From the archives,
Call Me Ishmael, November 2011
Call Me Ishmael, November 2011
Bless you, my children; in the beginning was the Gove.
MR MICHAEL SPIT-GOVE,
CABINET TEABOY AND EDUCATION SECKATRY.
One of the Coalition of Shit's
non-public school, non-millionaire arseholes, the saliva-exporting Micky Gove, is
sending to schools copies of the King James Bible, with a new foreword
by - honest, not invent - himself; spit-flecked, holy book flyleaves
will, we must assume he imagines, carry his grimy little name forward
into history, long after the govament which he champions is swept away
on a wave of popular realism. ( a reader writes: Will that be next week, mr ishmael?)
This gesture will cost half a
million pounds of disability benefit but future scholars, he imagines,
will learn to revere the name of Spit, conflating his squeaky, Uriah
Heep existence with those of the great scholars who originally
translated and wrote the influential work - if not, actually with God,
Himself.
AND FROM JULY 2010
AND FROM JULY 2010
I AM SPIT-GOVE.
SMELL MY BREATH
SMELL MY BREATH
ISN'T IT SICKENING?
Tory-Murdoch MP and alien, Mr
Michael Spit-Gove, despite his insistence on Monday's Newsnight that he
wouldn't, is to apologise to everybody, only not for being an obnoxious
little cunt.
There must be a dozen such commetaries here, for Micky Gove has been ridiculed in these quarters since forever.
We called him Michael Spit in honour of his late-night TeeVee exchanges with the dreadful Polly Toynbee in a long forgotten LateShow slot.
Toynbee,
Of course I care about the poor,
I'd be nowhere without them.
flying-in from her Mediterranean home, would attempt to burnish her I-Love-The-Poor credentials but could never get a word in against her fellow hack, Gove, who would cocaine rap for the whole show, never pausing for breath, bright-eyed, back-tracking, cross-referencing himself, anticipating himself, almost proof-reading and cutting-and-pasting his words as they tumbled pell mell from his lips, driven as though the fate of Creation itself hung on his next subordinate clause. And the one after that. although not, if you will kindly permit me, Polly, for it is crucially important to make this clear at this juncture, the ante-penultimate one prior to that subordinate clause to which I, with your forgiveness made oblique reference hithertofore and to which,
notwithstanding and of course with your indulgence may approach tangentially a little further on. And then he'd get straight back into why free market capitalism was the best shit ever.
His showery non-stop diarrhoeaic
peregrinations caused the saliva to gather in the corners of his mouth and then gather some more; it was morbidly fascinating but mainly it was utterly repulsive.
For me, he has always been Michael Spit, Prophet of his own Madness. His current lunatic self-obsession is his very public exhibitionism
or jogging as he calls it, and being prime minister, into which role he clearly believes with his irritating, stagey politeness he can balls-achingly talk himself.
Once, years ago, I knew a delightful and engaging junky. Martin told me sheepishly that during one amphetamine-fuelled, ranting evening he became so carried-away, so Goveish that his mates locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, where he continued speed-sermonising, in the pitch black, to the underneath of the stair treads.
No such luck with Gove and Toynbee at the BBC.
As MediaMinsterians do Spit has outed himself as a coke head probably a full five minuters before someone else did and done so on the grounds that WeAllMake Mistakes, BestToBeOpen, MakesUsBetterPeople, only not people who are benefits cheats - apart from Her Majesty, of course - or dopesmokers, having their doors kicked-in by an army of savagely gay plods, triumphantly holding aloft a couple of joints with an estimated street value of several billion terrorist pounds. Drug users, per se - ie the poor - must be punished for their wickedness.
Coke, the drug of the rich, is subject to the same ethical double standard as everything else: it is illegal to supply and possess but if rich people do it it's OK, even though, unlike weed, cocaine probably does fund worldwide terrorism. And it seems that however many celebrities, entertainers and politicians snort the stuff it is only the poor, smuggling mules who merit the full force of the Law.
