In the late 'sixties and early 'seventies, Jilly Cooper was the Polly Filler of her day, writing meaningless tripe for the Sunday Times
she had neither the piss and vinegar verve of Marjorie Proops at the Mirror or the witty insouciance of Catherine Whitehorn at the Observer, but few of them do, then or now. Doesn't matter, there's always room in skymadeupnewsandfilth for a woman's point of view, if they can't be persuaded to get their tits out, that is, and Jilly plodded on delivering her turgid weekly analysis of this or that. But then she discovered a talent for writing spanking novels, not spankingly good, spanking. They were set among serially unfaithful, horsey people in the home counties, people with big dicks, big tits and big bank balances. I think they were, anyway, I never read one and my understanding of Jilly's ouevre is pieced together from hazy memories of the book covers - well-filled jodphur bottoms, riding crops and stilleto heels, that sort of thing, Ah, here they are, I wasn't wrong,
the sort of mild BDSM stuff which the Filth-O-Graph would love to put on its front page, if only it wasn't still pretending to be a newspaper.
Throughout time, it seems, Jilly has hymned her love for hubby, Leo.
Leo was a waster and a prat, maintaining a mistress for years, probably at Jilly's expense but that's their affair, or so you would think.
Leo died recently, after loyal and faithful Jilly having nursed the worthless tosser through years of the dribbling disease
and the Filth-O-Graph, today, published an open letter to the widow Cooper from world authority on bereavement, child abuse, consumer affairs, tarty underwear, old age and anything else that can keep her in the public eye, Ms Esther Fangtzen.
In about fifteen hundred words, Esther shares with us - and, presumably, Jilly - her fears about but also her confidence in Jilly's ability to handle widowhood. The horrid old fraud offers Jilly 1500 words of
unsolicited, patronising, condescending psycho-consumer-luvvie babble whilst hosannahing her own, adulterous, home-wrecking affair with and then marriage to the ghastly Desmond Wilcox, now dead, let us - and he - be thankful for small mercies of deliverance.
Not satidsfied with intruding into another's grief, Esther also manages to shamelessly, impertinently plug her latest, self-serving charity, something to do with older people, like herself; we must trust in the perspicacity of octagenarians and that they tell her to go and fuck herself. If you thought the press was already in the gutter, you should read this piece of shit.
How does this phoney old monster continue to infect our public discourse? I keep saying, it's Oxbridge, those bastards are everywhere, they are like an invisible pox, gnawing away at Decency's innards.
Bit lower down love,
like I get the kiddies to do for me
like I get the kiddies to do for me
and mind your teeth, eh?
Two prominent child protection experts share strategies.
Ah, that classic and timeless story of 2 souls divided by the cruel circumstance of society’s heartless and cold indifference. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, they build their dream home, boy cops off with neighbour, girl becomes a gobby lush, boy dies without ceremony – no one cares.
I don’t think I can spare the bandwidth to read Esther’s shoe-horned paean to her own sluttish narcissism disguised, as it is, in compassion’s new clothes; bare, naked, huddled to sanctimony’s victim status, competing against monogamy, against romance, against, yer know, genuine and immortal love. That people have ‘open’ marriages seems, well, a compromise no matter how it’s constructed, a convenience selfishly expressed by 1 or both (although, these days, I guess polygamy comes in all varieties) parties and held through separation’s ultimatum, or most likely – through indifference’s consequence – stay, leave, knock yourself out – neither here nor there, couldn’t give a toss – ‘would probably miss your Yorkshire puddings and you do remember to leave the tea bag in’.
I dunno, maybe I’m being sanctimonious myself, that companionship is certainly different from romance and sex is obviously different from love and how or what people get up to is fortunately their own business with any scrutiny being a truly abhorrent measure of volunteerism and coma inducing criticism. It’s not just Esther of Jilly – I think if one of my friends said they were in an open relationship I’d be hard pressed to mumble an ‘oh?’ whilst checking the exits for the quickest escape route or changing the subject onto something far more interesting like piles or curious rashes. I guess it’s not even victimhood – it’s their cross to bear, their martyrdom to infidelity affords them validation in their vacuous struggle – it’s self-harming for the Saga generation, pop some anti-depressants and bathe in the isolated waters of ‘wronged women’ erudition, able to proselytise to any punter with faux sincerity and bugger all concern as, inherently, a goat’s widow is probably just a matter of timing, just a contractual oversight.
Calling someone Oxbridge because he was an undergraduate there is like calling someone a doctor because he has a medical degree: the truth is merely technical. These people are what they are in spite of Oxbridge, not because of it. Conversely, your voice might not be what it is had it not been for (no doubt) Leavisite teachers of literature at your grammar schools. Leavis, of course, was at war with the academic establishment for most of his life, but it is nonetheless the only place he could have flourished.
I think I agree with you, I think I am lazy and could better, more accurately express ny disquiet.
I have moaned at considerable length about the obvious inabilty of those so educated to competently manage government, the military, the law or anything else - if they are so capable how comes it that everythiing in their purview goes so wrong, is so corrupt?
