MUST THE SHOW GO ON?

Among others, I blame the McCanns, Gerry and Cilla, for this outbreak of Kids4Profit. How is it that you can  abandon a three-year old, leave her in charge of two two-year olds, in a strange flat, in a strange town, in a strange country, go off on the piss with your mates, blame the local cops for her disappearance and then pay off your mortgage from charitable donations and  fund a celebrity lifestyle consisting of flying around the world, whining about the very legitimate questions of the cops and the meeja, all the time, in Cilla’s memorable phrase, bleating that people think badly of her because she’s so beautiful. 

 

As if. Ghastly scrawny baggage. When it comes to capitalising on the neglect of one’s children, the McCanns, let’s face it, are world leaders, while grungy old Mick Philpott is just a clumsy, hamfisted novice.

And I blame that silly old duffer, Widdecombe.   Fronting a pizza advert whilst she was an MP was not enough of celebrity for the ancient virgin nutter of MediaMinster, subsequently besporting her blubbery acreage around the dancefloor, 

 
 Serious, investigative journalist, Ann Widdecombe.

heedless of her own lisping, falsetto grotesqueness, doing anything, like so many, just to be on camera,  there was nothing she wouldn’t do.  Eventually, joining forces with the vile Philpott, Annie - the show must go on -Widdecombe was feeding not just her own bizarre ego but also his;  hers just pathetic, his, however, degenerate, malicious, wicked and ultimately infanticidal.  What on Earth possessed her and her producers?  Did they think that the tut-tutting of some dessicated has-been Tory biddy would rehabilitate a habitually thuggish exploitative mysogynist?  Did she and they think that Widdecombe refreshes the parts of bad people that the criminal justice system cannot reach? Did she, for a moment, give a flying fuck for the children involved in this media circus around their Dad and his harem?

No.  It was just trash teevee, the sort of banal rubish regurgitated by junked MPs;  Queenie Portillo, stutteringly revisiting the industrial and railway revolution, a pink-jacketed dilletante, 

 
 Let's try it just one more time Mikey darling,
see if you can remember the words this time.

shepherded, mincing tightarsed from railway station to railway station, as though he was a cultural visionary, instead of a sinecurised media fairy;  those pitifully awful Hamiltons-from-Hell, dopey Neil and bossy Christine, appearing on anything, absolutely anything that has a few quid attached to it;  Jonathan Spanker Aitken, endlessly boasting of how, with God’s help, he was able to assist his fellow prisoners, by writing letters for them, ministering to them, as only their betters can.  And Emeritus Professor of Rape Studies, George Galloway, MP, cunting himself all over the Big Brother house.  Widdecombe isn’t unique.  These telly MPs are just unspeakable. I’ve seen them, close-up, in the TeeVee studios, they’re not quite sure whether they are legislators who happen to be on telly or nascent stars, just a soundbite away from a lucrative, Robert Kilroy-Shit career.  It’s partly down to their cowardliness, their terror in the face of a producer or a make-up girl, but it’s also due to the unique cocktail of stupidity, vanity, greed, dishonesty and arrogance which flows through their sclerotic arteries; they’re filth, all of them, cocksuckers, shiteaters, pimps, slags, blackmailers, fraudsters, beasts, nonces,  FuckMeJesus but the house of commons makes the Vatican look like a decent, wholesome  place.

But none of them, MPs,  are as bad as that cheesy, scabby prick, wotsisname, JerrySpringer revisited, Springer-lite, Springer-Anglo, Kyle,  isn’t it,  somebody Kyle,  a miserable shit of a man, 

 

scrapings from under Life’s toilet bowl rim, bullying those betrayed, those fuckwitted by generations of blokes in suits, in govament and in the civil service, betrayed by Whisky Maggie and her spivs, Tebbit and Heseltine & Co, all smarming and smirking that unemployment is a price worth paying, just not by them;  Tebbit still, even now,  sucking Telecom’s cock, as well as kowtowing to the anti-democratic  Barclay Brothers at the Filth-o-Graph;  Hezza still flouncing around, as though he had a brain between his ears, under his absurdly quiffed, overlong hair,  oozing I-Know-Best menace, 
 
 Now, just you listen to me.

an old man desperately, for the good of his immortal soul,  in need of a good sharp kick in the nuts, make his fucking eyes water, flood his body with nausea, make him puke and shit and cry, all at the same time.  Kyle rejoices in making fools of the ThatcherSpawn;  they and their parents scrapheaped by the mad, vicious, screeching old witch, Rejoicing, for  we are a grandmother, Rejoice, for we have abolished manufacturing and raw material extraction, Rejoice, for we shit on crafts and skills and trades.  Rejoice, for there is no such thing as society, Rejoice, for you, Kytleites, feckless, o’erfecund, faithless and inebriate, loathed by your political creators, are  just part of the destruction, the Ruination of Britain, part of our evisceration by financial spivvery;  rejoice, as you are mocked and reviled on Cruelty TeeVee by Shitman, Kyle, and his securityoiks and his lie detectors, shouted at.  But in a high, sharp-suited moral tone.  What a worthless cunt that man is. He should be chancellor.

