.......AND DOG WILL HAVE HIS DAY.

There have been a couple of dog stories recently that got my goat, whatever that means, some mediaeval idiom, referring to  ye slight or ye offence or ye insult, yonder churl hath mine goat taken, maybe;  all the linguists and grammarians and classicists have fled these parts  so in their absence I should rehearse one of the very few things I learned at Warwick University, which is that the Y of Ye Olde English Fayre - or whatever - is not,  was not a Y but a thorn, a rune, shaped like a Y but pronounced "th,"  meaning that Ye Olde Whatever is properly pronounced The Olde Whatever; the misuse and mispronunciation of Ye is one of those howling solecisms, like the old adage, an exact replica, PIN number and - my favourite numbskullism - The Reason Why;  old enough to remember that hopefully is an adverb and to know what an adverb is, all this stupid fucktalk, beloved of, extraordinarily, education experts like Michael Gove, no longer amuses me, why the fuck should  I listen to people who don't even know what it is that they are saying, I dunno; Father, smite them hard, where it hurteth them, for they know not what they do, sonsafuckingbitches,  that would be my dying, crucified imperative, never mind forgiving the fuckers. But the recent dog stories, like the gibbering elite,  help illuminate our fucked-upness, help signpost the route of our ruination.

I've been trying to find an older Yorkshire Terrier in need of a home, a home purchased, incidentally, with a Yorkie's needs in mind.  Years ago  we lost a dear little  chap  due to living on a main road  and so a big, safe garden,  a long, long way from traffic and neighbours was one of our boxes to tick, as the clever housebuyer says,  when looking for a place here, in Scotland, the best part of England;  it was a right thing, too, a rightly-ticked box, for none of our other three boys died, shocked and whimpering,  under the wheels of a car; all lived their average lifespan, old age and illness compelling me to have them lethally narcotised,  easier to bear, that,  than seeing the light go out of little Frankie's eyes as he died in my arms,  in the middle of the road, my daughter looking-on, aghast.

We  have twenty years experience or so of homing shelter dogs and after the pain of Buster's dying had eased, we thought it'd be easy enough to  find a new oldboy in one of the country's hundreds of re-homing centres.  I say oldboy but Mrs Ishmael insists that we have, for the first time, a bitch, whom she wishes to call Gracie.  Having had a quartet of blokes all named after pugilists - reflecting a little dogbloke's fight to survive in our world - Frankie, Rocky, Buster and Barney, I would find it odd to be saying,  Who'sAGoodGirl?  but I am sure I would manage. And I would, of course, soon afterwards, get a proper dogbloke, maybe call him Mohamed.  But not Chris.

But gender notwithstanding there's not a homeless Yorkie to be had in Scotland.  I look at all the nation's dog re-homing  sites regularly and about ninety per cent of the dogs are Staffies, 

 

Staffordshire Bull Terriers,  poor ugly bastards, bred for some fucked-up machoman - or woman - and then abandoned.  There oughta be a law against  dog breeders. Somebody should just repeatedly punch into their faces the message that There are more important things than money.

They are not pretty dogs, Staffies,  but there are so many of them, caged -up, cared-for, if that's the word, by the  misanthropes who work in these places that I have sometimes thought, well, maybe I should take one of them on, somebody has to but I am simply not fit enough to manage one, exercise him, play with him, keep him in line.  But maybe it wouldn't be so bad;  I have a one-acre walled garden and he could run around alldaylong, tire himself out, do dogstuff, chase the birds, chase the rabbits, chase the hares;  there are some dreadfully conceited grouse who strut around the place, as though they were peacocks,  he could frighten the beJasus out of them,  bark at the cows on the other side of the wall. It wouldn't be too bad,  be better, wouldn't it, than what happened to those four machosymbol dogs who killed the fourteen-year old girl, a while back.  Kept in tiny cages in  a tiny house, starved; the poor beasts went mad, who wouldn't?

There is some corollary between poverty, disadvantage and inappropriate dog ownership. I remember a wise, old probation officer, John Sanderson,  telling me that in the 'seventies he had got sick of climbing dogshit-strewn stairways to gardenless council flats, visiting his clients, to find that on their settee was invariably a German Shepherd, called Sabre or Rebel;  couldn't feed themselves, these people, mainly, or look after themselves, yet they had these huge and potentially lethal dogs living alongside they and their innumerable and equally neglected children.  Loved 'em to bits, they did,  their kids and their beasts.