It is the tentacles, mr tdg, particularly in MediaMinster, which rankle, the numbers of talentless people, people such as, say, in entertainment, Sue Perkins, who are groomed and promoted, given unmerited opportunity, even when as in Perkins' case, time after time their efforts fail to amuse, divert, inform or educate.
If there is a common denominator of this widespread, arrogant, back-scratching, unaccountable network of clowns, buffoons, incomoetents, thieves, traitors - if we accept that there can be such an offence - and downright grotesques, such as Rantzen, then it is clearly their attendance at these wretched institutions; it is Oxbridge which explains, in part, it's short-changing of us. I simply fail to understand why these places are held in esteem, rather than enmity.
Many, mr jgm2, here, recently, included, are committed to perpetuating the belief that Britain's industrial decline was led, choreographed by an ill-lettered shop steward at Longbridge, the infamous Red Robbo. So adroit, so subtle was the PR soothing of feathers that Oxbridge boys, Burgess, Philby, McClean and Blunt, the real enemies within, actually and not hyperbolically in the pay of Moscow, are seen as eccentric old duffers, as characters from the MI5-approved le Carre novels; Blunt, indeed, retaining his position in Buckingham fucking Palace, if you please, until he could be cherished and protected no longer. Today, the Guardian is raided and Mr Snowden vilified for presumed treachery which cannot hold a candle to that of Philby et al and their Oxbridge chums and masters.
If there is another way, another tangent via which I can express my loathing for this vile and rotten, flyblown superstructure I will be sincerely grateful, as ever, for your instruction.
I wonder if she can still teach dogs to say "sausages",
I think this was her crowning glory.
I agree that Oxbridge is the common denominator, but it is not just that. These Fuckers are bred to rule/govern, whatever we wish to call it, in much the same way as Brenda and her parasitic offspring. These cunts know from a very young age that they will be our betters. Same schools, same Universities, same degree course, Fathers members of the same gentleman's clubs.Course we are allowed the odd pleb, Burnham, Blunkett and wotsisname the singing fucking postman, keeps the fantasy alive that maybe, possibly, anyone of us could reach the pinnacle to govern this shithole.
If you or I got up to the shit that Philby, Blunt and the rest got up to our families would suffer the consequences, bank accounts emptied, homes re-possessed, proceeds of crime see, pay your debt to society sonny. But these cunts, some fucker like Yentob or Scharma will 'earn' a fortune from TeeVee making docu-soaps about them.
There is another way, string the fuckers up, flatten Wastemonster and Whitehall,fuck the EU, no central government, nothing bigger than a local council, it is after all the local councils who provide all the services we use. Central Government good for fuck all 'cept Wars.
mr tdg said
"I don’t think I can spare the bandwidth to read Esther’s shoe-horned paean to her own sluttish narcissism disguised, as it is, in compassion’s new clothes;"
That's very nice, mr tdg. I don't know if anyone can spare the time or the cyber tokens, aside from persons such as I, ever vigilant for an opportunity to kick persons such as her in the crotch.
More raucous than Germaine Jungle, more blase than Joan Bakewell, she's a bit of an oddity, Esther; there is no medium, no programme, no newspaper too vulgar, too trashy for her; no appearance passes without her reminding us, turkey-necked and decrepit, that there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle; maybe there is, but her ancient flirting, her spindly, arthritic coquettishness, her pushy lewdness, these are embarrassing, somebody should stop her; she has children but they are as vile, vulgar and tarty as she. I daresay she won't stop until she makes the one-way trip to Golders Green Crematorium.
Sorry about the delayed post, there was a glitch, to my horror - "All comments will be moderated" is surely one of the most offensive terms of our time.
The example of the Cambridge five is double-edged. Their actions were against the establishment, even if made possible only by its rigidity and insularity. And it is the free spirit of Cambridge, the same spirit that allows you to stand back from the stream of life so as to see it clearly, that made them corruptible. I am not sure the rebalancing of east/west power that their work effected was necessarily a bad thing; supposedly their greatest crime, accelerating the soviet union's development of nuclear weapons, would seem to me a greater crime in omission.
Oxbridge is a channel through which many of those with talent stream. It is narrower than most, and so the kingdom of choice for any fisher. It is a place to be conquered, not destroyed, exploited for our ends so that it cannot be for theirs.
Our war is a dirty, guerilla affair, a war of attrition. It cannot be decisively won, and no-one amongst the winners or losers can ever be trusted. I remember coming across a copy of one of John Cairncross's books at an Oxford second-hand bookshop. It bore a handwritten message from him to Isiah Berlin, with enough intimacy to suggest they were more than just casual acquaintances. Who knows how far that charmed circle went? It is too good a system not to seek to exploit.
I am pleased to see the robust condemnation of this dreadful woman in the Torygraph comments.
Sorry, mr dtp and mr tdg, I confused sets of initials, first time I've done that. Mea culpa.
I will come back to the Cambridge Five when the weather permits.