Baby-farmer and celebrated coke-fiend, Lady Sir Elton John got a knighthood,
Wasted cook-headbanger, Nigella Lawson, daughter of a pinstripe, Tory spiv-dynasty,
despite snorting her arse off for years -
and trying to blame her live-in slaves
has her ghastly
CookingWithTits show
renewed indefinitely,
paid for with my license fee.
Toynbee,
Of course I care about the poor,
I'd be nowhere without them.
flying-in from her Mediterranean home, would attempt to burnish her I-Love-The-Poor credentials but could never get a word in against her fellow hack, Gove, who would cocaine rap for the whole show, never pausing for breath, bright-eyed, back-tracking, cross-referencing himself, anticipating himself, almost proof-reading and cutting-and-pasting his words as they tumbled pell mell from his lips, driven as though the fate of Creation itself hung on his next subordinate clause. And the one after that. although not, if you will kindly permit me, Polly, for it is crucially important to make this clear at this juncture, the ante-penultimate one prior to that subordinate clause to which I, with your forgiveness made oblique reference hithertofore and to which,
notwithstanding and of course with your indulgence may approach tangentially a little further on. And then he'd get straight back into why free market capitalism was the best shit ever.
His showery non-stop diarrhoeaic
peregrinations caused the saliva to gather in the corners of his mouth and then gather some more; it was morbidly fascinating but mainly it was utterly repulsive.
For me, he has always been Michael Spit, Prophet of his own Madness. His current lunatic self-obsession is his very public exhibitionism
or jogging as he calls it, and being prime minister, into which role he clearly believes with his irritating, stagey politeness he can balls-achingly talk himself.
Once, years ago, I knew a delightful and engaging junky. Martin told me sheepishly that during one amphetamine-fuelled, ranting evening he became so carried-away, so Goveish that his mates locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, where he continued speed-sermonising, in the pitch black, to the underneath of the stair treads.
No such luck with Gove and Toynbee at the BBC.
As MediaMinsterians do Spit has outed himself as a coke head probably a full five minuters before someone else did and done so on the grounds that WeAllMake Mistakes, BestToBeOpen, MakesUsBetterPeople, only not people who are benefits cheats - apart from Her Majesty, of course - or dopesmokers, having their doors kicked-in by an army of savagely gay plods, triumphantly holding aloft a couple of joints with an estimated street value of several billion terrorist pounds. Drug users, per se - ie the poor - must be punished for their wickedness.
Coke, the drug of the rich, is subject to the same ethical double standard as everything else: it is illegal to supply and possess but if rich people do it it's OK, even though, unlike weed, cocaine probably does fund worldwide terrorism. And it seems that however many celebrities, entertainers and politicians snort the stuff it is only the poor, smuggling mules who merit the full force of the Law.
Baby-farmer and celebrated coke-fiend, Lady Sir Elton John got a knighthood,
Wasted cook-headbanger, Nigella Lawson, daughter of a pinstripe, Tory spiv-dynasty,
despite snorting her arse off for years -
and trying to blame her live-in slaves
has her ghastly
CookingWithTits show
paid for with my license fee.
It is a sour mantra de nos jours:
rich druggies go to Rehab, poor druggies go to jail.
rich druggies go to Rehab, poor druggies go to jail.
Spit's ascendancy in the richboy cabinet of Cameron and Clegg was always a mystery. It is true that Spit is owned lock, stock and saliva glands by Rupert Murdoch and was thus a useful conduit for Murdoch's orders to Cameron but that should've made him no more than Seckaterry for paper clips.
Maybe as well as being the token oik amongst the Etonians and Harrovians Spit was the Cabinet Dealer. God knows, Osborne was off his face often enough.
Feelin' sick'n'dirty, more dead than alive...
Honourable and right honourable members will know that we on this bench are buyimg coke with the proles' DLA.
