SOMETHING FOR EVERYMAN..

It was a bit like watching  one of those unspeakable talent shows on Cruelty TeeVee.   From the word Go,  Nick Fatman, 

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOWBUSINESS.

his oily acreage squeezed into deftly tailored suiting, urged the audience to give a round of applause, a show of appreciation to the two posturing egomaniacs here foregathered.  It was as though they were doing us a favour, instead of the other way around.  Since when have we applauded people less sincere than estate agents, people less engaging than my dog, Harris; people with the intelligence of a fencepost;  when did that happen? What sort of a society applauds its tormentors?

 Happens on PBC all the time, studio audiences instructed to clap and cheer the filth on Question Time, for instance, even though, in most cases, these are already handsomely paid and pensioned public servants;  but they need applause, too, for their mewlings and pukings; some ranting, demagogueic,  spit-dribbling, hardfaced, peroxide  baggage like Anna Soubry, MP and gabshite, 

Now, listen to me. I used to be a lawyer.

give her a big hand folks, she used to be a lawyer and now here she is, entertaining you, here on the PBC, lesshearitforAnna. I dunno what it is about Anna and Rachel and Theresa and Harriet and the gang but they really do put me in touch with my normally suppressed inner chauvinist pig.  But just look at her, isn't she vile, yet another Thatcher manque

The applause, anyway,  for Farage, Clegg and Fatman, like a laughter track on a sitcom, guided - or sought to guide - one's  understanding of the "debate" - debate is a bit grandiose for what were just two interspliced party political broadcasts with a  greasy  dummy acting as some sort of psephological Master of Ceremonies; that turd, Ferrari, never seen him before, only read about him in Private Eye;  he's like a bloated-to-bursting Alan Partridge,where the fuck did MediaMinster find him, useless, bombastic  fucking nincompoop? Looks like he showers in lard.

I tried to ignore it, anyway, the studio clapping, and to score the rounds like a boxing match, giving two out of three to Farage;  it was a clear win by any rational judgement.  Just because Farageistes or Cleggons cheered  their man to the rafters, well, it shouldn't mean shit, should it, 'snot a boxing match. I thought, anyway, like most who watched, that FagAsh Lil  wiped the floor with Cunthead, not that I'd piss on either of them were they on fire.

I don't, myself, give a one-way-or-another fuck about Europe.  I like to go there but that's about it and since I still have to use a passport and be viewed as a criminal by every minimum-waged, shiny-headed, illiterate  security lout; still have to  be searched by  obnoxious customs arseholes; have machine guns pointed at me by constable Filth and generally be fucked-about just leaving or entering my own country  it doesn't seem to me that being IN Europe is any different  than it was  being OUT of Europe; if anything, it's harder to go to Europe now than it was fifty years ago. Not even as though one can freely do a boozecruise, which was one of the touted advantages of joining the Common Market, duty-harmonisation;  no, you can only bring back what some embittered jobsworth thinks is a reasonable amount of poisons, what sort of free trade area is that? It is a fucking outrage from start to finish, the only advantages that I can see are to the Old Contemptibles, the Kinnocks, 


Mandelstein, 

Brittan,

Jenkins 


et al and probably, soon, most of the parliamentray Liberal Democrat Party - shiteaters, child molesters and jailbirds;  Europe and NATO, I mean, what on Earth were Lord George Robertson of Dunblane's qualifications to be NATO General Secretary, 

apart from him being on the run from public scrutiny regarding his association with nonce and mass murderer Thomas Hamilton? 

 No, I don't give a fuck about Euromarkets or Eurojobs or the Euroenvironmentalist crusade.  No, I don't, come on, who does?  Who does, I mean who really does, give a fuck about anything? I'll be dead relatively soon, why should I care about the environment, or anything else for that matter?  Am I to go to my grave ranting like a mad eco-warrior, Make sure my coffin is biodegradeable, plant me 'neath an Ash grove, let me die responsible, yea, though I have spent my life arseholeing.

We can stay in Europe or we can re-enter Nigel's quaintly-imagined AngloSphere, it will make no difference to me whatsoever, I will still be shat upon from the Great Latrine of State. And so will you.

MISSING, BELIEVED STOLEN:
THE REWARDS OF OBEDIENCE.

  But the tide,  the LibLabCon tide was turning before UKIP and maybe Nigel can launch upon it a little fireship, HMS Dissent, perhaps. It will probably founder on the rocks of GlobaCorp, most things do, but the tide, that's the thing.

