MATINS. HAND-CLAPPING FOR MR PTB.

THE BEACH BOYS, PLAY IT LOUDLY.

LEARNING TO SPEAK COALITION.

I WELCOME THIS POLICE ENQUIRY -

I AM SHITTING MYSELF SO MUCH I CANNOT GO THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Mr Chris  " Chris  " Huhne,

HM  Seckatry of State  for getting wives to take the blame.
(Or is that William Miscarriages Hague ?)

 

I WOULD WELCOME A FULL AND FAR-REACHING COVER-UP, I MEAN AN  ENQUIRY INTO WHY I AM A COMPLETE ARSEHOLE. JUST AS LONG AS IT FOUND, AS THESE THINGS TEND TO, THAT I AM NOT.

Above, Mr Chris Who, his poor, dumped Mrs and his new  partner,
Ms Carmina Cigarillo Burana-Brogues.

Mr Who, one of our favourite Toileteers,  is rumoured to have got his Mrs, before he dumped her for the dyke, to cough to a speeding offence which would have seen his poxed-up arse banned from driving.  A recorded telephone call between Who and his ex does not show the Energy Seckatry in a good light, although it is difficult to imagine circumstances in which Huhne would seem anything other than the prick he is, a nasty bully, like most politicians.  Old Bill is looking into the matter,doubtless in the hope that he and the fuckawful DPP, Starmer, can rule that it is not in the interests of justice.......unlikely to secure a conviction...blah...blah...blah...that cosy sewer in which MediaMinster does not look too closely at outrageously bent or brutal Filth, and  bent and brutal Filth never quite gets the goods on the honourables, unless they're Niggers or Jocks or Northerners.

Whether he's charged and convicted or not Huhne will still prove to be just one more shifty, amoral parasite, estranged, like all Liberal Democrats  from Truth and Decency.  Should the horrible fucking bastard have to quit the field, temporarily or for Wormwood Scrubs, the Coalition of Doom can console itself that it has another Decent, Truthful senior - how can you be senior, among a gang of turds in suits? - LibDem in waiting, in the form of Mr David Laws; one crook out, another crook in.

Huhne wasn't, like Laws, able to pretend to have shopped himelf, by, once he'd been found out, referring himself to some MickyMouse Commons Committee of Self-protection but it was great, nevertheless, how he pompously annonced, in a very guilty-looking interview, how much he  welcomed the police attention, wasn't it;  Huhne could hardly say, I don't welcome this police attention, now, could he, him a bloated lawmaker, generally shitting in our faces. It would be lovely if he was charged and convicted but if he's not it's still hard to see how even a shitbag like Huhne can emerge entirely unscathed by this and faced with the likes of Clegg, Cable, Hughes, Laws and Huhne, it's a wonder Mr CallHimDave can keep a straight face.

ARMY NEWS. BY OUR DEFENCE CORRESPONDENT, MS VICKY TITS, WHOSE HUSBAND IS A SERVING OFFICER, UNFORTUNATELY FOR HER CAREER PROFILE, STILL ALIVE.

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WOTSONTELLY. A BEACHED WHALE.

It's said that Ludwig van Beethoven, mad and deaf, had to be turned around to see the applause of the audience at the first performance of his Ninth symphony; it is a poignant example of Art really being created for its own sake, written over decades, never to be heard by its composer; if you cried, you know you'd fill a lake with tears.

Biographies have revealed that he was stone mad, as well as stone deaf, how could he not be? His diaries read, Monday: engaged housekeeper, Monday afternoon, dismissed housekeeper; Tuesday morning: engaged housekeeper, Tuesday morning, dismissed housekeeper, just couldn't get the staff, those days - I know how he felt, it has been a long time since I have been even content with the efforts of anyone I have engaged to do anything for me, and if I ever was, it was only because I was stupider then than I am now.