(cheers, waving of order papers)
All sing: Oh, for he's a jolly good junky
for he's a jolly good junky.
and the motivation for his damnable Austerity programme could easily have been some mad, vengeful cocaine nightmare, from which he awoke to punish the nation for its temerity in questioning his expenses. And for not going to Eton. Economically it made no sense at all, it was Zombie madness. But that horrible, squeaky voice, those hateful accusations, the burning of the wheelchairs, the closing of the libraries;
Organised Crime visiting the less successful.
You sure we'll get out again, Chancellor?
Just hold on a few minutes, Chancellor.
I'm waiting for my man
was Michael Spit the supplier of Junky George's vile medicine?
Maybe as well as being the token oik amongst the Etonians and Harrovians Spit was the Cabinet Dealer. God knows, Osborne was off his face often enough.
Feelin' sick'n'dirty, more dead than alive...
(cheers, waving of order papers)
All sing: Oh, for he's a jolly good junky
for he's a jolly good junky.
and the motivation for his damnable Austerity programme could easily have been some mad, vengeful cocaine nightmare, from which he awoke to punish the nation for its temerity in questioning his expenses. And for not going to Eton. Economically it made no sense at all, it was Zombie madness. But that horrible, squeaky voice, those hateful accusations, the burning of the wheelchairs, the closing of the libraries;
Organised Crime visiting the less successful.
I'm waiting for my man
was Michael Spit the supplier of Junky George's vile medicine?
Given that MediaMinster is probably cocaine's biggest UK customer it is unlikely that we will ever know the extent of CokeMadness in the framing of public policy but it is probably huge, as big as the child sexual abuse scandals, the fraudulent expenses scandal and the bribing of the public political conscience by Blair and Campbell and Straw.
It would only have been for his own narrow ambition but maybe the leaker of Gove's criminal behaviour is his rival for the Tory leadership and thus UK premiership.
It would only have been for his own narrow ambition but maybe the leaker of Gove's criminal behaviour is his rival for the Tory leadership and thus UK premiership.
Sajid Javid pledges to get tough on middle-class cocaine users
Home secretary takes aim at professionals whose drug use is said to fuel violent crime.
We shall see what hypocritical knots our Saj ties himself into, he should, however, forthrightly condemn and call for the retro-prosecution of his cabinet colleague, Michael Spit, shouldn't he?
57 comments:
If you only had one bullet, you'd shoot Osborne.
You could put 'em in a line, as Idi Amin did, see how many skulls the one bullet would go through.
Seems like they've all been juiced up for a long time. Who would have guessed? What's Tracy been on?
Answering my own question: apart from all her diabetes meds, I bet she's on HRT. All sorts of side effects. I'm not discounting anything more exotic - as it seems they all have been doing stuff.
Yes, HRT, of course. Dancing Queen.......only seventeen, oh yeah.
Just taking ship to the mainland, for Aberdeen, back here this evening.
Politics aside, Mr I, I do envy you the sea and the boats. The best I can do is a bloody piddle of a river. Come the revolution, I would be off to the seaside, excpet I would turn into a blue-haired granny with a lifetime Waitrose shopping bag in my coat pocket.
Mr Gove. There is something of the ‘other’ about him - maybe not of this world:
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DsDpNG3WwAEey-M?format=jpg&name=medium
It can be wild, here, hard on the shore, dangerous even; other times it's like living in a limpid water colour, either way, one knows what it means to be alive, raging and reflecting, a tidal yin and yang.
I dunno, mr sg, as good muslims, all, we must cherish the widow and the orphan. The circumstances of Spit's adoption are unknown to me but will have proved influential on the developing man; doesn't excuse his oily, deceitful ambition.
Gove is toast, Mr I. Silly arse. When asked about past indiscretions all politicians should say "When I was young, like everyone else I did many things that were young and foolish." The swamp seems to be somewhat worried about Boris though. A conservative who can win London twice - that's scary. They will wait to take him down nearer the prize, I think.
