THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL

 CAMERON TO WAGE WAR ON HATEMONGERS

After chairing a meeting of COBRA - move over, if you please, Mrs May, I'm still in charge - the unelected prime minister, the right honourable Mr CallHimDave, MA (Oxon) MP, said that it was probly time to crack down on those preaching hatred in our country and he had, therefore, ordered the security services to arrest the govament, all three parties of it.  For far too long our country has been seen as a place where totally unprincipled criminal factions have  been able to preach hatred with absolute wotsaname, immunity, is it, impunity?

Now listen, continued Mr Cameron, almost every day of the week one can probly hear these people on the PBC and in the newspapers just simply preaching hatred, that's all it is, setting one half of the country against the other half  and  probly  hoping to get themselves elected. Well, I for one have had enough of it.  Officer, arrest me and take me into custody.  

Before being taken to Wormwood Scrubs  Mr Cameron issued a list of those suspected of hate-preaching.   

Theresa al May

Cameron's security chief

 Abu al Clarke
aka Mr Cool Kenny

Nicky bin Clegg
infamous turncoat, traitor, secretly in the pay of foreigners. 

My Name's Hunt Not Cunningham.
Charged with selling-off NHS to organised crime.

Two Homes Pickles.
I need two homes because I go to work.

Michael al Spit
aka Mickey the Gob, Mickey Gabshite.
Believed to be extra-terrestrial.

Boy George, pm's henchman,
chief hatemonger
    

Brothers in arms, terrorists Balls and Miliband,
colluding in govament attacks on ordinary people.           

Billy bin Hague, international terror chief, 
not flying his not boyfriend around the world
 not at the taxpayers' expense.

Now look, said Cameron from his prison cell,

it is to be hoped, that by jailing all these, frankly perfectly nasty people, we will probly be able to put a stop to all this nastiness of old people being robbed of their pensions, thrown out of their homes, of sick people being forced to look for non-existent jobs, ot workers having no rights whatsoever and of rich people paying little or no tax.

It is a far, far better thing I wotsaname now...a far, far........

DON'T THEY KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?

DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI

(UNIUS FAMA FAMILIA EST SCRIPTOR.)

Sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland
(And for the fame of one's family.)

You can't really wear a black tie with a tee-shirt. 

 And anyway, ItsWod'EWouldOfWanted, his real and his step-relatives, slobbering and snotting in front of the world, dressed not in respectful mourning but  for a barbecue. Dressed a la Philpott.

The new Britons.

There will be bereaved, still,  from WW2, from Korea, Malaya, from  Maggie's election war in the South, from KneeCapsville,  they are  mostly quiet and in public, at least,  dignified; people who really did endure  a quiet, stalwart, No Comment sacrifice.  No longer, we are no longer those people. And sad though it is to say it,  the bereaved of the  officer class make the other ranks' look like shit.  

I don't know how these things work, maybe money changes hands; even so, one would expect the CO and the skypilots to talk these people down, steer them away from the cameras, into private and healing mourning, rather than into rubbishy showbusiness.

 These skriking, BestFriend mothers - escaped, it often seems,  from some grim, bloody-handed, Grecian IncestORama production  - and showy, shepherding stepfathers, you could paper the fucking walls with them, their tackiness, their doggerel poems, their sheer, fucking awful, scruffy, disrespectful  camera-hogging vileness;  is celebrity really so compelling, so addicitve that it blows in, gift-wrapped, on Death's every passing breeze?

These wretched people must spend their squalid, miserable lives rehearsing such a moment, longing, in their tedium, for a death, a lottery win, a next-door murder - anything to get them, even momentarily, into the public gaze.

And as if that's not bad enough, the People, readers of the Daily Blame and the Filth-O-Graph, dance enthusiastically to this same nauseating tune;  a glance at the angry columns will reveal a thousand to one in favour of this morbid pantomime, this gurning voice without restraint; some have recorded this unholy press conference and are rewatching it, sobbing their sweaty socks off, time after time, xxx-ing poor Lee, as though they were his sweethearts, one footballnutter posting: From a Liverpool fan to a Man U fan, Lee, mate, You'll never walk alone, RIP xxx, you were a great bloke.