The press-induced clamour for Tough Patriarchy, for benefits theft and library closures amost drowns out the voice of reason.
Oh,  but it's the grandchildren, mr ishmael, mustn't leave them with debts, now, must we?  And, do you know what, mr ishmael,  this is the first generation that won't do better than their parents?  Do better?  Do better, how? Yes, you see, mr ishmael, things have always got better, from generation to generation, always. Aye, right, apart from the Black Death generation and the Wars of the Roses generation and the  Civil War  generation and the Napoleonic Wars generation, and  the First World War generation and the Jarrow generation  - fuck me, Jesus,  a bit of notional electronic debt would have seemed like Heaven to them, wouldn't it? Fuck off with your grandchildren-in-debt nonsense. Debt?  Fucking debt?  It was only in the recent, glorious, moral-compassing  reign of the Reverend Gordon Snot that the national debt due to Uncle Sam from World War 2 was paid off.  And now there's shitloads of other debt, debt, which, like the magic  money in which it is denominated, never existed in the first place, it isn't real, it is just a cyberstick with which to beat your dumb, willing, diffident, self-effacing arse. And if, during this lament, you also tell me that your son is not only your son but also your best friend I will hunt you down and cut your eyes out with my Swiss Army Knife.   Debt,  there's always been fucking debt, ever since there's been fucking money there's been fucking debt, that's how it works, money;  don't you whining, self-abasing fuckers know anything after all your wonderful, wonderful  years in grammar school and university and lifelong, ongoing fucking learning and professional fucking development?  Do you, after all this learning, really not know how the world works? Read, simply, mr yardarm on the Fairytale of Threadneedle Street, the scam of quantitative easing,  there's debt, you see, that rich thieves owe and debt which ordinary people owe and the larger the amount is, the less real it is;  your mortgage default, for instance, is tiny, a pittance but not only will rich usurers throw you onto  the street over it,  they will hound your  descendants for it, too; should, however, the double-barreled  gambling shysters of Lloyds of London  get into debt, why then, the rest of us must bail them out, PDQ. Seems to me that those now  pre-shamed by all this children's-children's indebtedness scam are as uneducated as it is possible to be;  these, the self-shaming ones, meekly helping-out with university fees, helping-out  with early-retirement-turned-childcare,  helping-out with mortgage deposits are as stupid and gullible a generation as has ever lived; seems to me that all they learned, most of my generation,  was the - as it has now been revealed to be -  shaky, groundless, childlike belief in the Rewards of Obedience.

My late friend, Dick, was one of Life's obedientiaries, a lesser official, not in the church but in the state, my use of the term obedientiary is like much of my stuff,  here, both corrupt and cogent, lyrical rather than precise, it'll do.  Dick did everything not rightly, at least not to the standard of the mutinous, Jesus-like righteousness to which I often catastrophically subscribe but certainly correctly, according to some post-war dogma which I believe, until now, no-one has written down.  His was not a turning of the cheek but a turning of the eye to the sins of the state.  If he did as he was told, they would look after him, don't rock the boat, lad, now you're on it.  Oh,  he wasn't like a chief constable, all of whom must be steeped in brutal criminality to have secured such an appointment  - how many killings,  kickings, framings, thievings, beastings must they have overlooked in their rush to suck Power's rank cock? How many cells  of shit-fright must they have walked past wherein innocents and not-so-innocents alike  have been equally wrongly savaged by DS Filth?  There's just no escape from a police cell, don't matter how loud you scream, nobody's gonna rescue you, you'll be lucky if you live and get charged with assaulting your attackers. Oh, don't start me talking about the police we could be here for years, for ever and ever, Amen, so be it, move along, now, nothing to see here.

He wasn't like that, my late friend, he just allowed himself to be blindsided by Wickedness and malpractice, by the insolence of office and by the law's delay.  Nothing he could do about it, is what he said.  The Paul Gambaccini Defence, he was lowly, the sinners were high, he would've lost his career.  Best work quietly to effect change from the inside.  'Twas ever thus;  for Evil to prosper good men need only think to their careers.