Whoever gets the gig should move quickly to create a political corpse. Choose one and kill it. Letwin, Grieve... Deselected, expelled from Party. Shot on the quarterdeck. "Not one of us." 70 years since the publication of 1984 there are useful lessons to be learned still.
I think that we might be back in SDP territory soon too.
Regarding ‘His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular’, he was also, as an old friend once reminded me, a rather accomplished accordion player (bear with it for a moment or two for the ‘live’ action):
https://mobile.twitter.com/observerug/status/838668846789705729
Mr SG I've been a big fan of Idi ever since he offered to send a boatload of oranges to Liverpool so the children wouldn't get scurvy (at the time of some union strike in the 70s). Also, as I think I mentioned a few threads ago, he was British Army heavyweight boxing champ. He had a good sense of humour.
He wasn't young, though, mr mongoose, twenty years ago, so that Albatross won't fly. You would expect him to be badly burnt toast by now and a decent man would have stolen away rather than face the national humiliation but the one thing we have learned from Tracey May is that they would eat shit at a globally televised banquet and ask for seconds rather than give up power or in Spit's case the prospect of it.
The SDP already exists in the form of the Blairites, the Dogshooters and - at a push - the Tribesmen, they just need to unite in the national interest of thwarting what the nation voted for. Didn't Sid come second to Grandpa Jerry, the other day? The mainstreamers must be praying their arsed off that no other sitting bastard dies, forcing another by-election.
He was certainly a gift to satirists, Idi Amin, back when there was satire, mr mike, back before Ian Hislop was bought up the BBC snd I suppose his vile murderosity is only par for the course among African statesmen, a grisly succession of Jerks with Mercs, outdone in kaffir-bashing only by those jolly white Afrikaaner apartheidistas. What a fucking place.
I think your list, mr sg, missed out a couple of bars to the decorations the Field Marshal awarded himself; he was nearly as bad in that respect as our future King, Brian Cockwaver the First, aka His Majesty Brian the Tampon Eater.
ANd so ten of the bastards have cleared the first hurdle and got themselves onto Thursday's first ballot. It is a peculiar form of narcissism that makes a hopeless bastard with no chance sign themselves up so for humiliation. And the favours which must have been promised to the backers just to fall on your face and look an idiot.
The list of "naughtiest things" is truly mortifying. Only Boris stepped up to the plate with his row of gumboots gag. Taking the mickey out of himself and so gently drawing the potential poison that one suspects that a proper wit lurks under the mop. It certainly looks to me that he has had Gove kneecapped this time ahead of the action but we shall see. Gove offering Brexit delay keeps his powder dry and allows the EU to stiff-arm whomever it turns out to be that wins the crown this time around.
In other news, Jnr's lot - though not she - sat an A-level exam today with rain pouring through the roof of the hall and being collected in buckets. No cancellation or fecking about, just "get on with your work". If only MPs did the same.
You’re right Mr I, I think I missed the DSO and bar. Probably would have had fatal consequences at the time...
I'm hoteled-up in Aberdeenshire, mr mongoose, awaiting cardio-fuckery tomorrow, in the Infirmary. In an old country house in 2,500 acres of proper woodland, not Terry Wogan, tax-fiddling Christmas Tree forests, I have not followed what they call the runners and riders but I will go and have a look. I did look at the Mail and the Guardian, online, and both their commenting hordes seem roundly disgusted by the whole shooting match, by Rudd, especially. If only we had a proper Head of State who could intervene in the national interest, instead of this infinite gang of jackals, the Windsor-Ruritanians. I hope you made the yoof watch the Trooping of the Colours, Huw Welshman fawning his arse off, assorted Rupert Golightly-Jockstraps sucking their own cocks in celebration of this crowning moment in their careers. Enough, it was, to make a man renounce his citizenship and embrace statelessness.
