larceny a matter, as it turns out, of less than Earth-shattering importance, as we re-elected most of the thieves, as instructed to by skymadeupnewsandfilth;

there was the dismissal of concerns about the discontinuities and anomalies in the official Nine Eleven narrative, rubbishing large swathes of otherwise voiceless individuals - many of them bereaved at Ground Zero and battered by George Dubya's goons, -  derisively, as Troofers;  

there was the McKenzie-ite TottyWatch and the dire misogyny it generated - the truth being that Jackie Schmidt, my Redditch cookery teacher,  in all probability, wouldn't WANT to be ejaculated upon by Guido's fevered masturbators and so their insistence that they wouldn't do so became, like their host,  something of an irrelevance, wankers;  

and then there was the fraudulent insistence of an anti-politics stance, yet one which was devoted, slavishly, clodhoppingly, short- sightedly,  uninspiringly to nineteenth century robber baron capitalism of the sort which has just beggared us; Fawkes stupider by far than the combined, lacklustre idiocy of Brown and Balls and Darling and wotsisname,  the worthless little prick at the Bank of England, the one who can't add-up to save his life; Fawk-O-Nomics, a prattish, immature determination that the  poor must have less, that the rich might have more, the differential of the imbecile, stupider than Brown, vainer than Blair.

  

there was the faux-Celtic tribalism, maintaining that poor, old, bent and now bankrupt Eire was the economic model we should all follow if only we were as clever as Guido; 

there was the  stupidity of elections called for right-wing nutters, like my friend, Codger McCain, just because, like a teenage girl, Fawkes  wanted his hero to win; it happened with Scotland, too, best part of England, he called them all wrongly, whilst masquerading as some cool, street-savvy Maverick, reading the odds, knowing the form, checking out the ree-ports, digging up the dirt, rely on me, I'll predict it all wrong, unsophisticated, muddle-headed,  I daresay he predicted that Brown would be wiped-out, and if, by some chance, he made a more sober prediction, it will have been a first, normally misleading his readers into thinking that if he wishes something badly enough, it will happen. Think of all the politicians and cronies who would be gone within the month. And they're all still there.

An unread, superstitious, Pope Nazi worshipping, woman-hating, baby-hating, drunken driving, thieving, racist, economically and politically illiterate, sloganising, gabshite, bigoted ignoramus.

May his treasured girl children, counting their much-lauded paternal investments, never meet someone like their father, driving down the road,  at speed, on the wrong side; may they never be holidaying someplace where their father applauds the  belligerent depredations of his so-admired MommasBoy Pizza warriors, breaking kiddies' arms, smashing then up under their big tanks, putting the world to the sword that a six thousand year old mythology be realised and Fuck everybody else. That anyone insists  they are The Chosen People is a  wicked bullshit,  and  thus we return, when you get to the bottom, you go back to the top,  it was the Lebanon infanticides, hurrahed and gloated over which o'erFawksed me; such a wicked, irresponsible citizen; bloated, inebriate, rabble-rousing, such ignobility; it is a good job that so few take him seriously.