CHARITY NEWS. SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN.

Delighted to read, in a Filth-O-Graph poll, that not only does the majority of the population not wish to align itself with terrorism and attack Syria but that twenty per cent don't even want to send humanitarian aid.  Hooray!

Longtimers  here will know of the loathing felt for  the thicko burghers of Royal Wootton Bassett and their mawkish legitimising of the unnecessary and in every respect illegal slaughter of those whom they claim,   applauding and flower-strewing, to respect;

 Yes, dear, makes for a nice day out.

There'll be some nice dead young men along in a minute, I shouldn't wonder.

will know that this is despised as hypocritical grandstanding, if these fuckers were going to come together and organise anything it should have been a march on the MOD and Downing Street; no cabinet ministers' children comimg home dead or legless from some shitty, pointless bloodbath, fuck me, no, Geoff, no way Jose

 Cretinous war minister, Hoon,

 I did hear him say that, once, No way, Jose

 but as long as the proles have a bit of a ceremony, a bit of pretence, it'll keep them the fuck quiet,  saves us being troubled with going down to meet the coffinplanes.  Would be rather embarrassing. What with us all earning from it and everything; yes, yes, I would expect to command five grand a day when I leave the house,  that ballpark figure;  what is a ballpark, by the way?   Every one of those squaddies, morbidly chaperoned through Wootton fucking Basset, died for absolutely, incontrovertibly sweet fuck all. Still, we gave them a good send-off.  Cunts, those Bassetheads,  the very worst of British. May their Marks and Sparkses, their C of Es and their British fucking Legions burn to the ground with them in them, whistling The Last Post. No, public sanctimony is unpopular in Ishmaelia.

And the charity workers, the humanitarianistas, they're fucking worse.  All my life there have been international do-gooding charity bandits, pressing me for money;  despite these simpering cretins, all my life hunger, drought, flood and war have increased in almost every part of the world, what fucking use are they; what the fuck use is Oxfam when you can't turn on the tube without some scabby,  posturing, coke-snorting luvvy imploring you to send just three pounds a month.  Nearly a century of organised international charity doesn't work.  Oh, it may help or save a few of the current crop of  refugees but in five minutes there'll be another disaster or coup or genocide coming down the road. No,  the thing to do is kill people.  These jerks with Mercs, all over Africa, getting fat on intercepted aid, someone should just go and shoot them in the head, and keep on shooting their successors, their brothers and nephews and wives, just keep killing the bastards until everybody gets the message, stick their ugly black heads on poles, wipe out the entire tribe if necessary.  Now, somebody launch an organisation like that and I'd be pleased to send them three quid a month, even four. Charity colonialism, though, that's a  waste of time and money and only makes things worse;  alternative charity's what's needed, the kind that comes out of a gun barrel, ballistic charity.

The thing, though, which gives me a red mist moment, a moment when I stop reasoning and just instinctively know that homicide is the only decent, human response to some cunt or other is when the ludicrously mis-named humanitarian organisations share the same news platform as the warmongering fuckpigs, when the CEO of, say, the Red Cross joins forces with Brigadier Rupert Golightly Jockstrap of the Queen's Own NancyBoys and witters-on about it being vital for humanitarian aid to get through.  What this cunt is saying, of course is, You go on ahead General, Sir and slaughter these innocent civilian  fuckers, we'll hold your coat,  that is exactly what they're saying - We'll hold your coat.  What the CEO of the RedCross should be saying, loudly and publicly is,  General, your intervention is illegal and immoral and you, Sir, are an unspeakable cunt.

But aside from the stupefying, industrial strength hypocrisy of charities of all kinds, there is the question of what these cunts pay themselves, from out of  our just threee pounds a week.  The going rate for UK charity CEOs is getting on for two hundred fucking grand a year, considering their workload and their other commitments that's probably about a thousand pounds a day, maybe more.

Let's have a look at Sir or is it now Lord Martin Narey.

 Marty, like many career penologists, worked happily and obediently for HM Prison Service, incarcerating the mentally ill, the educationally and socially disadvantaged and notably far more children and young people than does any other European democracy;  neglect, cruelty and brutality have led many child convicts - honestly, I ask you - to illness, suicide and to being the victims of murderous cover-ups.  Marty, whilst a serving prison governor and then the head of the prison service found all of this perfectly acceptable, believed, also,  that despite so many prisoners being backward to the point of retardation they were, nevertheless,  simultaneously clever, sophisticated criminals who foiled the best efforts of his wholly profesional screws to prevent the importation of drugs into his prisons, so much so that most of the nicks are, after lock-up, wreathed in a haze of dopesmoke.  If Marty, or indeed anyone, were to look in the drives of his officers' homes, he or they might be surprised at the range of expensive vehicles, boats and caravans there parked and wonder, if only for a second, if maybe the people actually getting rich from drugs in prisons might not all be wearing peaked caps.  But that's a digression, everybody knows that the screws are as bent,as brutal, dishonest and moronic as the police. Only moreso.  And if anyone doesn't know that they shouldn't be reading this.

Marty, though, oddly, as his career in HMP drew to a close ,developed a humanitarian evangelism for those in his charge, one which hadn't noticeably troubled him hitherto in his bang 'em up life, nor in the coda to his criminological career as head of the grandly titled and waste of space National Offender Management Scheme.  Humanity was more important than security,Marty took to musing publicly, casting around for a future in the caring professions.

And lo, so it came to pass that Marty the brute,  Marty the kiddy-jailer,  became the head of  what we used to call Dr Barnardo's,  a charity, which I know, historically, to my cost,  exists to further molest already damaged children.  In the Savilesque way of these things, it seems darkly appropriate that such a soiled and tainted miserymonger as Marty Narey should, after a lifetime of jailing and brutalising youngsters, wangle a job as head of one of the largest children's so-called charities;  darkly appropriate and also loathsome and contemptible, just like Sir Marty's knighthood for services to vulnerable people. All he needs is to kiss the Pope's ring and he'll have a full house.

But Marty's rise to the pit of absolute filth doesn't stop there, for he is now an adviser to that great delusional and psycopathic educationalist, 

 Michael Spit, front bench nutter and Murdoch cocksucker.

 

A cunt at work.
Believe in them, aye, and get them into jail as soon as possible, beat them and frighten them;  never did me any harm.
 Caring, like what I do, at £166,000 pa is just SO rewarding.

Keep on sending me your three quid a week.

Seem to me, ever optimistic, that finally at least a portion of the nation is waking up to the facts of life,  they know that wormy William Hague is lying because his lips are moving;  they know that GlobaCorp are cruel thieving bastards and they know that  do-gooding is a front for do-badding and  they know that they have more in common with ordinary Syrians than they do with the worthless, self-serving reptiles in MediaMinster.  About time, too.

(in hospital for a few days, back at the weekend)