The evil that men do lives after them, mr sg, the good is oft interred with their bones. The Field Marshal's only good was his sense of humour and he would probably have had you crushed, for your disrespect, under a packing case full of medals, all stamped Made In Hong Kong.
I am sorry to hear of your trouble, Mr I. My standing advice is to get the fuck out of hospitals as soon as you can - they're full of sick bastards. But then it is easy for me to say.
It seems that the Tories have not learned their lesson. What is the cycle? Denial, anger, bargaining, misery, acceptance? They are still at denial. It iss going though to be a thoroughly sordid and shoddy exercise. Events, dear boy, events. Perhaps Sid will have another aeroplane accident.
Mr I: did you see the picture of some Rupert - all red tunic and gold scrubbing brushes on his shoulders - fall off his horse? Knocked himself out. Good job the gay cavaliers weren't about to go up against Bonaparte. Compare and contrast with the Victory Day parade in Moscow. If it ever comes to a proper punch-up I fear for Her Majesty's finest.
Mr Mike - speaking of parades, as far as I know there was no place for Putin at the D-Day jamboree, while Merkel was present. If we can (just about) see a reason for not inviting Ivan, I would have thought leaving Fritz out of it as well would be entirely sensible.
Hope the cardiac voodoo went well, Mr Ish. Bonne chance et bon courage...
v./
Saw that Mr Verge. The lack of manners was compounded by a "tweet" from Buckingham Palace (since deleted) showing the Queen shaking hands with the "D-Day allies" - including Merkel. The infants are now officially in charge. If Russia had not destroyed over 200 divisions of Germany's finest troops (remember they only went to France for R&R), losing 27 million themselves, then I dare say we would now be conversing in German. I still don't understand why Russia isn't the West's best friends? Probably not diverse enough.
Fucking awful, mr verge, thanks. Six hours pinned immovably to the stenting table, three surgeons poking wires into my arteries from both wrists and my groin. After four hours they said Mebbe we should jack this in and try something else, another day, but then one of them said We should try drilling this rock solid shit out of his artery and that's just what they did, for an hour, a tiny wee drill, battering its way along my right coronary artery. I never felt anything like it, even though I was being drip-fed Fentanyl, I was sure I was going to die. They spent the last hour fitting three stents and now full blood flow is restored. It was a brilliant, inspired job and gruelling as it was I wouldn't hesitate to undergo it all again. Oh, mr verge, the things we endure, merely to stay alive.
Yeck. That sounds unnecessarily exciting, Mr I, but well done and welcome back. You missed nothing except the prep for Boris's coronation tomorrow. Get some popcorn in.
Congratulations Mr I. That sounds bloody awful.
Fucking hell, Mr I , hideous but you must feel exhilarated too. I hope so.
Words can't describe how mediaeval it gets, being completely pinned down for six hours, can't even scratch your nose or wriggle and slightly change your position, and that's before you consider the wires moving through veins and arteries, rubbing and scraping, hour after hour and the possibility of ruptured arteries inside the chest. It really doesn't matter, though, any of it, there's a Zen to it which I developed long ago, an acceptance; the futility of fear and resistance. I'm not saying I like it, the surgeons' trade and tools, just that maybe I like it more than the alternative.
You see, sometimes, the preening avatars of Generation Tw@ with text tattooed on their shoulders or abs; a personal favourite was the silly berk with "we will laugh at gilded butterflies", presumably meant to suggest serene indifference to swank but gloriously betraying a failure somewhere in the chain of thought (the words coming as they do from Lear when he is cradling the corpse of his youngest, freshly murdered daughter.) If I had to follow suit, I might go for Burroughs' "God grant I never die in a fucking hospital". Very pleased to hear you didn't. Welcome back. "Bon courage" was about right, wasn't it? (Apparently there's a French idiom equivalent to "break a leg", which I quite like : merde a la puissance treize. Shit to the thirteenth power. And so sa all of us.)
v./
Medicine has become preoccupied with knowing what *not* to do when you don't know what to do. The horror of it aside, it is good your cardiologists are against the trend.
