WOTSONTELLY. THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS BERCOW, MR TINY SPEAKER AT LARGE.

I WANNA TELL YOU A STORY....

If evidence was required of the over-confidence, the braggadocio of short people, it is copiously littered around the mini-person  of Mr Tiny Speaker.  Shamelessly self-publicising since his election by the Westminster vermin as their moderator and mentor, Tiny John Bercow  stole a march on the Coalition's Deputy PM, Nicky Gimp,  by actually standing for election as a Great Reformer and not becoming one by turncoat default; whereas Cleggie has trimmed and tacked and sought to mask his shabby betrayals in nobility and  great purpose, the Shrunken One  has promised us all along that  - even if he needed to stand on something - he would be in our faces  at every opportunity, reforming. Reform, it's the New, New Rock'n'Roll; although, in the finest tradition of the Establishment, reform stops short of actually changing anything and the biggest criminals - the cops, the accountants, the medics, the noncing monsignors and the filth in Westminster - remain convinced of their incontrovertible right, their unique suitability to investigate and police themselves, even occasionally striking one another off but seldom subject to normal jurisprudence, Bercow, smugly, self-evidently part of the rottenness problem, casts himself as the newbroom solution, hithering and thithering, gobbing away, motormouthing at any camera within range.

The last Speaker of the House of Commons,

Mr Michael Martin, made such a dog's  bollocks of things - disastrous even by the dismal standards of stupefyingly incompetent parliamentary gabshites - that, exceptionally, he was forced to resign, albeit to the House of Lords and to a luxuriant, definitely inaustere pension.

Martin was the sort of pig which only Glasgow, among all our urban swineries, can produce - bitter, stupid, truculent, greedy, sticky-fingered, with a fathomless sense of grievance. Somebody less of a cunt than Martin would have inspired public sympathy, what  with his cack-handed incompetences, his stuttering, often blubbering, hoodlum imprecations,  his half-wit calls  to order; were it only his backwardness which irked, that would be one thing but his shameless bias towards his own party, particularly towards unelected premier, Snot,  and the sense of whining entitlement with which he and the Mrs raided the petty cash became another, too much, even, for the vermin to tolerate and when it emerged that not only had he allowed the Filth to trespass among the offices which dare not speak their name but had also tried to shift the blame to some equally useless, poisonous  but junior bint then the amour propre in the snake pit was affronted beyond endurance and dishonourables and right dishonourables were queuing-up to kick Gorbals Mick in his shrivelled nuts; mealy-mouthed, lickspittle, two-faced cowardice on all sides, if that spectacle did nothing else, it at least diverted attention from themselves momentarily, as though the fat old duffer, gurning there,  on the throne, was responsible, actually, for all their own graft,  their fixings and fiddlings and flippings. Here, in this dodgy old lousebag, was the supreme villain; here, doing his masters' bidding, too stupid to breathe, was the true  cause of all this troughing;  let us only be rid of him and all will be well again. But no criminal charges or  jail, fuck me, no; where would that end, they might wind-up throwing all our arses in the Scrubs; and how would that help Democracy?

Along with Tony and Imelda receiving a gallantry bauble from the despicable, wife-beating, coke-snorting, dipsomaniac, draft-dodging, thieving, Anabaptist, fuckpig moron, George Dubya, may Satan's Angels thrust fiery brands up his arse until the end of time,

the beasting of Mick Martin, jumped-up union bruiser, by better educated but equally venal colleagues is one of those images - thieves turning on each other - which, far more vividly  than the clunking, laboured efforts of queening Simon Schama or of  the dullard, Know-It-All, Victor Bogdanov  illustrates the rankness of the NewLabour Project.

You don't need telly historians or  puffed-up Oxbridge wankers to help you read the runes;  so rotten was the NewLabour Party that it balked not even at installing a bent Speaker, was unembarrassed by his dismissal, the first since, well, whenever, Google Knows, several centuries. Tiny Wee John Bercow, his head near as big as his pigmy frame, had  the same quality. therefore,  which squeaked Obama into the White House - he wasn't the previous motherfucker.

Except for the uncomfortable fact that the Wee Fella was a house flipper

Bercow was as different  as it was possible to be from Martin; he ran a public campaign to be Speaker  and wasn't elected by the knowing whispers and secret handshakes which hitherto had governed these things but the public, who pay his lavish stipend, of course, had no say in the matter of who adjudicates the reptile house, that would be a reform too farsuch lofty decisions being a matter for the grubby preferences  of the conscienceless, thieves, fraudsters, organised criminals, choosing their own Capo, commanding, how do they put it, the full confidence of the House, Jesus fucking wept. A Thoroughly Modern Would-be Speaker, ShortArse published a manifesto and made speeches. And he was a Tory bastard, although loved more by LabourToryBastards than by his own spiv species and happy to be Gordon Snot's Man In The Throne as the  mad bastard growled on, remorselessly, fuelled by mania, guilt,  bombast, assailed by a Cabinet of blackmailers, pimps  and worthless, cowardly slags - .....As we, on these benches, Mr Tiny Speaker, having saved the world, implement the very necessary reforms to our system which the party opposite  should support, instead of always calling me a mad, snot-eating lunatic when, in fact, Mr Tiny Speaker, I am the right thing for the country.