Outside his muses, Beethoven's relationships were shit, nobody really knows who Elise was and his closest known relationship was up and down, one-sided, with his nephew, he infuriated friends and patrons alike and sank, eventually, into tragic, lonely deafness. Doesn't matter a fuck, at least not to us -  sonatas, quartets, concerti, symphonies, opera, among the greatest ever to be pulled from whoknowswhere and written down, sometimes sixteen lines at a time, for the rest of us to hear, to weep and wonder at, the quality of genius, troubled, ailing, non-conformity bursting out of the shadows, outshining wretched normalcy, provoking, captivating and enchanting the Earthbound.

I listen to the Beach Boys now and again, normally in the Summer - Little Deuce Coupe, I Get Around, Barbara Ann, Help Me Rhonda; Fun, Fun, Fun and on into the sublime God Only Knows, Good Vibrations, Heroes and Villains; perfect pop songs, albeit snippets of white, verging on redneck Americana; Chuck Berry, sanitised in four-part harmony, carsangirls, loveanmarriage, California girls and beach parties, all summer long......Before he became too much for himself and disappeared into bed, sandpits, drugs and therapy, Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys' composer, arranger, and producer, pissed all over everybody, including the Beatles, crafting his pet sounds into  popular songs and albums rated as among the best ever. Ever.

Jools Holland, however, is rubbish. He suits the BBC, though, what with his clunking, faux Edwardianism, his midget suits with too many buttons and pockets and his arse-clenchingly embarrassing interviewing style, ladeezangennulmen; he wasn't even the main man of his original band, Squeeze, a no-account bunch of Cockney wankers, still, sans Jools, performing their handful of miserable chart-toppers, in tiny concerts, unplugged, at any opportunity. Christ alfuckingmighty, bad enough we endlessly revisit the 'sixties - although there were hugely important societal changes in that overfluffed celebrity decade - the 'seventies and 'seventies 'ensembles don't bear thinking about.  Squeeze and Jools Holland, who the fuck are they?

I don't know many people but I must have known a good half-dozen who could play better barrelhouse piano than Holland - and as for his R and B Orchestra, well, you wouldn't go and see them if they were playing in your back garden. Jools sings, but he shouldn't, he has no voice. He's like a Bruce Forsyth-lite, for our times, doing duets with the proper stars, only he can't sing or dance, like Brucie does. Rock icon, Carol Vorderman, was on the show, tonight, often it's the bints from AbsFabs, R and B legends like Krishnan Guru Murty, off Channel Four News, a charmed circle of Celebrity shits, drinking our money and cheering any old rubbish, as though any of them gave a fuck about music. Time it was scrapped and Joolsie sent off to his wardrobe studies, producer Mark Cooper sent to work on the Archers. There have been seriously important artists on the show, for sure, - although Seasick Steve isn't one of them - but Holland is an intolerable, smirking, over-promoted prick and the format - of us watching liggers, media whores and Z-list cclebrity cocksuckers cheering to order - makes tabloid the occasionally excellent. Who says that this little tosser must be the vehicle through which popular music is presented, this isn't intelligent music broadcasting, this is Goddamned fucking Hobbitry.

Brian Wilson was on the Jools show tonight and he shouldn't have been. Fronting his own Beach Boys tribute band, a slew of session men, singing all the parts and playing most of them, Wilson perched on a stool, gutty and goitred, playing nothing, barely singing, waving his arms like a loony at the mental hospital long-term residents' Christmas Party, making wavey gestures with his fingers, in time to Good-good-goo-ood-Vibrations, an offence against Man and God. Lord, how the studio crowd loved it.