I blame Lady Sir Elton John.  Any chance that he might make another so-called charity record, GoodBye England's Little Drummer Boy, pa-rop-a-pom-pom?  It was mr jgm2 who most recently regretted the awful events of poor mad Diana's funeral,  the applause,  the Mafia-like flower flinging, the mass hysteria,  but it has been a staple for years of these commentaries. Pissing, we are, in the wind.

You can kind of understand the DianaFest, she had been thrust into people's faces for a decade or more - fat, thin, coked or straight -  and the feeble-minded thought that her life was not only real but was theirs, too,  their vicarious fairy story.  Nobody, however, outside his kin and his regiment, had ever heard of Lee Rigby.  Is it the bloody nature of his death, its visibility,  the shocking and incomprehensible self-engagement of passers-by which are so disturbing;  might it be the very ordinariness of speech and demeanour of his killers, blood-drenched, standing there, calmly  explaining themselves?

I've never been to Aff-gan, as they all call it but I would  bet my life that combatants on all sides suffer lengthier and more painful deaths than poor Lee Rigby - degraded. humiliated, terrified, infantilised, crying for mother, smelling their own blood and shit, seeing their exposed bones, their missing limbs, knowing they are dying, despite what their comrades are screaming at them, comrades trying to shoo Death away, knowing that one day this might be them, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow.  Maybe if all the deaths and maimings were seen as starkly and vividly as was Lee Rigby's then we might value them all, regret them all  as profoundly as we have his. Who knows, maybe one day the Daily Blame will take us into an Arabian or Asian home in mourning.

In the meantime, the best BestFriending a mum can do is tell her kids You can get killed in the Army, y'know, or worse. I know that's hard to do because the Army doesn't even say that.  For some reason, a few years back, the Army confused me with a real person and invited me to one of its evenings.  Everyone else was a dignitary of some sort, bent councillors, bent coppers, headteachers, hacks, council officers; haven't a clue, to this day, why I was invited.  But there I was, at an Army PR event.  Even the canapes were standing, millimetre perfect, to attention, served by starched and pressed catering corpsters.

The presentation, by Brigadier Philip King, was as smooth, flashy and seamless as any I have ever seen.  It was brilliant.  There were Phil, a lieutenant, a sergeant and a couple of corporals multi-media spinning the idea that you joined the Army to learn a trade  - and there were scores of them to choose from -  sometimes you went abroad to  help poor bloody foreigners with your expertise, in finding water or building roads and you saw the world and got paid for it;  sometimes you might help out at home, with floods and stuff.  There was absolutely no mention of the basic purpose of the British - or any other - army, which is to shoot or stab or bomb other people to death, to do it as violently as is humanly possible and, of course, to expect much the same in return.

That such well-drilled practices are, in recent decades, largely futile, is immaterial.  People who killed and tortured British squaddies are now sitting in the Belfast parliament with better conditions and pensions than Tommy Atkins will ever have. Iraq is in a much worse state now than before we blew it back to the Stone Age and we will leave Aff-Gan much as we found it. And there has never been, incidentally, so much heroin available on the streets. And this is what so irks and enrages about these fucking press conferences, it is that, via showbusiness, by lionising the dead, by - in fact  - clebrating their deaths, we vindicate by ommission filth like this:

 Snot of Aff-Gan,

 NewLabour unelected prime minister, gets his shit together.

 Drunken Johnny Reid of Aff-Gan, 

briefly NewLabour defence seckatry, 

incompetent, thug, bully, slag and ponce.

Nobody will get shot-at in Afghanistan.

 Ainsworth of Aff-Gan,  

NewLabour defence seckatry, the most over-promoted politician in living memory

 Hoon of Iraq, NewLabour defence seckatry.

 Iraqi women will one day thank me for killing their children, honest, not invent.  That'll be five thousand pounds a day, please.

And of course....

Tony and Imelda, peacemakers and devout catholics.

They must all love this, mustn't they? 

All filthy rich, untouchable and instead of us blamimg them, 

we are, almost as one, blaming the two Mikes of Woolwich.

Lee Rigby just the latest hero, cynically deployed  by  filthsters like Boris Johnson, who insist that  our foreign policy has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with his death.

No business like showbusiness.