NAMING NO NAMES. SNOTTY'S FINEST HOUR.

Friends, Romans and yes, Tribesmen, too,
 lend me your money, 
I mean ears,

I come not to name Corbyn nor to identify him trans-pair-ently. I know all about general elections, and this person, who  I will not, have not and never shall name as Jeremy Corbyn, is in danger of winning one.

 

 But as it says in the Good Book of Old Father Brown: What shall it profit a man if, in the opinion of his betters,  he be unelectable and yet  win unto himself an election? 

Verily, I say unto the hard-working families whom I used to speak-to up and down the countrty, and insult.

You are an awful, stupid, racist old boot.
Vote for me.

 if  he who winneth  hath not the Vaaaahl-ewes of his forefathers then he and his tribe shall lose, even though they win.

This will not be the Right Thing For The Country.

 

Friends, I speak as one of those  who  having had the Vaaaaahl-ewes in abundance  hath nevertheless  losteth the elections, unto an two-fold and allowedeth into the Temple the Godlessheathenbastard  tribes of  the Gideonites, the Goveites and the Duncan-Smithites.  

 
A voice, which crieth in the Wilderness...

Which maketh me, thy servant, Snotty, an expert in the losing of elections. And that is why I say unto ye, a person whom I shall not name, for as a Great Prophet, I am above such things, but who is known unto ye as Jeremy Corbyn, is not the person to lead ye into the wilderness, 
as, in ancient times did I. 

......prepare ye the Way of the Lord,
but not Lord Corbyn.

Reject ye, therefore, this impostor, for he shall challenge the holy consensus of We-Know-Bestism, which hath serv-ed us so well, some of us, at any rate, especially my chosen ones: 
Edward and Yvette, 


Mr and Mrs Balls
doing the House-Flippers' Expenses Shuffle.

another Edward and his brother, David, 

Am I my brother's keeper?
For he is an smooth man and I am

an Bananaman

and Douglas and his sister, Wendy,

 



and brother Jim Spud 

 

who hath brought us such Victory, 
here, in the Promised Land of Jock, 

Lo, where we are, even in my native land of New Presbyteria,  
Triumphant, 


 having lost all but one of our seats.  

Foolhardy would be he who ignored my advice on the losing of elections and Woe and thrice Woe be unto him who dwelleth in the land of Corbyn for they shall have popularity thrust upon them for defying the holy ordinances of Mammon.

As you know, friends, my father was a minister of God and it was in his manse I learned the wise scripture that we should, - well, not us, but poor people -  should take what they  have and give it unto the rich and thus shall the Labour party be elected and an end be made of Boom and Bust.  

And, friends, I was Teddy Kennedy's best friend. 


And during our fireside chats,  he and his current young woman, whoever it was at the time, would often remind me of our sacred mission. Snotty, my dear old friend - Snotty, is a Massachussetsian term of great respect, only conferred on men of especial greatness -  you are the greatest politician since my late brother, Jack.   
Now Jack, lemmetellya,  taught me everything I know about womanising and drugtaking and murdering un-coperative sluts and lying to the police.  But I guess womanising ain't your thing, is it, Snotty, not if that beard you hang around with is anything to go by? Christ, I swear I saw her Goddamned Adam's Apple bobbin' up and down there.
And it was from millionaire whoremonger, my dear friend, Ted Kennedy, whom I caused Her Majesty to knight,  in the Noble Order of Whore-Drowning, that I learned my greatest political lesson.

The Labour party, friends, 
our Labour party,

exists to serve people who are in danger - not of being Left -  but of being left out and left behind.

But I am no mere man of scripture, neither cleric nor theologian, come here today not to name Jeremy Corbyn.

 I was also, friends,  Nelson Mandela's best friend and one night, at one of his parties, I was there, 

 

with Bill Clinton  and lots of other famous names from the celebrity business and he said to me, Nelson said, in his inimitable, gentle yet firm  way, Snotty, he said - Snotty is Swahili  for Great Wise and Prudent son of the Manse - Snotty, you and I are the greatest men of our time, I have been in jail for thirty years, simply for bombing some kaffir-bashing sonsafuckingbitches and now I party my remaining life away among filth from every continent 

and you, Snotty, you have spent thirty years devising ways to make rich people richer, at the expense of  the poor people,

 

truly, Snotty, 
 having printed billions of pretend pounds, given it to the bankers and made the people pay it all off, 
you are a giant among Christian Social Democrats. 