It doesn't matter, much, that Bob Dylan grunts and wheezes his way through his own repertoire; instrumental flawlessness, sophisticated arrangements and heavenly harmonies were never his stock-in-trade, on the contrary, swift Chaos, unrehearsed, wrought his ensemble meisterwerks, often first takes, recorded live and people, maybe too young to know any better, still visit his dreary concerts, it doesn't matter, man's a legend, people have bootlegs of his kettle boiling, his dog barking. In concert, Paul McCartney plays Beatles' songs much better than did the Beatles, and generally that's saying something. The Rolling Stones do what they've always done, play a load of old dross, illuminated by selections from their two or three exceptional albums, nobody overvalues the Stones, just as long as they get to hear Keef Richards riffing in open-G, like he was a bluesman, or something.

But Brian Wilson, tonight, a madman in an empty room full of heartless strangers; a third-rate, jive-talking emcee, who believes that his being there, gobbing, dignifies the unforgiveable, is all; and one of the very few musical  classics of our times is trashed by its composer. Watch it and weep.

A TERRIBLE PERSONAL TRAGEDY.

LAWS AND LUNDIE, HOUSING BENEFIT CHEATS. BLESS.

 ANOTHER SEVEN DAYS OFF WORK

LORD SILLY FUCKER. THE WRONG SORT OF HOUSING BENEFITS CHEAT.

OUT IN TWO.

ANY DAY NOW, ANY WAY NOW, I SHALL NOT BE RELEASED.

one of our submarines is missing

More than one, actually. Stuff has gone. Posts and comments and ree-plies to comments. Blogger was unavailable this morning, maybe o'erloaded with people blogging about the foxtrotting nincompoop Vince Mabel, I mean Cable, silly old woman, Cable the Unstable on QT last night - which was certainly a topic vexing your correspondent - together with some mad Tory bint, his partner in crime; also there was Blind Boy Blunkett, talking about his wife -is that his wife as in his wife or his wife as in LittleLadsRUs, in which the silly old fucker manages to impregnate someone else's wife, just as though she was his wife and then, when spurned, set MI5 on the silly slut, who was, by all accounts, a bit of a Westminster bicycle?  I think we should be told, whenever Blunky is waxing lyrical about wives, just whose wife he's on about, the horrible fucking git, gives disability a bad name, that cunt. Spanky Max Mosley,was on, too, grinning and chortling like he was sitting on a seat with no bottom and someone was underneath, dressed in an SS uniform, flogging his arse with a bullwhip,  he was a waste of space, actually, one expects better from a rich flagellant than that,  and there was some  cliche-spouting fuckwit nobody, off Radio London or something, one almost felt sorry for Dimbles, surrounded by pouting, moist, talking arseholes, like he was in The Naked Lunch and not on the BBC, or the CIA Broadcasting Authority.

Saw that huge, fat fuck, Mark Mardell, last night, too, the BBC's North America - ie Washington - correspondent or editor or whatever these wankers call themselves, when they're not all queueing-up to play Pantomime Dames on This Week, with Jocky Neil, and he must have tripled in avoirdupois since he got Justin Webb's job as mouthpiece for  WhiteHouseInc, just blethering, unquestioningly, the latest press release from Uncle Sam's gang of organised criminals, it was as though he was reading it from an autocue, Anyone we kill is legally killed because the Attorney General says so.  Thisnis the greatest nation on |Earth, ever, because we say so. I  bet we're paying this cunt a a hundred grand a year for this nonsense, and supporting his family of fat children and fat wife in some luxury, could have been worse, though, could have been Jon Sox, Channel Four's Job-for-lifer, and he would have been down on his knees fellating any passing Democrat Congressman, the worthless piece of shit .

Mabel Cable, anyway, the shameless, worthless old cocksucker, was  telling us how great it would be if David Laws could find his way back into public life.  And there was the rest of us thinking that being an MP was, sto all intents and purposes, being in public life.  I suppose, when you don't ever turn up for work but stay at home, sulking like Gordon Snot or sulking  and counting your stolen money like this revolting shithead,  Laws, then actually all you are in is receipt of state benefits, awarded once every four or five years, in the festival of competitive promising. Proper public life, according to Cable,  means being in the cabinet of doom, regularly humiliated and demoted. Or being on Strictly Come Dancing.