Effortlessly  outshining the terminally tarnished Martin, Bercow ruthlessly  advanced  the parliamentary imperative, which was pretending that despite all the evidence of our eyes and ears,  it was one or two bad apples, really, this expenses thing, this second and third job thing, that was all,  one or two bad apples, everything was in hand, everything was  sorted, let's get back to the important business of engaging, diverting the nation with our four-yearly ferstival of competitive promises and musical chairs. And he has been brilliant. Where Young Socialist, Jack Torture, as Lord Chancellor, preened, visibly delighted with himself,  in black stockings and buckled shoes, in gown and wig and sash, all frillies and purses and train-bearers, Wee John, as Speaker, has knocked all that on the head and just wears an undergrad gown over his TinySuit. Where previous Speakers have been reluctant to  cut short members' drivellings, the Wee Fella just stops them dead and insists on short questions and short answers.  Under the Gang of Four, government policy announcements were as often as not made to Richard and Judy, TeeVee's First Couple of Shoplifting, rather than to the nation's parliament, Bercow has reinvigorated the practice of the Urgent Question, via which members' can demand  a personal  explanation from  ministers so offending.  But that's about it.

In his recent  speech to the grandly titled Centre for Parliamentary Studies, televised currently on the BBC Parliament Channel, Bercow modestly related his formidable Speakering achievements and personal qualities. Listing five areas of concern - members' expenses, members' overlong holidays, members' disgraceful moonlighting, members' absence from the Chamber and the unseemly, noisesome conduct of Prime Minister's Questions, Tich pronounced himself satisfied with the remedial action taken on the first four;  the public, he grinned, ordinary people, out there in ordinaryland, were now much happier, confidence in he and his rotten, thieving bastard chums, colleagues, was flooding back into public discourse, and especially so, now that we had a Coalition.  His remaining concern though and the burden of his First Out Of The Stocks Mixed Metaphors Speech - read, quaintly, word for cheesy word, split infinitives and malapropisms abounding, from a text clutched to his miniscule bosom, no autocue, no extemporisation - was the need to Reform PMQs, their length, their frequency and who actually gets to ask them, which colleagues; without a review of these important issues we were all fucked, so to speak, and him particularly.  It's the shouting and the partisanship and the heckling, the public dowanna see that; and the planted questions and the arselicking, no, it's not good TeeVee. And that's what the people need if they are to participate in the New Democracy.

During his twenty minutes or so peroration the wee man delighted his audience with uncannilly accurate impersonations of the dunderhead Martin and the truth-free zone, Blair and having warmly congratulated himself in advance of the applause, sat down, beaming.  Questions, said the effusive chairman-anorak, would be taken in clusters of three, thay'd cover more ground that way but either Mr Tiny Speaker had anticipated all questions and  answered them, without them being asked or the crowd, mostly timid-looking nerds and minor officials, didn't give a fuck about the Bercowisation of PMQs, for only a handful of questions came in lonesome ones, rather than eager threes; desperate for audience participation, Bercow invited all to ask him anything they wanted to, he worked for them, after all, or so he said. Part Redcoat, part bingo-caller,  Bercow is too stupid to realise that in his rush to make Speakering into  Showbiz he trashes what little mystique and respect remained in his Office, after the depradations of Gorbals Mick; revealingly, too, he submitted that if colleagues were given a payrise we in Ordinaryland might expect them to then concentrate full-time on the job for which they have prostrated themselves; a cheap trick, a gobby, cliche-bound, money-grubbing little prick, Bercow  is truly representative of  colleagues, as he insist on calling Ruin's C|ollective.

A wee while back the dreadful, tiresome, Murdoch bumboy,

Portillo, asked of Mrs Speaker if she thought her invitation to the sewer of This Week was due to her own talents or to her husband's postition; well, of course, it helps,

she blustered, to get me on, but if I'm no good, you won't have me back.

Of course we'll have you back,  smirked the BBC's Mr Politics, Andrew Neil, louche

and fetchingly tieless at midnight, the prick. And he will. Mr and Mrs Tiny Speaker, two fuckwits in search of bread and  glory, emblematic of the New Politics.

