Blair is tangentially in the frame, again, this time over his infamous Peace Proh-cess in Northern Ireland, the one which made heroic public servants of sadistic serial killers, torturers and incest wallahs, while telling their victims to just shut up, be quiet and fuck off.
Panorama, PBC 1, tonight, shone a light on British state-terrorism, throughout what we obediently euphemise as The Troubles; on countless murders perpetrated, by both factions, with the connivance and encouragement of the army and the more shadowy security services. A farrago of deliberately botched investigations, lost evidence and cover-ups protected the murderers of civilians and police officers, Republicans and Loyalists alike. Bizarrely, a weapon used in a multiple murder and long since claimed disappeared has been found on display in the Impetial War Museum. You'd lol out loud at this spectacular cack-handedness, as long as you weren't a young boy who'd seen his father killed by that weapon and endured a subsequent lifetime of having his questions stonewalled, obfuscated and rejected. He was one of many, bereaved and bewildered; one man, who had survived eighteen gunshot wounds in the mass murder of his workmates was told, over decades, that the case papers had been lost, burned, flooded, stolen, contaminated with asbestos but had now, thirty-nine years after his ordeal, reappeared. You'd need a heart of stone, not to weep for him.
Blair, of course, and his arsemen, glorying in themselves, pampered and protected, told all these poor people to fuck off, wrote comfort letters to their tormentors and declared peace where none was. As mr bungalow bill quietly raged on the previous commentary: " A psychopathic narcissist who persuades himself, from moment to moment, that whatever he says to suit his mood and interests must be the very truth."
It would need a huge shift in most people's ethical framework to make noble the early release of torturers and arsonists and murderers, not only that but to blanket-pardon any and all offences and then to permit the entry to government of sadistic, savage criminal masterminds, like Adams and McGuinness. Better war than peace at such a price.
mr bungalow bill continues to note that many if not most of those who voted for Blair would now queue-up to strangle him with their bare hands. I suspect and hope that the lustre still clinging to the so-called peace proh-cess -actually a surrendering to Terror - will dim and that all those cynically pardoned, largely by NewLabour, are charged and if guilty convicted and imprisoned. and that thus, for those so cruelly and bitterly betrayed by the state, there may be Salvation, after a while.
19 comments:
But there won't be, Mr I.
The Brits, rot them, know this business. Sectarianism can be played only if you know the tunes. So it is easy to let the Micks slaughter each other, rend Ulster apart as the richest part of the Ireland and therefore the only one wherein the Catholic might have a tenuous fingertip on a decent life. Hack that finger off, lads, and catholic Patrick will blame his proddy boss. Not his Brit puppetmasters.
Likewise Nicola the Fish will learn her lesson. Prize 1 for stupidity? Let's not let old Dennis Skinner sit in his seat. Oh, how they laughed in Lanark. The political blindness of the Mczealot is there for all to see, and it is only the third week.
That MI5 then have the game stitched should not surprise us. Close to home, the Tommies know their game. More revelations can only harm the already compromised. Shall we wait for the first toot of connection between Scottish Nationalism and Irish violence, or shall we call the game now? My money is on the Guardian getting the scoop.
That is what I was saying to mrs ishmael throughout the programme, this'll go nowhere, all these complainants will die off, their moaning with them. And the show, itself, was despondent, not optimistic. But it was a powerful piece of mood music, which, for some, will be soundtrack to the current divisions in Stormont. It was even-handed, too - the Brits had agents killing people from all sides - and suggesting a non-sectarian kinship of victimhood.
As to Gnasher, well, the similarity in purpose, between her and the Provos, is well-made, already, and the attacks on Carmichael by the goons are being repudiated, but nit really, by the High Command, in a 1930s Munich sort of way.
In many ways Scotland and Ulster are the same country. I am Ulster-Scots, my family sent from seventeenth century Ayrshire to County Down, as part of the Plantation, your ancestral enemy, mr mongoose, and vicious, tribal sectarianism still thrives in the Central Belt to a degree unimaginable in England.
I am sure the case you posit can be made.
How could it not be so? And, of course yes, we both know the idiocy of where we're from. I know that about Scotland too, and I see hear it when I venture north.
The Norman campaign foundered on the narrowness of the conquest bargain out there on the edge of the world - which is bog and rock and hardship. It wasn't worth the blood and treasure. And it still isn't. I sometimes think that the border is Ireland's own will-you-have-a-cup-of-tea-Father Hadrian's wall. The truth is money rather than power and politics. And there's no money in Connaught -- though there was in Ulster while industry still existed. And education.