And here in PhilpottWorld, we see the charred, smoky fruits of his labours. For into his Hellish shithole Kyle invited Mick LoveMyKidsToBits,Me, Philpott.  Makes good Teevee, for a daytime audience.  Here we are, an idle, violent, threesomeing arsehole, grinning, bragging of his mysogyny.  And here is Kyle, feeding Mick’s sense of celebrity, his potency, enhancing, amplifying the urges of the already dangerous. Stupid and dangerous, doesn’t get much worse than that. Let’s put him on telly and puff him up a bit more, eh?

So, well done Kyle, one of Ruin’s masters of ceremonies.  Doing a public service you are, mate; time you had an MBE. Or a knighthood. Or maybe a quick rubdown with a housebrick.

Her Honour, Mrs Justice Slag, will rightly, as well as a good talking-to,  give Philpott several decades inside in which to burnish his celebrity.  And he will.  If he’s done a seven-year sentence he’ll know the ropes; he’ll go on segregation – Rule 42 – for a while but after that will mingle with the rest of the hard-time prison  population, those with little or no chance of release, save the coffin.  But he’ll find some fashion by which to stoke his own self-esteem.  Maybe some of those barmy women will write to him, you know, the ones who write to and want to marry blokes in the US, on Death Row, they’ll wet themselves to be corresponding with a nasty fucked-up freak like Micky Philpott.

 His Mrs will get the real hard time; she’ll get battered and scalded and abused by her sister inmates, by those in whom the maternal instinct, after all, is so strong that they prefer to see their own kids taken into local authority or foster care, rather than look after them, themsleves.  These bitches are Cruelty writ large when it comes to bints like Mrs Philpott.  Hers will be a nightmare sentence, hate-filled, punctuated with sudden, furious cruelty, dykey screws turning a blind eye;  a terrifying, inescapable nightmare. On top of the creeping, swelling nightmare in which she has been these past months. For the rest of her brutal, miserable, incarcerated life – and beyond - everyone’s hand will be against her.  The yellow press will taunt her to her grave.  That bloated, sweaty cunt, Dacre, at the Daily FilthMail is already calling this a crime that’s properly down to the welfare state, everyone on benefits contributed to this awful offence and, ever a gentleman, the puce-faced, malodorous, halitotic, tub-thumping rabble-rouser will single-out this poor abused cow for his particular form of gentlemany commentary. Mrs Philpott’s dire straits almost make the oft suggested  case for hanging, purely as an act of Mercy, neck-breaking as an act of Kindness.  How do we, none of us an island, divorced from the main, fetch up here, considering murder as mercy?

Poor old Fatty Widdecombe, blonde bombshell, though, bless her scorned and mocked soul, is at least getting some, waddatheycallem, namechecks, she is back on the telly, spinsterwise, virginwise after the event, no hint of apology or self-doubt.  He was very controlling, Philpott, she now avers, sagely. No change there, then, a font of the bleedin’ obvious, is Annie, although she won’t see that it is obviously not a good idea to make a documantary with the likes of Philpott.

 I don’t ever venture into any tellyregions  where I might encounter the repulsive Kyle, so I don’t know how he’s reacting to the verdict on his comrade-in-shit but I’m sure he will, from the bottom of his grimy soul, be giving a  bravura performance. He’ll just be dripping ethics and righteousness all over the studio floor.

We haven’t yet heard from Doctors Gerry and Cilla but I can’t imagine that they won’t have something to say, he in his nasty, know-it-all, teeth-clenched Glaswegian and she Scousing her threadbare sincerity for all she’s worth.

The same press, of course, which brought an albeit seedy prominence to Philpott will now fuck him six ways to Christmas; his name’ll soon be merged in the national consciousness with Hindley and Brady, and the Wests. And serve him right.  Serve him right, too, if he dies in jail.  I don’t much believe in locking people up, not most of them, anyway. The Huhnes needed to be locked up and in rather more severe conditions than those which they now enjoy and for rather longer – legislators conspiring to pervert the course of justice is positively, dangerously European and needs to be stamped out. And I do believe that if we do lock people up for a long time we should offer at least the possibility of redemption, reform and eventually forgiveness.  But just occasionally, rarely, someone crawls out of the slime, someone who like, say, Tony Blair, is just bad beyond hope of redemption, just a wrong ‘un, one irredeemably estranged from goodness, one in whose case we should throw away the key, melt it down.  Mr Philpott is one of those people and I don’t care if he never comes out of jail.  We should not, however, obscure with our rage the fact that, at least in part, he drew strength to his mad, vengeful purpose from his fleeting entrance to the charmed circle of celebrity.

If they could talk, maybe the six dead Philpott kids would say to the likes of Kyle and Widdecombe: Please, will you just go away and shut the fuck up.