If anyone can explain the doings of Blogger - I am sure I posted on Laws and mr ptb responded, and sure that I answered several earlier comments -  please send a message in a bottle. And herewith my apologioes to those whose comments prompted ree-plies, now disappeared. Off, now, to search the garden for little Maaaahdlin McCann;  she has to be out here somewhere, that's what Gerry and Cilla say, and they should know.

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

 THERE NOW FOLLOWS A NOT EVEN A PISS-UP IN A BREWERY PARTY BROADCAST.

A MESSAGE FROM THE CUPBOARD OF MR NICK GIMP, MP, THE UNELECTED DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER, IN WITH THE BROOMS AND MOP BUCKETS, UNDERNEATH THE STAIRS,

 TEN DOWNING STREET.

Mr Nick Gimp:

My fellow Toiletpersons. In the light of our stunning victory in the elections and in the referendum I have decided that under my leadership we must now blow our own trumpets a bit more, I mean cocks, we must blow our own cocks a bit more,  no… no……I don’t mean that, I do mean trumpets,  a Jeremy Thorpe moment, there, or do I mean Charlie Kennedy or David Laws or Simon Hughes or, Oh, take your prick,  I mean pick, blow our own trumpets, that's it…….Am I asking myself to blow my own cock?  Of course I'm not. I didn't come into govament to do this stuff, but if self-fellation is in the interest of the nation.  I'm not in this to be popular. Which is just as well

Straight Simon Hughes:

Make your mind up duckie, trumpets, trombones,

which is it, not that it matters to me because I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. And of course if the party asked me to stab you up the arse, I mean in the back, I would be compelled to serve the party which is my first priority and not going off to Spain on holiday every five minutes.......

Mr Chris Who:

My cock is entirely green.
Energy minister, Mr Who, his poor old Mrs and his new partner,
as they call them, Ms Carina Cigarillo-CarpetMuncher. 

Just because I left my wife for a lesbian doesn't mean I'm a Liberal Democrat, no, of course it doesn't, I'm a multi-millionaire and that's why I can identify so much with all these cripples and blind fuckers but that's no reason for them to clog up the Westminster thoroughfares, making it difficult for Ministers like myself to roar past in a green convoy of motorcycles, armoured RangeRovers and three-litre limousines. And anyway, anything anyone says about me is all lies and I'll sue them.  I've got the money, you know. Nick Clegg? Man's a cunt. 

Disconsolate Scottish LibDems head North for the last JockLib redoubt of Orkney and Shetland, where, unknown to them,  they will probably be burnt at a Presbyterian stake.

Mr Big Al "Big Al" Carmichael, MP,
Orkney and Shetland.

Do you know I get to go in and out of Downing Street? All the time. Almost.
(from Big Al's weekly fan letter to himself in the Orkney&Shetland Catechism, circulation 127)

What, men and men, together, you mean, Och No, we don't do that sort of thing here, certainly not. The Lord is my shepherd and he maketh me not to lieth down with other men and lick their bottoms;  well, only in London, anyway, and at Party Conferences. Blow Nick Clegg? Well, He did make me chief whip, so fair's fair, a man's a man for a' that, as we say in Scotland, or we would, if we had any MSPs there, which now we don't. Thanks to Mr Clegg.

NOT THE REASON WHY

It's just one of those remorseless milestones on Ruin's highway,  as you come upon them the heart sinks a little further,  the knees buckle a fraction more, the shoulders stoop  themselves;  it's just another example of the moronic gobsters shitting all over everything, including our precious language,  and of their turds of wisdom fertilising the ghastly managerialist patois which befouls the public - and probably the private - discourse.  Clearly, on balance, in a sense, in a very real sense, I simply say, a myriad of, at the end of the day, the bottom line, end of; of course the Devil, as ever, is in the detail; hindsight is a wonderful thing, you simply cannot underestimate the importance of this;  a gobbledegook of clumsy, infelicitous phrases strung together like sausages in a facetious,  clodhopping attempt to convey eloquence, erudition, even; the purveyors of this claptrap were probably never  aware that hopefully is an adverb, or even of  what an adverb is.