There's a song, mr verge, on the U-thing by Conor Oberst, I Don't Wanna Die In The Hospital, kinda SteamPunkThrash which is actually quite good and which I hum to myself during every admission, probably from the same Burroughsian source. I am never scared in these situations, that, however, id not the same as bon courage but thank you, anyway. Your Lost Generation guy would probabl smirk, Yes, Lear, the nonsense poet.
Yes, mr tdg, intelligence is what it says, here, on the tin.
The first time I was in a stenting lab - they don't call them theatres - I was nevertheless so struck by the sheer theatricality of it all that I twisted around, insofar as I could, looking for TeeVee cameras. The surgeons snd the patient are covered in X-ray proof materials, observation reports and the number of seconds elapsed during drilling come over a loudspeaker and lights are dimmed or raised depending on the closeness of the surgeons to the monitor screens which display the patient's internals and their work therein. There is always a hubbub of task-related chatter but this time it was a full-on brainstorm. Speaking the following day to one of them I asked, D,you lot enjoy that? He's Polish and so didn't grasp my inflexion until I added hastily Not enjoy as in Fun, Fun, Fun Enjoy as in professional learning curve. Ah, I see, yes, so much; now we know know how to the fuck do that one.
....know how,,,,,
Thanks, mr mongoose and I apologise for my neglect of current affairs. It is just that when I see Laura Skanksberg or John Pienaar or Huw Welshman I am reduced to hopeless, hysterical laughter, Skanksy was playing femme fatale absurde to BoJo in a seedy bar, last time I saw her hatchet face, some cod Brexomentary or other, Huw is eternally fawning his arse off and JP just reminds me of some ancient, bush-beaten H.Rider Haggardian. Nothing would surprise me in this current pantomime of self interest. One of the more bizarre demophobic maxims is that if the People should vote for a Corbyn government then the People, like the Brexiteers, a majority, would be destroying the country and should therefore not, at any cost, be allowed a general election, Jonathan Swift'd struggle to satirise that one.
Thank you, mr mike, we will return to Ivan, when the drugs have worn off.
That's alright, Mr I, you have been busy.
I have been keeping an eye on the news for you anyway. There is a new shit on the block by the name of Rory Stewart. The pompous, deluded oaf thinks that because he came 7th out of 10 in the vote today that he is somehow the People's Champion. Labour for ten minutes, military for seven minutes and now famous for two minutes. Expect him to be gutted like a fish one day very soon. It is going to get very ugly for Boris however. He should hide under the bed and say nowt until the process has been concluded.
I have a wheeze. If there is a GE, Lord Nigel could stand against the Bercow Pig in Buckingham. Who do we think would win that? WHat a pleasure it would be to see the poisonous dwarf displaced by his Moriarty.
Rest up. Get well, mon amis. The world will still be here when you are ready to face it.
WHat a pleasure it would be to see the poisonous dwarf displaced by his Moriarty...
Bloody hell! That'd be fun.
Aye, delicious, BullyBoy Bercow, enraptured by the sound of his own voice. He'd declare a state of national emergency before he allowed Sid to engage in that form of dwarf-tossing, Mrs Tiny Speaker, Skanky Sally'd probably give Sid one during the hustings, if it happened, in fact you know she would; in between gangbanging the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh
Dear Mr Smith, it's good to see you back. I have been an occasional visitor but have been quite busy so missed your return. I still have my old Swiss email address. Am back in the UK now as I found living in France bloody awful after Switzerland and have commitments here.
I am quite enjoying it, apart from the weather.
Welcome back indeed MrIsh, it has been a bleak couple of years since you last helped us to make sense of a world that has lost any sense it had.
