SAINTS AND SINNERS.

I don't now how many British people die violently  but I bet it's a lot. I'll have a look. There were 537 murders in the UK in 2014. The occupation of Afghanistan killed over 500 British service personnel. In Ulster, 3,600 people died in the Adams-McGuinness-blair Terror4Peace Atrocity. Police service deaths in mainland Britain average less than one per year since 1945, while an average of thirty people die per year  in police custody or during contact with the police. People die violently every day, at the hands of others; I have never heard this called an attack on democracy, MedieMinster, of course, sees itself as democracy, when it is in fact a filthy sewer, seeting  with monstrous vermin. 

Thus far, one member of parliament has died at the hands of an individual said to have mental health problems - probably exacerbated by some bent, useless  cunt of a  health secretary like Bubbles Burnham or  Jeremy Hunt - and whilst this is regrettable and tragic for her family the MediaMinster response has been utterly revolting, obnoxious, unbelievable, the stuff of banana republicanism.

The late Ms Cox was an Oxbridge aid worker/activist-turned politician, there is a pestilence of such on all sides - not that there are any longer any sides - a plague of researchers or activists turned aide, turned bag carrier, parachuted into some Northern,  rotten safe seat, some hotbed of institutionalised noncing, bribery and vote-rigging, the fiefdoms of cuntscum like Jack Torture and Crooked Dennis McShane, where the locals would vote for any old slag, pimp, blackmailer or nonce,  wotsisname, Steve, Damczuk, is it, and his succession of young tarts; Mandelstein, Kinnock junior in Wales, Mr Harriet Harman in Erdington - I flung a book, yesterday,  at the TeeVee in the kitchen. It was Jack Dromey-Harman, prematurely, then, flashmourning Saint Jo. Remember Jack?  Married to Harriet Soursister, he was one of NewLabour's treacherous union barons who contorted  the labour movement  so's Tony Blair could push a broken bottle up its arse. He was the Labour party treasurer who knew fuck all about Mr David Abrahams' huge, illegal donation to Snotty's slush fund; best of all, Dromey, spouse of the instigator of women-only short-lists, was permitted to side-step this restriction because, well, because his Mrs was the deputy leader and he needed to be alongside her, on the gravytrain, and in govament, and  both he and she were beneficiaries of Snotty's wholly corrupt, family-friendly nepotism - the Alexanders, Wendy FishFace and Wee Dougie; the Ballses, Ed and FrostyPants; the gay Eagle Sisters; the ghastly Milibands and the Harman-Dromeys, Jesus, he was a piece of work, was Snotty, lovely to see him marching about, Bremaining, drugged-up, ,demagoguing his jowly head off, the young parent, waving his moral compass in furiously nail-bitten hands as though he wasn't as bent as a dog's hind leg, rotten all the way through,  and mad as a fucking hatter. 

And it is the same with  any braying, red-faced, spanking-mad  Tory gabshite, some descendant of  pure filth -  Francis Maude, Jake Rees-Mogg, Bernie Jenkins, even John Selwyn Beefburger has a son in there, doeesn't he?  Christ, they go on about the House of Lords being a shithole hereditary anomaly whilst the Commons turns into something worse. I only ever caught a glimpse of Ms Cox and thought, Oh, fuck, here we go again another elfin, ice maiden careerist entitlementista, another Yvette Cooper, another wannabe millionaire house-flipper, how long before her spouse is on the payroll, too, like Caroline Flint's or Ian Duncan-Shit's or Jacqui Schmidt's porno-hubby, wanking himself silly in Redditch, at our expense.  I thought to myself, at first sight of Saint Jo, how many more of these fuckers are there, simpering about how much they care, about poor people, for a hundred grand a year and a king's pension and hubby on the payroll, and in due course, the brats, too.

Now that she's dead we are set about with Hypocrisy's cynical cudgels, this is the worst thing ever, no, really, nothing as bad as this has ever happened;  the nation is in danger.  Hitler? No, nothing like such a threat to parliamentary democracy. A young mother slain, a valiant servant of the people, a lie dedicated to the service of others, I mean a life, course I do; the house  united in milking this depressing event for all it's worth. Corbyn the Ineffective mourning the death of a potential  high-flier, the PigFucker doubtless hinting that unless we do as we're told everybody will be shot dead on the street by nutters.

Her husband, is it Brendan, is as tasteless as the NewPeople can be, estranged from Decency's simple No Comment, he's face-thinging and whatever else they do, these i-zombies,  flash-mourning, bearing their plastic souls to each other. 'Swot she woulda wanted.

Anyone being shot to death wounds us all, but only very slightly and Saint Jo's death is remarkable only in the disgraceful use to which it is being so cynically put. 

mrs woman on a raft reminded us recently of another death in Florida, of a singer, suggesting that compared to the unseemly and fraudulent hysteria surrounding the gay-on-gay slaughter in Pulse the indifference to her death must mean it was less permanent, somehow less fatal.

And so it is with Saint Jo.  

That she as an MP is irrelevant, she was shot dead in an act of mayhem, not revolution. It is for her nearest and dearest to mourn and lament, the rest is an impertinence.  That her death is hijacked for motley political ends shows only how utterly depraved and venal is the trade she was so desperate to ply.