All the sins washed away in the tide of coalition, CallHimDave on the fiddle but paid it back the very instant he was found out, the Speaker on the fiddle, the prime minister on the fiddle, the shadow cabinet moonlighting, the cabinet flipping singly and en famille, over-claiming, wrongly claiming, cabinet ministers flogging their contacts while still in office; brilliant lawmakers, senior law officers, in fact,  incapable of double entry book-keeping, estranged from the diffference between right and wrong, it's wrong when someone from ordinarywhere does it but an understandable mistake when a parliamentary slag does it, a handful of outsiders scapegoated but the overwhelming majority untouched as though Colonel von Fawkes and the Filth-O-Graph   has been assiduously publishing racing tips, instead of evidence which damned executive; legislature and the upper house for a bunch of cheap cocksuckers. And now, now  this gobby wee midget telling us all is well, now, sorted;  where you and I would have been jailed and castigated by Murdoch's skymadeupnewsandfilth, six hundred serial wrongdoers retire to pastures green or worse than that, foist themselves on us in rancid tandem, determined that we shall be punished for daring to question them.

If you get the chance, take a peek at Mr Tiny Speaker, sashaying down Ruin's High Road, pleased as punch, garlanded with self-esteem and the thanks of his partners in crime.

LATEST IN A LONG LINE OF THIEVING POWER COUPLES, 

WEE JOHN AND THE WITCH OF THIS WEEK. BLESS.

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOWBUSINESS.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. Coalition confusion as Nick Clegg tells Commons that the Iraq war was illegal The invasion of Iraq was illegal, Nick Clegg has declared throwing into confusion the Coalition Government's policy.

COALITION ILLEGAL, SAYS NICKY THE GIMP,

DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER

Standing-in for his master at Master's Questions Time, Mr Nicky Gimp, formerly of the Liberal Democrats, accused himself of acting illegally in leading the country illegally into an illegal coalition. Millions of lives will be damaged by this act. Am I proud of myself? Of course I am. Would I have done anything to stand at this Despatch Box and talk complete bollocks whilst my former colleagues looked on in stunned embarrassment, or looked the other way in shame as I cheered policies exactly opposite to my own? Of course I would. This is the New Politics, Mr Tiny Speaker. People may not like it.  I don't like it. And when I get home at night to my darling Maria Elena Consuela Theresa Tortilla Pancho de Los Angeles do I get enfolded on her warm Spanish Paellas? No, of course I don't. Por favor, Nicky, you are not the same man I married, you are 'ow you say, a deesgusting fucking pervert, who let another hombre tie eem the fuck up and wheep hees arse, Ole, Santa Maria, Madre de Dios  and so on,  that's what I get. But let's be clear about something, throwing people out of work, slashing their living standards, chastising, slandering,  belittling  them  and generally acting like a spiteful, deceitful little turd is exactly what I came into politics to do. Am I incompetent? Well, it's a question I often ask myself, as I lick the soles of the Prime Minister's shoes, and the answer is always the same -   Does the Pope Shit In the Woods?

My party, Mr Tiny Speaker, my party, I would remind subs and doms on all sides of the dungeon, I mean house, my party, the one I used to be in before I took up my nationally important gimp duties, was the only party opposed to this illegal coalition. And that's why we are in it. And I commend myself to anyone still listening.

FLASHMAN OVER AFGHANISTAN.

Remember chaps,dulce et decorum est pro obama mori, 

as we say in the better schools.

 Speaking as a military man, I can only echo what Mr Ishmael said rccently that the right way to conduct a war is to pay our enemies  vast sums of money to fight alongside us against themselves and shoot us when we're not looking, this is a brilliant, groundbreaking strategy. And this coalition will continue to press for it, it may be stupid, it may be unpopular. But it's what I came into politics for. 

It is only by building-up the Afghani forces with our taxpayers' money that we will be able to achieve this remarkable feat; the alternative is to spend the money on poor and sick people at home and that is simply not what I came into politics for. And if it doesn't work we can always blame the other side. Even though we supported them in getting into this shitstorm in the first place. It's what I and Mr Gimp came into politics to do.

And now a word from my batman, Lance corporal Clegg.

Rt Hon Mr Nicky Gimp, MP.

Thank you, Master. Well,  people may say that my party was opposed to the two old parties, both of which are younger than my party, and their wars against working class people all over the world but that was  before my master  offered me a job as HM Principal Gimp and so it doesn't matter. If Coalition policy results in our troops, to whom we all....blah blah blah....being shot in their beds by the people thay are supposed to be helping well that's a price well worth them paying so's I can continue playing the Gimp. It may be stupid, it may be unpopular and nobody voted for it but it's what I came into politics for. The Liberal Democrats are entirely opposed to the occupation of Afghanistan, apart from when it's necessary to usher in  the New Politics, in which you won't be able  get rid of me.  Vote Yes in the S & M referendum.

