Well, Marr had persisted in goading Bojo about the pigs: 120,000 pigs to be killed and incinerated in 10 days' time if Bojo doesn't solve the driver crisis - to which he responded:
|Not the finger!|
Since Sarah Everard's abduction, rape and death at the hands of a serving police officer, jocularly known to his colleagues as "the Rapist" whose habit of exposing himself and driving semi-naked was widely known; 79 women have been murdered. That was only six months ago. In the last five years, 26 police officers have been convicted of sex offences. Between 2009 and 2021, 16 women have been murdered by serving or retired police officers. 13 of them were killed by a current or former partner, one by a social acquaintance, one by her son and one, Sarah Everard, by a stranger. Violence against women and children by police officers that falls short of murder includes domestic violence, rape, voyeurism with hidden cameras, the accessing and making of child pornography, taking and circulating offensive photographs of female murder victims, dismissive and disbelieving attitudes towards women who report rape, and a locker room culture that supports colleagues when women report crime. The term "thin blue line" refers to the concept of the police as the line which keeps society from descending into violent chaos. Increasingly, it is becoming understood that the police are a part of and perpetuate that violent chaos. The blue wall of silence refers to the code among police officers not to report a colleague's errors, misconducts, or crimes, including police brutality, and, when questioned, to perjure themselves by feigning ignorance of another officer's wrongdoing.
"We are driven to the conclusion that either senior officers were quite extraordinarily naive, totally unquestioning or chose to turn a blind eye to conduct which was, certainly in the case of [Kennedy], useful to the operation," the Tribunal added.
mrs ishmael's note:
THE TURD MAN 16/11/2010
`A compelling account of the New Labour years...nearly every page is illuminating.' --Steve Richards, Independent
`He has written a good book...informative, clear and containing refreshing doses of self-knowledge, occasional regret and thoughtfulness.' --Andrew Marr, Financial Times
`A revealing and important book by a more winning individual than I had expected to encounter.' --Matthew Parris, Spectator
`The Third Man contains enough gossip, intrigue and scandal to keep the cognoscenti titillated...there are valuable nuggets scattered throughout.' --Peter Hain, New Statesman
`An utterly absorbing read, a rich and satisfying page-turner ...this is a vital book, and a pleasure to read.'
--John McTernan, Scotsman
`A very good book...fluently written and substantial, this is a serious book by a serious man.' --Matthew d'Ancona, Sunday Telegraph
`Mandelson has added heavily to the sum total of political knowledge...The Third Man is well-written, pacier in parts than others, particularly those where the author deals with the psychodrama of which he was an integral part...a significant contribution to our understanding of the Labour years.'
--Philip Webster, The Times.
Shit, innit, all of it, fucking rubbish, a nuisance, like pisstain on trouser of History. - the Polish Plumbers' Weekly.
I doubt that any of these critics read Mandelstein's book, apart from me, it's nearly six hundred fucking pages. Maybe Marr got one of his unofficial wives or children to read it for him, maybe Matthew Dreary read it whilst cruising Clapham Common but it is hard to imagine any of these bozos reading every word of every page, as well as all the other books which they are paid to review; no, it's bollocks. I read at slighlty above the average rate - 300wpm and with a comprehension rate of 90%, considerably higher than average - and I couldn't finish this in a week.
This is a book which suffocates the reason. Mandelstein does not - cannot - ever consider the possibility that he may have been wrong, personally or politically or that his birth into privilege may have blighted normal judgement, that a spoiled Momma's boy like he would only ever view the world as his personal plaything.
Every aspect of his pampered existence is blessed, his wonderful parents - a pair of pushy political toads - his wonderful grandfather, a postwar, minor Labour figure and more very dear friends than one could count; excellent school, blissful holidays, feasting at Oxford with shitbag luminaries like David Aaronobitch, media sinecures, divine meals, scintillating conversations with important people - in short an utter fucking waster, never done a day's work in his life, good for fuck all; much in common, one suspects, with the turd polishers above, all, one way or another, sucking the Murdoch Knob of World Domination.
Mandelstein sees nothing awry in he and two co-conspirators, Brown and Blair, spinning, as he tells it, old Labour out of existence, is entirely unapologetic about lying, as a matter of course, to journalists - many of them, of course, like Jon Snow, the insufferable Job-For-Life arsehole at Channel Four News, very dear friends - because he was, and how could he be other, doing it in the national interest, it was in the national interest that he and Brown and Blair piss all over the country, all he had ever wanted to do was serve the best interests of the country.
Slithering up - and down - the greasy pole, Mandelstein describes his cronies as dear friends, as if their mutual back-scratching, pocket-lining and cocksucking was thus made noble, all the Labour luvvies seriously relaxed about people being filthy rich, especially themselves. How much was it, again, that the ridiculous ClearBlue John Birt charged us, via the BBC, for his wisdom and skill?
It has long been an article of faith, here, that the NewLabour Project was devised and executed by four seriously aberrant, disturbed individuals, well placed, by accident and media, to suborn normal political checks and balances and to be panderers to a media long past shame. Mandelstein and poor, drunken, bullying, depressive, closet gay, Big Al Campbell, played pass the shit parcel with Truth.
mr ishmael and stanislav's essays today are:
"Why don't you write a book, my friend said to me, for forty years. There's enough books, don't need any more fucking books, books're the last thing we need more of. The last time he asked, a couple of years back, I wanted to say Well, in a sense, I have, it's called stanislav, a young Polish plumber."