One of the mongoslings asked about the Blatter business and before I knew where we were, Putin - a leader in the steel shoes of Uncle Joe Stalin - was spending his political capital in the support of a whore like Blatter. Why? Because Stalin's little lad needs the WC cash so much that he must do it. How are the mighty fallen. There he is up in the sky, snow and hardship everywhere, and he needs his World Cup transfusion of cash. Dear me. It's just like Glasgow.
The windowsill is cold, Mr Ishmael. I must to bed.
Lovely, mr mongoose, dark poetry, smooth and bitter. You do know, don't you, that the windowsill song was originally titled, The Phantom Engineer?
I did hear Max Keiser, as I was up one of those flexi-ladders, yesterday, ranting about how British state propaganda -he means skymadeupnewsandfilth - had fallen silent about Putin and the Ukrainian Moment and was now concentrating on the Scotch Uprising, Gnasher, the New Putin; Edinburgh, the New Moscow, Orkney, the New Poland.
How many uprisings and rebellions have been started by the "little people"? The low paid, out of work, etc. I can not think of any which have not been started "in the name of the underclasses" by self centered, power hungry "managerial" organisers.
Ish, got a link for that song?
I found one by the The Holy Ghost Electric Show which is quite captivating, but I don't think it's the right one..
Mr Alphons: what about Peterloo?
It is just It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry, mr rwg, from Highway Sixty-One Revisted, containing the line....bin up all night, leaning on the windowsill, with which I always introduce my wee, small hours commentaries. As to The Phantom Engineer, that was the working title of early versions of the song.
I think the best version, after the album, is in the Concert for Bamgla Desh, perhaps the last outing of Dylan's musically assured, declamatory and linguistically surreal self. If you can tolerate George Harrison torturing his Startocaster in the back-up band. Wortha look, for Bobsessives. I don't know that particulary Holy Ghost, in fact I don't believe in any of them but I will have a look and come back.
And what about Cuba, Chile, maybe Poland. I do know what you mean, mr alphons but by any measure Cuba was a successful revolution, booting-out the Mafia and surviving Kennedy and his successors blockade. Not to mention keeping all those ancient, US automobiles running. It is hard to tell about Latin America, so insidiious and anti-democratic has been the CIA in that region. It wasn't Heaven under Castro, but neither was it an island brothel for Uncle Sam's worst.
And as well as Peterloo, mr mike, we must include, like it or not, the PollTax riots in Scotland; they worked.
Mr alphons's is a moot point, revolutionary leadership corrupts, doesn't it, Tearful Tommy Sheridan proves that, as does George Galloway, doesn't follow, though, that the impetus was wrong.
No, that ain't it, mr rwg. I think there is a current in American popular song which carries trains and engineers and conductors and lonesome whistles down through the years and that one, by the Holy Gosters is one such, although I would bet money that it is Dylan's coinage which they use as a title.
It is just something I have done, forever, really, mainly to test mr mongoose, incorporating, when they naturally bubble-up, lines from Dylan songs. Last night for instance, the commentary was bracketed by lines from Visions of Johanna - Inside the museum, Infinity goes up on trial, voices echo, this is what Salvation must be like, after a while. Just playing. But if the words didn't serve the purpose, they wouudn't be there, and more than ninety-nine-point nine percent are my own, anyway. It's a collective remembrabce thing. And mr mongoose is actually a sliderule engineer, not a phantom one, I do believe so, anyway.
Re popular uprisings: when push come to shove, I would like to think that the Tommies would side with the people. But history shows thats not the case. As in Peterloo, cited previously, the noble cavalry (mostly working class troopers) didn't hesitate to draw their sabres. Fast forward; in the Tomlinson affair, looking at the hi-vis "coppers", the ones with no ID, I've no doubt they were military. What is it that turns people of their own class on their own, just to serve their masters?
Not just the cops and the militarty, mr mike; there is a huge growth in private security - baillifs, car park attendants, concert and event security, airport security, particularly, and these fuckers are vile, every fucking unemployable misanthrope in the land, dressed up as a security guard. And I don't know if you have seen the plague of UK cop-docs - I know you have your own down there - but these people are shameless filth, licensed to bully, full of their own detective cleverness, even though they are as thick as pigshit. There are vast regiments of official and unofficial uniformed hoodlums who would be delighted were they set loose on their fellows. Hard times in Old England, indeed.
I've experienced the modern day bully here, down under, as you note Mr I. In Brisbane airport, on route to Sydney, some fat fucker dressed in black wanted to look at my laptop - OK. Then he asked me where I'de been and where I was going. I told him it was none of his business, albeit no quite so politely, and he got threatening. But once I made it clear that he was entering a world of trouble he took his 18 stone elsewhere to persue the little people. The world is turning to shit, no doubt about it.