Otherwiswe, mr mark, the Filth-O-Graph commentariat has mostly descended into a noisy congregation of braindead Ukippers, their minds besieged by Farage's delusionary politics, victims of the new Weimarism, wogs, rather than GlobaCorp being our most pressing threat, how Power must laugh at Simon Coulter's pseudo-erudite deconstructions, at the unsnart one-liner brigade and the nincompoops worshipping their liege lord, Tebbot, le spiv ancien.
Like the Cameron Ceremonies, joining like with like, the open marriage, mr dtp, seems an absurd contradiction in terms, a retarded emotional fetish, spouse battering without the beatings. None of my business, what people do, apart from when they shove it in my face, bemoaning my lack of sophistication.
Other than drawing together those two assaults on us by Ruin's Lecher Brigade, I don't think I can add to your most distinguished post.
Thanks, mr dtg. The fifth, I guess, is Blake, sprung from Winson Green prison without a halfpenny or an exchangeable rouble being passed to the truly magnificent and professional body of men, the Screws. These criminals, nowadays, are so clever, despite being such retarded illiterates, most of them, that they can flood the nicks with drugs, porn and phones, despite the very best efforts of HM Prison Service to run the show, I mean stamp it out. And it may of course have suited MI5 to spring Blake, who knows? But I digress, wandering down Scepticism's bright boulevard.
It is an interesting inversion, mr tdg, which you shape, that in the scheme of things, the Cantabrians' shenanigans were possibly, untimately benevolent, although Treason's chords played in different positions still produce the same sound.
Red Robbo, however, plunking away, if indeed he was, at the same tune, has been disallowed the tsunami of nuance and subtle re-interpretation with which even today's espiopundits bathe almost unto innocence the crimes of Cambridge.
You are too kind to my vision, as you put it; it is rage more often than clarity that fuels my poor lantern. If I could see as clearly as they or with as much tight, fierce focus as yourself these commentaries would be redundant; as it is, they are the crucible in my own refiner's fire.
Twenty years or so ago, I wandered into a MayBall quadrangle in Cambridge, pampered louts in stylishly disarryed evening dress, rich young Daddies' little tarts in fabulous gowns, hampers and champers, a string quartet soothing Elitism's young, inebriate brow. Where on earth, I though, is the IRA, where is Sheikh Raghead and his martyrs, this is the place to strike, a soft target, Power's spawn, swimming drunkenly back upstream. It has never happened, Perhasp your charmed circle encloses more than we think, maybe it houses a global gentlemen's agreement. And sideshow spying, counter intelligence and fifth columns- virtuosi, like the Cambridge boys, or buskers like Red Robbo be damned.
The 'great game' as I believe it is called had/has many fronts Mr I. You don't put all your eggs in one basket and all that. Just as the Russians were recruiting at Oxbridge so they were funding and 'steering' the likes of Red Robbo (whether he knows it or not) not for the greater good of the proletariate although I'm sure that would be a nice bonus if it happened, but to bring the British to their knees.
I've said it before but when I lived in Fucking Scotland I was surprised to learn that some countries maintain foreign embassies. Ireland, France, USA, Russia, China - are you seeing a pattern? Just subtle divide and conquerology. Keep that eternal Scottish grievance bubbling away. Keep that little wedge in there.
Same with the fucking pandas. Seriously, what the fuck would China want to be giving Fucking Scotland pandas for? Why not Iceland or Denmark or Holland? Why? Because it'll give Alex Salmond just another teeny lever. Another small opportunity to weaken a historic rival. Softly, softly catchee monkey.
Get their revenge for the humiliation of the Opium Wars or something.
And that great jackass Salmond going along with it. Too blinded by hatred of the English himself to see what is happening. Like China gives a fuck about Scotland beyond the mischief it causes to the UK.
It`s the connection and a these places impart to their alumini, along with an appearance of being in command. Philby`s dad St John was an Arabist, Kim boasted he was the only member of the Athanaeum with a harem of slave girls. To shoot at a barn door target, Cameron`s old man was a wealthy dosh juggler, secretary of White`s (I think). A couple of phone calls enabled his son to start his effortless rise to where he is now and marriage to a velvet arse, into the real aristocracy.
If Philby senior had been a shop manager Kim would have ended up managing a branch of Boots somewhere, possibly with a mid life defection to Woolworths. And if Cameron`s dad had been a dustman for Berkshire County Council Call Me Wysteria would be driving a fucking dustcart around Bracknell.
China. As the Dragon flaps its wings, historically often the world`s superpower, her impact only felt through silk along the Golden Road and travellers tales then she felt our impact. Did Osbum and Wysteria apologise for the Opium Wars as they kowtowed to the modern Sons of Heaven ? The Great Game begins afresh and look who we have up against China, Putins faux macho kleptocracy and Americas fuckwitocracy: we`re fucked.
@dtp 4 December 2013 16:20
confined to a world inhabited purely by cheats, liars and frauds, where people with which you spend time can only be classed as 'contacts', at best, a relationship is definitely a luxury, sir - but good-on you if you have one yourself, the chance to open it, divide it, and reduce its depths such that one can merely enjoy paddling in the shallows, would appear to be fine thing.
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