This neglectful love seemed to be the case, recently,  in a house in Wigan, where a Ms Beverley Colcanon's pack of neglected dogs, two of them Staffies, two of them Bull Mastiffs, attacked and killed young Jade.  Ms Colcanon was today given a suspended sixteen months jail and a couple of hundred quid fine;  seems about right to me, as these things go,  that's the way the law is, the attack happened on private property, beyond the writ of the Dangerous Dogs Act and Ms Colcanon was being punished for neglect of the dogs, not for their killing of the child;  too subtle a distinction for those who had legal responsibilty for Jade

Just in a sidebar, here: the Canadian Royal Commission of Enquiry Into the Non-medical Use of Drugs, some years ago, could find only one fatality, ever, as a direct result of cannabis use.  The user had smoked so much dope that he experienced a severe attack of what we call the Munchies - an over-stimulated appetite, especially for sweet things  - and died from a distended bowel, the result of eating pounds and pounds of chocolate.  Selling cannabis can result in a fourteen-year jail sentence, selling Staffordshire Bull Terriers, Bull Mastiffs and Rottweilers  is entirely legal.

     

Jade, 14, dogmeat

The dead girl's stepfather, as seems to be the case with all dead girls' stepfathers, is a gobby ignoramus, demanding this, that and the other, from the Courts and from the govament. 

 

 He's let down, he whines, heedless of the fact that maybe he should've checked out  the places where his stepdaughter was spending her time and that a place with four big, strong, mistreated dogs shouldn't have been one of them. Stupid cunt. Another of Ruin's benisons is that those guilty of gross irresponsibilty can now become campaigners, soireed and feted at Downing Street and in the shabby, fleeting, cynical  melee of MediaMinster.  Tell us, Mr and Mrs Stupid,  our viewers will be interested to know, how should the law be changed to cover up your mistake...?  Thanks,  Mr and Mrs Stupid  but we're right out of time, over now to Kate SilverTits with the rest of the news

Still, you can't blame him,

Ruin's beautiful parents, Gerry and Cilla. That's Cilla, on the right, the one with the DeathFace.

 post-McCann, parents don't need to be responsible for their kids' safety, merely adroit in blame-shifting. 

Everybody, of course, is to blame for young Jade's awful, sickening  death; being eaten alive or being mauled to death, doesn't matter what you call it,  doesn't matter what the beast is, whose fangs are doing it - shark, crocodile, dog;  Christ, it doesn't bear thinking about.  It's Coliseum stuff.

People who breed dogs, especially killerdogs, for money, animal traffickers, especially when  so many dogs are homeless, well, words fail me.  I have stood, dragooned by kin, next to them  at Crufts and I think there's a better class of person in Wormwood Scrubs.  They're to blame, whoever bred and sold these dogs needs a quick rub-down with a housebrick.  The girl's parent and step-parent had a legal responsibility and a duty of care,  they're to blame;  we need to know where our children are and what they're doing; we can't be entirely risk-averse but we must be risk-aware;  that's what parents are supposed to do, check-up on things. We, all of us, ignore the obviously perilous in our midst;  whether it is vile, obnoxious,  little bastards running riot,  the Luv'EmToBits consumer brats of imbeciles,  or whether it is lunatic women with too many animals, we all just walk-on-by and do as Stepbloke does, blame everybody else.

But there's been  two dog stories in the news.  The other one provided a tragic, well, to me it was tragic, backdrop   to the Damien McBeast story.  

Damien was one of Gordon Snot's posse of homo-erotic gangstermen - Big Al Campbell, the inebriate, manic depressive bisexual;  Pete Mandelstein, the thieving fairy; the  stuttering Milibrothers, maybe even the Ballses, God knows what PixieWoman perversions are exercised among Snotty's inbred and intermarried circle. 

 Damien was  one of the toiletbowl splatters with which Gordon, paranoid and mistrustful,  

Oh yes, he works for me, but I don't know what he does

surrounded himself and whom he charged with doing his bullying for him, his lying, his threatening; whom he charged with pursuing the frenziedly swinging needle of his moral compass, doing the Right Thing For The Country,  the horrible fucking bastard, may his nasty, vengeful, tut-tutting Presbyterian God pour sulphur in his one good eye.

Damien had fallen on his sword when the extent of his cowardly and underhanded dealings was revealed, even vowing that Gordon - the greatest man he had ever met - knew nothing of his misdeeds. 

 I am not the great Andrew Pisspoor Neil and so I know little of this sewerworld of MediaMinster but I would guess that Damien McBride was no worse than any other turd floating around in its waters;  how could he be,  they're all filth; scabby, smirking  hacks like Nick Robinson and Toilets Maguire,  deepthroat knobsucking for what they call access to the shameless  wretched, people  like Huhne, whom they court still and Cameron and Clegg, lightweight nobody chancers,  propelling themselves on jets of watery faeces as they shit, day after day, in our faces;  they are, all of them, sat upon, licking or sniffing around the Great Latrine of State; fellating one another, even as they defecate;  felchers,  ponces, slags, nonces, thieves, blackmailers, pimps, whores and war criminals, all of them; liars, hypocrites, cheats and embezzlers, all of them.  What the fuck, amongst this institutionalised crime family, is so exceptional, so bad about Damien McBride?  