It wouldn't be so bad if it was just  Celebrity, gobbing away like this but it's Power, too, and Academe, lazy and stupid, they may as well be blowing bubbles.  One hears and reads govament ministers, jumped-up seckatries of this-and-that who wouldn't - at their current age - pass the eleven-plus,  so grossly malformed, imprecise, ambiguous and downright ugly is their spoken and written English.  The BBC - or Radio CIA  as it has recently reinvented itself;   these Oxbridge Atlanticists, what are they like, eh? - its cabal of job-for-life idiot presenters wallowing in Estuary solecisms, no longer quietly guards the language, is no longer an exemplar,  while Mark Beardy and Alan Yentob are paid millions,  the arseholes. Editorials in the broadsheets  are littered with sentences which aren't and the numbskulls who  leave university with degrees can neither read, write, speak nor add-up.

Seems a little perverse, then,  to object to  one more idiocy, one more tautologism, why bother, who gives a fuck, not the UPM, fluent in shitespeak, not the foreign seckatry, a man whose clunking cadences jerk up and down like a fiddler's elbow, a man who thinks he dignifies his creaking rhetoric by making all of his ays long ones, yet a man who is lauded by his fellow parliamentarians as ay most scholarly fellow, even though he is ay noisesome poltroon. Wasn't BlindBoy Blunkett Education seckatry, isn't Alan Sugar in the House of Lords, isn't Adrian Choylds the new Voice of the Nation, or is it Chris Moyles or, God help us all, Chris the gobby nonce Evans?

Object we must, though, if only to comfort ourselves momentarily, to help steel ourselves, quicken our own step,  against  Ruin's backward quick-march. I know you, and you know me.....we come together rarely in peace and love but  in sonnets of disquiet,  commentaries of outrage - you know, Who the fuck do they think they're talking to, this garland of nincompoops, slung unwontedly around our necks,  these people who bleat about falling standards, heedless that they, all over the media like the pox, are instigators, culprits not victims.

It is not for media consumption but for myself and my friends my stories are sung, nothing here is going to change the world  nor be deemed Art and some here will recall my young friend, stanislav, railing against the apostrophe Jihadists, those, still around, still nit-picking, cheese-paring, hair splitting like spiv Tory lawyers, who would by dint of their lifelessness, their faux-grammarianism ,halt or dismember, make joyless this people's forum,   and who would, bucket of cold watering,  claim to have dismissed a post or an individual comment simply by having gleefully complained that an apostrophe was in the wrong place or absent, even though their own, mean rebuttals were often a linguistic and intellectual desert. Pray, let us not be so infantile, was the burden of stanislav's song.  It is  not vernacular prose rough-hewn or inadvertence or  educationally short-changed  ignorance to which he objected   but  to the well-educated turned language-fashionista, to those privileged by grammar or private schooling   who are so contemptible;  lazy, stupid  and self satisfied, not for them the internalised self-editor whose rigour so polices many of us here,  they don't have to think about what they are saying,  these mediapolitico pricks,  or how they say it,  they are just cheap shits, in love with the sound of their own rank, turgid voices, bleating in chorus, singing, as they never fail to say, from the same hymnsheet,  on a level playing field, not moving the goalposts. 

In the 'forties, effete, public schoolboy layabout, George Orwell, wrote a furiously grand, snobby essay on the subject of politics and the English language and I will reproduce it here, eventually, it is uncannily prescient - you can hear the 'forties counterparts  of the likes of Blair and Straw and Hague and Cameron burbling away meaninglessly, arrogant, conceited and empty-headed, soundbiting in cheesy concert -  and reveals that this coarsening, this watering-down  of language's precision and invention has been on the march for some time;  who among us, here, would try to outguess its pitiless, vulgar legions? Well, now that the media nation, MediaMinster, is transformed into  no more than  a downmarket talking shop, I would. Statesmen, speechwriters, orators, my arse.