 There are not many people who can claim to have  been so complimented by the Greatest Dead Living Human Being.
  And I am sure that Jeremy Corbyn,  whom I am not naming here today, for I am above such things, is not one of them.

It is not something of which I boast, friends -  for, having saved the world for Usury, I am a modest man -  but I am Sir Elton John's best friend, too. 
 We are both young parents,

 

Young parents,  Dave and Reg,

 

Young parents, 

Snotty and Sarah-George Beard-Brown

and both of our wives, being good for fuck all else,  are active in celebrity charity.  
Elton's wife, David, and my wife, Sarah-George Beard, often chat busily about make-up, hairdressers and those all-important charity photo-opportunities, 

Sarah-George and I showing we care by having our photograph taken where millions were murdered. 
It was a scarifice we made gladly. 
You know, friends, we great ones have the duty to be photographed at places like Auschwitz becaue without us giving our time and allowing our images to be used ordinary people wouldn't know what had happened there.

And it was probably images like this which won us the 2010 general election, an election which Mr Corbyn, whom I shall not mention by name, would have lost.

while Elton and I, both committed socialists, discuss the affairs of the world.  Sir Elton, or Sir Elton, as he allows friends like me to call him,  cares deeply about issues such as himself and that is why he sends himself a quarter of a million pounds' worth of flowers each year.  Because he's worth it. And I care deeply about myself, too, my legacy, my reputation. But not just mine. I want all people to have a legacy, but the right sort of legacy, not cash and property, but the sort of legacy  outlined by my very good friend and fellow-celebrity, Sir Mick Parkinson

Parky,

 the biggest cunt in showbusiness. 

You're such poor bastards, 
we'll give you a free pen.

in which Labour voters spend their final years worrying, quite properly, friends, in my view, about their funeral costs.

I mean, let's be honest with people, now is not the time for false modesty. I was so successful as  firstly,  chancellor, then as an election-winning prime minister and now as prime minister emeritus that millions of people, in their old age, were terrified, of the cold, of starvation and of dying too poor to pay for their own funerals. And that's why I introduced the minimum wage.  Not a living wage, friends, not  a living wage,  like the one Mr I Won't Mention His Name wants to legislate for because that would ruin this great party which I have almost run into the ground. A minimum wage, which I pioneered, means that employers can put people on zero hours contracts, treat them like shit but insist that they are paying the minimum wage so everything's alright, really.
 I mean, who would vote for a living wage - and that means, friends,   enough money to live on - being paid to everyone, regardless of how clever they were or whether their father was a minister of the Manse or not.  Who could possibly want a country having  a minimum level of survivability for all?  Not me, that's for sure. I have worked all my life to ensure that the poor whom we have the honour to represent stay poor, otherwise what's the point of us? 
Didn't I, at great personal expense, raise the old poor people's hand-out by a full fifty pence, believing,

 like Lord Mandelstein, 
that we should be extremely relaxed about people growing filthy rich, only not poor people, obviously, not poor elderly people.  And the poor, friends, have paid us to do this for them, through their taxes. The labour party can be many things, friends,  but it cannot be pure, that's not what it's for.

 It is for people like Neil Kinnock 

I'm alright, I'm alright.
I'm rich, boyo, I'm rich
Thank you, Labour party, thank you.

- I am Lord Neil's best friend by the way- that the Labour Party exists.  
Neil Kinnock,  thanks to his his historic victories against my best friend - and the beasts' best friend - Mrs Thatcher,

 

and Mr Underpants, who  he beat equally soundly,   is the first Neil Kinnock in a thousand generations to have grown filthy rich off the backs of  poor taxpayers across Europe

I tell you, boyo,  
I'm fucking loaded,  and never done a day's work in my worthless, totallty and utterly and comprehensively and resoundingly worthless ginger life, look you, isn't it, fucking loaded,  Gordon, totally and utterly and comprehensively, staggeringly well-compensated for labouring so hard in the Fields of Janner, keeping things quiet, look you, and moving this great party comprehensively to the right.

All I ever wanted was the opportunity for the first Neil Kinnock in a thousand generations to steal, 

I mean serve.

And I remember, too, 

 when my deputy,  Tony Blair,
 said that we must find poor people to serve, the world over. 
And bomb them.

Mr Corbyn, were he the man about whom I am not speaking, would never have had the Vaaahl-ewes required to bomb working-class Iraqi voters.