They will all swear that they wouldn't ever stoop as low as McBride, even as they are doing so,  the huffier they are, the more guilty they are.  So it was all a bit of a confection, McBride the Repenter and his Book of Revelations, a bit of gossip but perhaps enough to embarrass Ed Tonsils at his annual, staged  rally, as if anything would embarrass the stuttering, ham-fisted, millionaire-eejit.  One of the rags, anyway, paid Damien a hundred grand for the serialisation rights of this fucking rubbish and he was trailed around the rally, looking  like a whore at a hockey match, a photo-op here, an interview there. He always looked pissed to me, sweaty and unwholesome and one of the PBC's hacks denounced him to his face as a self-confessed alcoholic, as though it was a crime, being an alcoholic;  the PBC's gossamer veneer of  correctness and sensitivity to Otherness and Illness being floodlit in all its thieving, noncing hypocrisy. 

 No, no, I'm deeply ashamed, Damien  gurned,  that's why I'm making all this money, working for  Paul Dacre, I mean setting the record straight, so that others follow the straight path and not the crooked one. 

As the Penitent stood on the promenade what is called a seasoned protestor hove into camera-shot behind him  and faced a Portillo moment.

Simpering right-wing thug, Portillo

 Older readers may remember that the PBC's grande dame of railway memories and late night political  backbiting,  Lady Michael Portillo, was once - instead of being a moribund lackey-stooge to Jocky Neil - a potential leader of the Conservative party, as was, and thus a potential prime minister.  He bottled his leadership bid, however, when questions were asked about his time at Cambridge;  was he,  like everyone else there, a dabbler in brown-hattery, did he punt from the wrong end of the boat.  Chagrined, he was, poor Mike, and scotched his leadership campaign.

A while later, Portillo, in a taxi but with a squadron of goons around him, was kinda door-stepped by the courageous if wrong-headed gay activist, Peter Tatchell,  who wanted to challenge him about, I guess, his anti-homo stance while in Whisky Maggie's govament of spivs. Immediately and quite illegally, Tatchell was assaulted and wrestled to the ground by Micky's goons, 

 

whilst le premier manque sped away, smirking that smirk which he has since tried so hard to eradicate, but not quite.  

The grammar school gang, poncing off us at the PBC.

Interesting that Portillo currently damns Old Bill's treatment of the dreadful Andrew Pleb Wotsit;  people asking awkward questions should, by Portillo's own lights, be assaulted and thrown to the ground.

And so it was for the poor anti-nukes  protestor, trying to upstage Mr McBride and his publishers.  It is perfectly legal to step anywhere on the public footpath or highway, broadcasters may not close off a public right of way but Mr McBride's handler and publisher, the gay thug, Iain Cardigan, of the Mrs Dale's Diary Tory blog did not see it that way and acted like the proper thicko Tory spiv that he is;  he attacked the old boy 

 
and in the process the old boy's dog bit his owner.


  
Now, that Iain Dale is a complete cunt is no surprise to anyone, even himself; try as he may, the ghastly, rancid  old homo, for all his inspiring-as-a-cardigan blogging and begging  cannot find a Tory seat in which to stand, nobody likes him, even in Toryland.  That would-be Torybastards  like him feel entitled to suppress legal protest with violence comes as no surprise,  either,  that's what they're like, always a hair's breadth from a goosestep,  just a spark away from a torchlit rally.  Portillo or Dale, they'll beat up anyone who gets in their way. And call it Freedom.

But the worst thing about this thuggery was the response it elicited from the commentariat.  Everybody, from the Poncing4Gove Toby Young in the Filth-O-Graph,

 y'know, the slaphead, gabshite rent-a-mouth, the ultimate pushy parent, he thought it was a die-laughing show, the victim's little dog, biting his master.  And so did everyone else who incorporated this ruinous little tragedy into their acts. Journalists, commentators and infantile stand-up so called comedians, like this fucking jumped-up retard


This fuckwit has an apparently endless series
 on the PBC's yoof channel, 
maybe senior management is bumming him.


they all, jesters and hacks,  feasted on the discomfort caused, by Power, to both man and beast,

Vote for me. Or I'll knock you down.

Dale, a big hulking stupid ignorant  cunt, an obnoxious bully, knocks an OAP to the ground, isn't prosecuted and the best bit of the story is  not only that Dale's behaviour is applauded but that the confusion and fear which he created in the poor little dog is seen as almost the joke of the century.

Those who know about such things say that children who pull the legs from spiders, who mistreat pets and wild animals are more likely to become serial unspeakables; even so, I always was a bit sceptical about PETA, a largely pop-starry organisation aimed at promoting the ethical treatment of animals but the older I get the more that Cruelty repels me,  the more I see its celebration as harbinger of our doom. From Cruelty TeeVee, with the likes of the drunken old slag Anne Robinson, through the almost Nazi persecution of the disabled - the new Jewry, it's all their fault - to  this bullyboy business with the arse-dipping Dale and the national response to it, the country's beginning to resemble a bear pit,  in which the vulnerable are taunted and abused  for the entertainment of the masses.  Bread and circuses.  For hard-working families.