It was the reason why, which so recently bugged me ;  you know how these things happen,  you notice something once and then it's everywhere, these tautolgisms are all around, in the air and on the ground.  The reason why Prince Gormless is marrying Miss Totty;  the reason why Osama bin Wotsit was killed;  the reason why the Coalition has come together not in the interests of its members - fuck no -  but in the national interest;  the reason why AyVee is shit and the reason why it is cool to kill Gadaffi's grandchildren, collateralise the wee nignogs,  as Air Vice Marshall Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap would regretfully bluster it away, the cunt. The reason why these children were killed by us is because unfortunately these things happen in war, even though we are not at war.

And I nearly found  myself advancing, here,  the reasonwhy there has been a dearth of commentary in these quarters -  the wee policeman, though, an eternal sentinel, some chiding hybrid of Miss Boulter and Mr Hill, threw me down my internal  stairs, bless him.

The reason  is that, after a fashion, we dried up; we lonesome, insomniacal obsessives shouldn't take holidays, for if we do they throw us off our stride, completely. It didn't help that the ten days were spent without passport to cyberspace, its instantaneousness of everything. I have been driving around the UK for a longtime, now, been up and down her highways as far as my eye could see and I have always been able to finish up exactly where I wanted to be, you look at a map,  you just watch the signs,  there's millions of them,  or you can always pull-over and ask someone - you might find someone who can visualise things and give you concise, useful direction - but if you can read you can find your way, Oh, all around the country.  We've been doing it for millennia. But if GlobaCorp has its way we shall all soon short-circuit what, over aeons, became hard-wired, countless little electrical antennae attuned to who knows what electro-magnetic global grid,  what we haltingly call a sense of direction.  It's like that thing we see, sometimes, at the supermarket checkout,  the thing which reads the barcodes malfunctions and throws-up some fantastical, impossible price and so estranged is she by technology from simple mental arithmetic that the girl on the till cannot conceive of  the fact that this meagre basket of baked beans and tuna and white bread  simply cannot amount to over a hundred pounds, if the technology says it is so, then, by God, or onmybabbyslife, it is so.  The electronic calculator, the barcode reader,  the satnav,  living gloriously in the work 'til you drop future, we willingly permit them to burgle our brains, ransacking them of our wits.  Hey, babe, are you going to the Feelies tonight?

So this multi-lingual, trans-continental satellite navigation system, in the Robo-Citroen, was, for my purposes,  absolutely redundant and probably, like the mobile phone, a nasty harbinger of GlobaCorp Control Systems.  No, for me,  that manifestation of information technology is as welcome as warm snot on a doorknob.  Google, though, is my rod and my staff;  my help cometh even from Microsoft Windows, who made Heaven and Earth, I will lift up mine eyes unto Firefox Three;  the search engine is my Shepherd, I shall not want, surely Goodness and Mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in cyberspace forever - which, of course, shall we all - as it happened in the beginning, is happening now and shall ever be happening.  Fucked without the Internet, I was.

Ducking into netcafes and libraries for half an hour here and there, strangers keyboarding furiously, hemming me in   at my shoulders, no access to my Picasa library of freaks and knobheads, blog and email passwords forgotten, it was shit and so I gave up, until I could be at home, always so good to be back home again.  Meantime,  I read William Burroughs and shopped in one of those larcenous shitholes which rejoice in the name of Antiques Centre - sharp-faced, greedy harridans lying without restraint, Yes, it is Victorian,  the fender,  it only looks so shiny because we use a special process to clean it up, yes and the brand new screws and the brand new  washers, they are part of the special process.  It was grim sport, venturing among the unGodly and reminded us of how we cherish our relative isolation here in Scotland, the best part of England.