Of course, it's even worse than that for Rory. He isn't,as I called him, the People's Champion; he's Parliament's Champion. All the cant about sovereignty - a sovereignty he is quite happy to have lodged behind Juncker's gimp grin - and the sily bastard hasn't yet worked out that he has just made himself the enemy of the people. Fucking bonehead. A gift to the cartoonists though.
King Nigel could just stay quiet and slip his papers into Buckingham ten mintes before the deadline. Too late for any malarkey to upset the symbolic applecart. Anyone got his phine number?
Several times I've nearly put a hundred quid on Rory Stewart, too late now I suppose but maybe.
Yo, mr english swiss bob. I was just saying, the other day, how very dull it is these days on order-order, unlike when you and I were boys, and then someone here said everyone had moved over to yours. Iwas quite overwhelmed by your numbers and the range of topics. I will come for a longer visit. Hope all is well with your family and home circs.
Thank you, mr gasky, a bit handicapped presently by post-op stuff but will get up a head of steam soon
Dang me! That stenting table Mr I, you’re made of stern stuff - I’ve been through some pretty rough stuff, but that - dunno if I could have handled it... But I’m glad you did! Strangely, I had the same thought about Rory, weird as he is - more Druid than politician - maybe his destiny lies elsewhere.
Unwillingly, I find myself somewhat sympathetic to intrepid Rory. He can read and write which is good, and he has some breadth of reference. Would he turn out like the hologram mass-murderer, Blair? No, I think Rory has an actual moral dimension and - pushing it a bit, I know - he has the quality I find precious as I grow older: grace, albeit with more than a touch of ambitious madness admixed.
It's the reading and writing bit that hits me first though; he has a mind, a very good one, and that is a blessed relief.
Boris is a bastard but has a fine mind too despite the caricatures of the self-deluding left. And he's on the right side of Brexit.
This will be the final pairing, I hope, and I want Johnson to win. But if it were Rory, I would not want to kill myself and others.
I think that Boris can expect the bulk of the hard Brexit vote on Tuesday. That's near 200 of them, I reckon. The only way to stop him is a political hit. I think that he would be wise go easy on the Farage rhetoric and plan for a electoral alliance in the autumn. A thousand year reich beckons. Labour splits into trots and Chukas. Oblivion finally achieved after three tries.
Yes, Rory is different but he just cocked it up, and he should mind his Ps and Qs, and stop talking about his mum. It's weird.
Johnson shoud also know that Brexiit will kill him too. It's not dark yet but it's getting there. The Remoaners will never forgive or forget. So he may as well achieve it. Free of the need to toe the line of the big government EU paradigm, we would then see a new breed of them. Who is for the country and who is for the people? The old choice. The rest can be ignored and removed by time - Cable, Hammond, Letwin, Yvette, Thornberry, Grieve, and three hundred others.
Yeah, you could, mr sg, it's not a matter of bravery but acceptance and just creating a place of retreat,
behind your mind's eye, out of the storm. If I can do it anyone can do it.
Before your time here, I think, mr bungalow bill but when Rory Boneyface first appeared on the radar I said, for the reasons which you present, above, that he would oust or otherwise succeed the clodhopping, indolent thicko, Cameron; mass scramblings for the Brexit nets - an indication in themselves of Cameron's maladroit, cowardly stupidity - have granted succession opportunities to fools and clowns and charlatand of every stripe and on every side from the IcePixie, Cooper,, to the lunatic virgin, Widdecombe and from Tracey May to Oily Saj; never seen so many grotesque main chancers outside Wormwood Scrubs. I don't lightly dismiss mr mongoose's assessment of these personalities insofar as the political cards fall but I do believe that Stewart is the least disagreeable of a repulsive and wholly untrustworthy crew. Time'll tell if, like Rooster Cogburn, Rory Boneyface is a man of True Grit.