I met him when he was a young official, managing the poor on behalf of the rich and within that setting he was as decent a man as you might find.  But, Hey, a man must move with the times in order to protect his income and thus his family's prospects, and isn't a regular promotion just the first of the Rewards of Obedience?  And with every promotion comes not only a greater salary but a larger pension;  salary ladders, promotion ladders, property ladders, pension ladders, seems there's a forest of ladders, all of them climbing to SagaNirvana; a place where all your children have needlessly graduated in needless disciplines,  their gowned and boarded smugnesses leering from the mantelpiece at all comers;   a place where your employer will offer you an early retirement package in order to fuck you off, with your baldness and bad breath and your hernias;  a place where you can tend your tiny garden, go on your worthy, Saga holidays and, if you feel like it, brag about your voluntary work.  If you keep your nose clean - that is to say out of your betters' business - then there beckons an Elyseum of comfort, where you can justly enjoy, with only a little bit of intrusive guilt,   the Rewards of your lifelong Obedience.

Trouble is, they've been nicked, those rewards.  Ah, you are told,  lessbeclear, everybody's living longer - even though they are not and many of those that are, are living with cruel illness and disability, some shitting the bed, some babbling and drooling. Ah, you are told, make no mistake,  the pension was never designed for this but don't worry, the very last thing we would do, as responsible politicians is  raise taxes in order to pay proper pensions - or, in the case of our own paymasters, even collect taxes from them, fuck me, no, more'n my jobsworth's worth -  no, you must work longer, dementia and incontinence must be in sight before you retire,  a few minutes away;  that's the only way your grandchildren can afford one of the houses which we are not building and never will build. Let no-one be in any doubt, if you all don't promptly drop dead - or some financial equivalent thereof - within, say, let's be generous, three months of retirement you are betraying your children and their children.

And when it comes to the property  - no, we simply do not  call them homes any more, far too sentimental - for which you have sacrificed every shred of decency, for which you have licked more arse than a  Westminster rentboy, for which you have stomped and stifled your right to query, when it comes to your property, well, I'm afraid it'll have to be sold to pay for your nursing care. Reward? For working hard all those years? Well, lessbeclear, we allowed you to live in it all those years, so's you could feel superior to council house tenants, think you were building up a whaddatheycallem? a nest egg to leave your children;  we let you borrow money on the strength of successive housing bubbles, encouraged you to spend it in the High Street but I'm afraid that now you're ill we'll have to have it off you;  seems fair to me, nobody gave me anything, if you don't count my trust fund.

And even the reward of a rising salary, that's been nicked, too;  the genius in the Treasury believes in a madness madder than that of his recent predecessors, he believes, repulsive, pasty-faced little freak, that rising prices and falling wages, shrunken entitlements  for the poor and huge tax holidays  for the rich are the ingredients of a larger economic pie.

Salaries have been eroded for years, now; pension entitlements will be pared to insignificance, an Englishman's home is his castle only until he falls ill or gets old at which point it will be sequestrated to pay for treatments which will only keep him alive after a fashion.

It worked since the 'fifties, the Rewards of Obedience stick, worked like magic on my dear old friend, a man who really knew better but just couldn't help himself; it was underscored by Whisky Maggie  flogging-off homes which weren't hers to sell - not that right ever bothered the mad, screeching bastard - and recruiting former oiks into her property-owning, non-societal democracy;  Dagenham Man'll be to'ally and u''erly gutted when he gets ill and has to sell-off his newly-pebbledashed and patioed gaff. And serve him right.

There are no longer any Rewards of Obedience, or if they still exist they are restricted to a shrinking elite.  What, then, can still the tremors of the recently dispossessed,  the De-Rewarded? Guilt, that's the thing;  worked in 1914, stupid, vicious totties, passing-out white feathers; stupid, vicious MediaMinsterites tub-thumping and railing at shirkers who, rather like themselves, were  unready to die for King and Country, it worked a treat and ArmaCorp made a bundle. 

And now blithely, spiritedly, those, for a few decades temporarily in the middle class, embrace their impoverishment at the hands of Usury, singing, as they march to penury, of their grandchildren and their grandchildren's grandchildren.  See, look back on your ragged trousered philanthropist greatgrandad and the sacrifices he made for you. It's fucking feudalism, that's what it is, silly cunts.

Fuck the LuvEm2BitsMe grandchildren, nasty little gits, let them stand up for  themselves, worthless, twittering, facebooking imbeciles, let them learn the noble art of the Molotov cocktail and the sharpened stick.  Let them perforce learn fighting, let them unseat Cotswoldia, put it to the fucking torch and the bulldozer;  let them nuke Oxbridge, let them be unslaved. And fuck social media, its standards, its policies;  I would hang Zuckerberg.