And talking of which, another reasonwhy  there have been a few weeks of relative absenteeism, is the largesse with your money of First Minister Salmond and the Tribesmen.  A day after returning home,  a big parcel arrived from the Scottish govament, as they insist on calling it.  So big it was, that it came on a pallet, a new, energy efficient  central heating system; a big, fuck-off, external  combi boiler,  eight radiators, a new two thousand litre fuel tank and all the knobs and pipes and detectors and alarms and programmers;  the lads were a week installing it, carpets up, floorboards up, walls drilled with brightly coloured Makita drills, pipes bent and forced through walls thirty-two inches thick,  bookcases emptied, furniture dismantled, hotwater cylinders removed, dust and shit and packaging everywhere, manic plumbers and engineers and sparkses determinedly pressing-on, to the next installation and the next.  The cost was getting on for nine grand, my contribution was  about eight hundred and, since they offered,  I took a loan for it, interest free, repayable over about eight years.  It is, of course, this sort of thing, and the scrapping of prescription charges,  as much as a righteous loathing of the MacToiletmen, which has seen Salmond, in his own mind, at least, crowned Emperor. 

I know that I should have said, Hang about, this is a Barnett Formula freebie too far, no, thank you, Sir, I will stick with my existing CH system, and my Rayburn and my coal fires,  I fucking hate radiators anyway, they leak, it's a nasty heat and they occupy walls in a way which restricts the deployment of furniture;  actually, I don't mind being a bit cold,  even though it's not a good  idea to be shivering when one has the former fag and former baconsandwich arteries, grinding and contracting, Mr Death's artificers morbidly modifying my life support piping.  And there was a time when I would have said, No, don't want it, let somebody else have it - diffident and painfully self denying, we Zen-Presbyerian-Marxists - but as Mr Doctor John the Night Tripper remarked, If I Don't Do It, Somebody Else Will.  I am sure that the UPM, Mr CallHimDave, would go into one - I don't pay my taxes for Mr Ishmael to walk around his house bollock naked in the middle of Winter, no, like most decent people I pay my taxes to fire half-million pound Cruise missiles at wogs in Libya,  that's what taxpaying ststesmen like me and Mr Sarkozy the Dwarf and Signor Berlusconi the Pimp pay our taxes for, if we have to pay any that is, which seems most unfair if we do.  

Seemed silly, not to take it, when it was offered, and anyway we retained the old, warm-air system, trunked through the house with more hardware than B & Q's got, easy on the  sinuses and hard on the damp.  Grinning grins all day long  of blithe acceptance and understanding at the workmen as they sought vainly to explain one aspect or another of combi-boiler technology and then,when they had gone, squatting in some unfamilar place at some unfamiliar surface, maybe with a telly or a washing machine on in the background made blogging impossible. The young can do this stuff, I see them laptopping away in the most unlikely places, maybe travellers, like mr jgm2 or mr yaic do it perforce, and manage without a mouse, but I can't, I need to sit down in quiet, at my own desk,  without hindrance.  Just a personal ritual, not just a ritual, the establishment of a productive environment, always been thus.  I remember, in the 'eighties, hearing Ruin's  children condescendingly explain to me that having Radio One on helped them with their homework, no, really, you have an attitude problem, Ishmael, that's your trouble. The days when we might properly - in everyone's interest - correct or even rebuke the young are long gone, now, washed away in a floodtide of over-protective consumer sentimentality;  luvemtobitsmykids, although, of course, such is self-love, mere, worthless, watered-down love.