Only the proper Labour party can accomplish things like this.

I could continue, friends, 

fisting people, 

I mean listing  people  who admire me and respect my judgement and most importantly, would vote for me. 

I could mention Jesus and Buddha and Mahomet and Saint Joan; Keir Hardy and Ramsay MacDonald and Clement Atlee but I am far too modest and that is why I have chosen not to speak at a proper public election meeting, where people might mistakenly disagree with me, but here at a gathering of hand-picked arselickers, like yourselves.

This is what politics is all about, the carefully managed soundbite before a hand-picked audience.  Some call it cowardly but it is how we have lost two elections in a row and how,  if I have my way, we  will  continue to lose them.
Let's face it, better Cameron and the Spivs than Corbyn.
If a Labour party came to power we'd all be fucked. 
(Cheers and applause, Readings from the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner.)


And something else, friends,  
when my young son, Donald, is it? 
Dougal? Duncan? Whatever he's called, when he asks me:  
Old Daddy, what did you do to make the world better?  
I will be able to say, Son, John or Fergus or whatever the fuck your name is, I de-regulated the banks, sold all the gold, helped set the  Middle East ablaze, sold-off the NHS,  liberalised immigration and created the Poundland Party, broke-up the Union and ushered-in and saw re-elected the most right-wing government  since the 1930s; that, son, is what Daddy did.
(Applause, chants of Anyone But Corbyn.)

So you see, friends, the choice between my sort of Labour party and the sort of Labour party led by the Man With No Name, well, it's really no choice at all, is it?

(Cheers and applause.
Audience sings: We'll not keep the red flag flying here, followed by the Eton Boating Song.) 


It is easy to mock Gordon Brown, he is Ambition brought low; he is braying Hypocrisy; he is foul, hissing, judgemental Presbyterianism;  he is a wretched, cowardly bully and even by the standards of MediaMinster, a contemptible liar.  Being at times  all of those things oneself, however, one has always sought an explanation for Brown's lifelong foulness. 

His Dad, by all accounts, was a Toby Young-style parent,  not as crass and vulgar  and stupid as Toby, who could be,  but educationally hothousing young Gordon, convincing him of his personal destiny yet there must be more to it than just being born to pushy parents.  He suffered a rugby injury, limiting his eyesight but So What? Many are injured, hampered and restricted.

Something, however, made Gordon Brown Bad, and not in a good sense.  He was a parliamentarty bully, needlessly bombastic, eternally over-egging his statistical pudding, shouting the odds so much that we called his blowhard despatch box musings tractor-production statistics, mocked his Great Clunking Fist of Doom, his shredded fingernails, his DryWank JawDrop, his infantile snot-eating and his dreadful bullying of subordinates.

Alongside his unattractive idiosyncracies,  his running of the Treasury and then the government was unwholesome.  We do not have Uncle Sam's system of presidential appointments to cabinet posts, most are filled, in the UK,  by elected politicians.  Brown, however, elevated unelected special advisor Balls to a position of huge influence, eventually parachuting him into a safe Labour seat, party-bigwigs-for-the-use-of;  Mrs Balls, too, surprise-surprise, came from nowhere into cabinet, as did the Milibands, the Eagles and wee motormouth Douglas Alexander; by the time of Tony'n'Imelda's departure to GlobaCrook the cabinet was effectively Snotty's  fiefdom, anti-democratic, non-meritocratic.  Thanks to Snotty, the Ballses, lacklustre nobodies but pleasing to Brown, need never work again, although their former master sees them, yet, in Number Ten.

It's a lot to forgive, a lot to be explained-away by a ruined childhood.  And if we thought that age and the time for reflection might have healed Brown's dehumanising wounds his stagey intervention at the weekend disappointed that expectation;  he is as bad as ever, speaking to a selected audience, as though, standing-in for the nation, it was a troop of gullible boy scouts and girl guides, an assembly which, through anecdote and witticism,  catechism and Value, he could lead, with his moral compass, to the award of a Sensible Voter's Badge. He'd have done better staying at home, brooding, the mad bastard, for if he had hoped, by his distortions and hoodwinkery, to have arrested the onward march of Jeremy Corbyn he actually - outside the safe world of the TeeVee studio - achieved the opposite, an acceleration away from his sort of politics and from  his sort of politicians.

Another fuck-up, then, with which he must live, although I guess that by now he and his are skilled in fabricating a Truth more kind. 
I do hope so.