This is such a con, this grandchild blackmail shit, foisted on us by the  public school wealthy, the likes of Clegg and his gang;  the reintroduction of JamTomorrow's sanctimonious  deferred gratification; once we were told we must starve and freeze in order that we might know God - not now, of course, but up in Heaven, after a lifetime of slavery; a sour, shrunken life and an early death, this was our meet portion but no matter, God would feed us divine venison, after we were dead;  it is more secular, now, more - what's the word for degeneracy? - pluralist, that's it;  now we must be beggared anew, not for God but  in order that people yet unborn be wealthy, if you believe that fucking  rubbish you'll believe anything.  

Yet many do, many believe that their rebuking masters speak truth to them, that it's all their fault,  they have all had it too good, and now they must pay, everybody must give something back of what they have earned and already been taxed upon.  Not the crime families, of course,  not the bankers - why is it, in passing, that we never call them oligarchs,  they, after all have given a masterclass in looting the people's wealth ? -   not their spermfaced servants in politics, no, their rewards are just, sacrosanct, not dependent upon probity, merit or ability, just upon barefaced thuggery.  Round of applause, here, please, ye audience of tongue-tied, goatee-bearded fuckwits.

My late friend eventually moved  within the circles of the Damned;  Jack Torture, he said, after a meeting at the home office, was very good.  He didn't mean very good in the sense of goodness, he meant he was very good - accomplished - at being home seckatry, no, not even that, just very good at speaking as home seckatry; it was a nuance, born of laziness, which I didn't discern  for a while.  I, you see, would never have put Straw and good in such confusing juxtaposition, I would have said accomplished or able or adroit or adept - and that's just the a-words.  My friend, though, in another conversation did clutch at an understanding of language denied him in his soulless,  jargonised day job;  he said that one of his public sector mentors had told him, years before, that it didn't matter how good it sounded in a professional meeting, it had to make sense to the bloke in the 'pub, whatever the strategy or the policy was - and in the case of this conversation it was the location in residential areas of hostels for released sex offenders - it must make sense to the man in the 'pub.   

I don't know if that's true, I don't know what the imperative is, there,  the must, for in reality it doesn't matter a fuck what the man in the 'pub thinks, even though, increasingly the 'pub is not there and the man drinks at home he remains, psephologically,  the man in the 'pub, mr dtp's the man on the Clapham omnibus, he remains the maligned and patronised Everyman.

And  it was clear to anyone, really, that Nigel Farrage was far more fluent in ManInThePubSpeak than was the poltroon, Clegg; best of all he eschewed the patronising lessbeclears and makenomistakeaboutits with which the fuckwit Clegg started his every answer.  Not only did Farrage sound  better than Clegg, he was - and it is a razored-thin distinction - better than Clegg, I know it's not saying much but he is a better human being, for now, and it showed.  I, as everyone here knows, fucking hate him but I'd rather he and his nutters than Clegg and his. MediaMinster disagreed;  used to hearing it's own  shifting, vague, rumoured, unattributable, sources close to the prime minister tell me, contradictory claptrap,  its spokespersons, from the so-called left to the so-called right,  don't care even for the idea of  Everyman and they laughed at the instant victory awarded Farrage by some radio voxpop, but then none of their wise evangelising saw the financial clusterfuck which was staring most of us hugely right in the face, none of them broke cover on the SavileBeasting,  they are, all of them, good for fuck all,  their imprimatur is the last thing that Farrage needs.

Farrage, though, was and is only talking of the one betrayal, the one con-trick,  the one heist,  the one turd in the face from on high;  here, we talk of the shit tsunami. Europe is small beer, if it wasn't that it would be something else, equally unwholesome, from which people like Farrage could promise Messiahanic, man in the 'pub deliverance. But maybe the one shitfest - Europe -  is all that people can deal with and maybe a regular bout of Farrageisme is enough for now; it may inspire others and it may sow discomfort and wreak dissent in the camps of Wickedness Rampant.

The presence in MediaMinster of  a significant number of UKIP MPs would merely perpetuate the party political system, a wholly undemocratic jobclub for arseholes, it would have become   a little more variegated but even more monstrous;  ruinous coalitions of Ulster Undertakers, Greenbastards and JohnBullers, God help us, all bound to their parties more tightly than to their electors, all having more in common with each other than with us.  Just like now, only worse.   But if the TeeVee show persuaded even a few people that  the grossest hot-air balloon, in this case, Clegg's, can be pricked and if it savages the LibDem presence in Europe then it will have been something for which we should offer not applause but reserved and muted thanks.