As I mentioned, frere mongoose, I haven't been watching all this, can't even remember what it was that I came here to get away from. This is the very depths of showbusiness, there should be some Reverse Oscars available - and Tracey May wins the Oscar for the most self-degrading performance ever given by a middle-aged vicar's daughter, from fiery Grenfell to patronising Brussels Tracey scaled the depths of sel-loathing, there was no shit that Tracey wouldn't slurp in order to cling by her ancient talons to that glorious stage.......
There is traction in a BoJo/Sid pact of the Right and it reflects the temper of the wider, European time. I think that almost since Wilson's gang of nepotistic thieves whoever has been wearing labour's clothes has filled the trousers with shit and sewn diamante epaulettes on the shoulders. Labour is done, just look at Scotland, its birthplace, gifted to tribal fascist bullyboys. Corbyn had a chance, a window but he proved gutless, a would-be joint-architect of the far-centre and now, thanks to his allotment committee meeting ruminations, Labour's streets -and ours- are filled with rubble.
Meanwhile, over in the Land of Saints, the latest halfwit Taoiseach is allowing hatred of the Brits, and a preposterous overvaluation of his strength, to set a fair course on to the rocks. Why does that country inflict such posing, destructive frauds upon itself? Actually, I couldn't care less; no more do I for the Sturgeon ninnies (your own sweet acre will have to be towed around to a suitably agreeable site, Mr I) if they eventually decide that they want away.
I do not necessarily approve of the process, but England is starting to awake and its power is still great.The neighbouring gnats and midges should think on.
Go lightly from that ledge, Mr I, Rory is not the one you need. They are trying to get the populist genie back in the establishment bottle with a new boy, a young one. He is a cipher, a spook's man. Constantly wittering about what his mum, and his dead dad's mates, expect of him.
Populism, of course, is what people want when they're not listening closely enough to daddy. When politics is managerial, a lifeless triangulation and trimming, there is no enthusiasm and therefore nothing is popular, or populist. Even the word is cant. Every now and again, when enough people get sick of it all, things can get out of hand. A pretence is now required to reset the switch. Unfortunately Brexit and the betrayal is now not appeasable by sleight of hand. Saint Nigel might burn the whole fucking thing down. Free trade with the USA? Are you fucking bonkers, mongoose? What will we do without our dollar for pound mark-up? It's a lot of money.
I suspect Sid is dead. Peterborough was a disaster for him and if Boris gets in what is his point ? He's a rum fucker after all: full of it, but constitutionally unable to put his neck on the block by ever standing for proper election.
You're right. Mr I, there is cause to worry about Rory's mad-shaped head; i suspect he does too much running or deprives himself of wholesome foods. His teeth are alarming in any event. Shouldn't, on balance, debar him though, nor should some quaint Oedipal tendencies; he is not Prince Hamlet.
Oh the joy if Boris comes through; he will profoundly annoy all the right sorts.
All of the aboves are accurate and I read them with much humility, their permutations too subtle to have been mine. Rightism, populism call it any name you like does come with echos of the trains and the camps, of eugenics and euthanasia but also comes heedless of its own planetary backdrop, of plague, of water and energy and food wars, of billion-strong migrations; those so focussed on gaining power that they have no inkling of what they are going to be in charge of. There is a not so slow train a-coming which will not be halted by these juvenile mewlings and pukings. The gay taoiseach, the hate-maddened first minister; the grab-a-granny Frog premier; the cruel, slope-eyed Chink Chairman, do they even know about the planet on which they stage their petty melodramas? Could they, mesmerised by themselves, ever know?
On a more local note, however, BoJo may give Nicky Krankie the short shrift which she is long overdue, she cannot, actually, declare UDI and if she did there would be blood and UN/Euro troops on the street.
Did you forget leftism between rightism and populism, Mr I? Please tell me that you did.
Outside of you and me I dunno what leftism is any more, mr mongoose. The left are now all like Mussolini, with tattoos and buttplugs.
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