So there it is, disorientated to the Nth. degree,  abroad, adrift, banished from cyberspace, marooned among heathen Godless motherfuckers and then, returning  home  to the unexpected, unsheduled  doings of Chaos.  But it's nearly over.  The lads just need to return and make the boiler work .  The sparks wired the  whole thing the wrong way 'round. Other than that, other than it not working at all, it's working fine. I am expecting them anytime from last Friday onwards but of course by now they will be on another job, destroying someone else's hard-won equilibrium, my malinstallation and its remedy erased from their minds.

The people in charge, when the space shuttles went to toast, they knew about it all, the O rings, the missing tiles,  there wasn't any need for all that shit to happen; maybe, like my plumber-engineers, they were just too busy being clever, maybe getting on with something else, the next mission, that they completely missed the point of their endeavour. There will be some jargon phrase for this phenomenon, some geekspeak, meant to mollify, exculpate and neutralise, something from the same shitty  lexicon as collateral damage   It can't be this way everywhere, can it? A monkey wrench up their arses, or a slide rule,  that's the remedy.

Back, anyway, to Decency's barricades and as  la belle haughty, Lennox,  insists, poppily, it's good to be back home again

NATO TO SHELL SCOTLAND YARD. SECURITY FORCES MUST STOP KILLING CITIZENS.

The marching yellow columns  of daffodils are all but  keeling over,  here in the North,  but the tulips surprise and delight still,  the whitebeam are in silver leaf,  the willow, the ash and the alder almost curtain the sea views  and the rosa rugosa is  on horticultural amphetamine. It is a sight which every year charms,  which every year - so far -  retains its immunity to events.

I don't know if the late Mr Ian Tomlinson saw much of  Spring's magic but there are parks and gardens in abundance in London and anyway, every year, just like you and I, he would have felt, Ah, just a tee-shirt, today,  that's nice.  He was ill and older than he once was, no reason for him to be used as sport by some sadistic mutant, togged-up in the State's bully clothes;  poor, inconsequential people like us,  who would steal our Springs from us?

I would.

Watching the phoneclips of the assault on Mr Tomlinson I was struck by the failure of the offender's colleagues to arrest him immediately;  he was surrounded by constables, all pledged to uphold the Queen's Peace,  they all saw him do it; whichever pig is snorting around on the top floor of Scotland Yard must have seen him do it;  the DPP must have seen him do it,

State terrorism stooge, Keir Shameless.

skymadeupnewsandfilth saw him do it;    The great ToryLiberalHypocrite Coalition all saw him do it,  Ed Milliband saw him do it, MI5 saw him do it;  the Chiefs of the Defence Staff saw him do it;  the editor of the Filth-O-Graph saw him do it; Prince fucking Gormless saw him do it;  in fact, anyone who is not blind saw him do it; why hasn't this thug been arrested?

Had Mr Tomlinson been engaged in any sort of bad behaviour  then a case might have been made for PC Cunt acting under duress, provocation, but the poor bastard was just walking down the street, and this example of London's finest had already flung several other people to the ground, unchallenged by his mates, freaks in uniform, pissing on democracy, their dicks lovingly held by MediaMinster.  This bloke was a homeless acloholic, why shouldn't the police kill him, doing us all a favour.

Estimates of deaths in UK state custody vary, one a week, one a fortnight, three hundred and fifty over the last ten years, no copper  has ever been convicted, indeed, recently, one sergeant thug, happily throwing a woman around his custody suite, had his brief custodial sentence o'erturned by a sympathetic judge. Increasinglt we see examples of outright criminal police brutality on our streets, as we march, whistling, back to the 'thirties, gangster profits privatised , gangster losses nationalised.  And all in power turn a blind eye, one bad apple-ing. Never mind that, they pontificate, Look over here, at Libya, where the state is attacking its citizens,  here is a chance for the nation to rehabilitate its degenerate foreign seckatry, to elevate its wretched unelected prime minister  to the level of statesman.  And if Mr Tomlinson sees no more Springs, well, that's a price worth paying for having a police force which is rightly the envy of the world.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room
About the woodland I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Unless, of course, Mr Piggy has other plans for your life.