PS forgot to mention the relevant bit: the fat fucker was a Pom.
I try to avoid the airports and drive everywhere, mr mike; I really do fear that I will kill one of these ape-bitches, or they me.
A few weeks ago armed police executed an escaped cow (Tyneside I think) because "it was becoming distressed" (and "near" a road.) I expect Ermintrude was plenty fucking distressed when she clocked a bunch of tooled-up goons approaching. (To be fair it's been a while now since Raoul Moat and they have to keep their eye in.)
verge.//
Yo, mr verge. Last year a half dozen fucking big cows leapt the wall and started rampaging around my garden. Big stupid bastards, they are, cows. don't understand a word of English. Even so, mrs ishmael, Harris and I had them back over the wall in a couple of minutes, Harris acting as though he had been trained for this very thing, although he hadn't, he is tiny and one of those hooves would have killed him stone dead. I went to town, bpught an electric fence and it was job done. Old Bill can't manage that sort of thing and instead has to shoot things, like the nasty cunt he is. If he was in the Fire Brigade the stupid git would try to shoot the fires out. I remember the Ermintrude killing and thinking cunt thoughts. Mind you, here in Gnasherania, the national police force, quite illegally, tools itself up with firearms to go into Greggs in Inverness for its lunch.
I don't know if you've seen the current Martin Clunes animal respect series. I saw a few moments of it and very devout Jains, it seems, delicately sweep the path in front of them, lest they tread on an insect. I understand that; I get really fucked-up about that sort of thing, myself, pruning the hedgerows, mowing the grass, you know, everytime you turn around you annihilate universes.
Very interesting, Mr Ishmael. I`ll make a point of catching that Panorama on the I thing. It`ll be the model for the Nonce Non Inquiry, already going nowhere, trickling, drying in the sands of an official desert. And our old friend, Lockerbie.
An excellent point about the privatised security fuckers. We are a national security state, a privatised, spivverised national security state. And as you say, if Old Bill wasn`t bad enough. Uniforms ought to be illegal, they fuck people up( who are probably already fucked up enough) more than drugs. It will not be merry in England with these vile bastards among us.
That Carmichael business, wasn`t it down to him correctly exposing Gnasher`s desire for a Top Hatter victory ? Well if the impertinent bag can lust after her own MacZimbabwe up there why not you Orcadians and Shetlanders desire your own state, away from Edinburgh, linked to London or Oslo; dunno what the Norwegians are like but they can`t be any worse than our native filthsters. Its just as a legitimate aspiration, if one can do it, why not we all ? And a need for a clean start is at least as good a motive as some spurious notion of nation hood.
It was a sorry elegy, mr yararm, Panorama; vast numbers of people betrayed snd intimidated by the secret state, stumbling about in the wilderness of mirrors erected by contemptiible public servants. There is a brief confrontation with a vile old Rupert, who had been instructed by "my very experienced solicitor" not to say anything about his murderous command in NI, as bad, in his way, as Adams and Kneecaps.
Tracey May and her foreign stooge do seem to have obscured the Dolphin Square atrocity, assisted, as you say, mr yardarm, by Gnasher's Black Ops, horrid little cunt, why is it that so many are beguiled by her face-like-an-arse, her contortef, scawny wee posture and her bitter, metronoming grievance. It should be of no significsnce, her personal appearance, yet it is so deeply artificial and contorted, so perberted from the natural, that one wonders about her attraction to so many men, she has a physical presence like a spunk stain on George Robetson's mattress - forced, rank, sour and unwholesome, one of Nature's jerk-off emissions,never meant for conception and birth, a presence as appealimg as an angry monkey's miscarriage; star quality, in other words, as understood by her cross-dressing, blue-arsed wifebeaters.
As for her efficient governance of Scotland, the fucking place is falling apart, as a result of freezing council taxes for, I dunno, seven or eight years; roads, civic buildings, infrastructure, health, waste, social services are all strangled; police and fire centralised -I have to phone Inverness for the cops, not that I would; care staff on the outer isles, where MOT. regs are not enforced, are denied staff vehicles in which to visit their patients and instead drive their own uncertificated bangers. The Tribesmen are an administrative disaster but their Braveheart fiction appeals to Jock, silly fucking bastard, who never paid any council tax anyway, and feels he should never have to
The Carmichael scam is as you say, the salient point obscured by shrieking, hateful, hysterical thugs.
Interesting news about the Methodists, to which I may return.
Thank you for your rage, mr yardarm, yours and everybody's; I do hope it is expressed elsewhere and not just short-circuited in these commentaries
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