MR ERIC PIES ON THE NEW NIGGERS

MR ERIC PIES, MP

HM SECKATRY OF STATE FOR BULLYING

.

 Mr Pies, above, an obscenely fat, simpering I-Know-Bester,  is bent on attacking not his chums in the counting houses, the pinstripe spivs, the banker brigands but instead in personally attacking ordinary council workers, whose jobs, he feels, are superfluous, well, he would know about superfluous, the horrible bloated cunt. 

Mr Pies, with an eye to the fucked-up  sado-masochists who bethrong the  Filth-O-Graph message boards - shame on you, Mr Dark Seid, shame on you  - raging and drooling in paroxysms of hatred for niggers and wimmen, for children, for the old - as though, somehow, their own bilious fuckwit horde was not itself aged, sustaining itself only with scattergun rage and frenzied masturbation, you know them, all the heroic, scholarly  he-men at order-order who wouldn't, bless their shrivelled little cocks, ejaculate over Jackie Schmidt no matter how she begged for their rank, putrid  semen - this gang of pathetic, cowardly, moronic nutters, these freaks,  these phony patriots, these keyboard warriors,  sexist, racist  Nazis,  these tosspots  are Mr Pies' constituency.  And how they must love his vile, coarse idotic rabble-rousing.

This gross, revolting, contemptible piece of shit, shored-up - and at two or three times  his proper weight, he takes some fucking shoring-up -  shored-up by by Nicky Gimp's toilet men, this blubberturd  has turned his ministerial fire on defenceless, ordinary people, enraged, he is, the greedy fat cunt, by some of the pointless jobs they do. He's going to name and shame them is Fat Eric  criticising positions such as “audience development officers”, “cheerleading development officers” and “communications waste strategy officers”. 

Anybody'd think these people had written ludicrous instruments of greed which beggared so many, only nor their authors, anybody'd think these people had got together with with banks and indistrialists and put their names oin the letterheads in exchange for a hundred grand or two, Mr Hague; anybody'd think that these people had gone on  free foreign trips, not just once but countless times, exploiting their positionS as public servants; anybody'd think these people had insisted that they needed taxpayer-funded second homes, even though they didn't.  No, these people did far worse than that, they applied for jobs which were advertised and did them. Fucking diabolical, qualiffies them to be among the NewJews.

Now I don't know about audience development officers but if we can pay that gobby wanker, Mark Thompson, at the BBC a million pounds a year, for him to pay Jonafun Arse SEVEN million pounds a year it seems quite reasonable that we pay a fraction of that sum to one whose task is to  publicise and promote and facilitate public access to the wealth of industrial, artistic and cultural history contained in museums and galleries up and down the land; it's what I would call Civilisation, priceless, really. And even if it wasn't,  it ill behoves a loathsome and utterly worthless parasite like Pickles to denigrate those whose only sin is to seek to work.

Pickles though and his gang of savage, pompous cocksuckers will happily see disabled people made more ill, the cold elderly made more chill;  he and his volunteer crew will rejoice at lives shattered, hopes dashed and the lunatic wankers at order-order and the Filth-O-Graph will wet themselves in joy, until Pickles' remedies assault their own, turgid, wee realities.  There are regiments of them, still prostrate beneath Thatcher's heel, still insisting she was a great influence, when she wasn't even a decent parent which is what, in this  buggered, fucked-up, ruined landscape,  the average “audience development officer”  is trying to be.

wiki has this to say, inter alia, about the troughing, vindictive lard mountain, Pickles:

On 26 March 2009, Pickles appeared on the political debate programme Question Time in Newcastle upon Tyne. While discussing the controversy over Tony McNulty (who had recently admitted claiming expenses on a second home, occupied by his parents, only 8 miles away from his primary residence), Pickles admitted he claimed a second home allowance because he lived 37 miles from Westminster and needed to leave his constituency house in Brentwood at 5.30am in order to get to Westminster for 9.30am,^[7][8] given that he tended to get home at midnight or 1am, although the standard time for commuters from this region is usually ninety minutes.^[9] He went on to say that it was "no fun" commuting into London from where he lived. In response to Pickles's comments that he "had to be there [the House of Commons] on time", Question TimeDavid Dimbleby replied """  Like a job, in other words?" 

prompting amusement amongst the audience.

 

There were also remarks from the audience about nurses and firemen etc. having to commute across London and get to their jobs on time and having to do without a second home.

You've gotta understand, I'm a fat greedy pig.

FROM TODAY'S GUARDIAN

"So what's going on? Here's my theory. David Cameron, Nick Clegg and friends have tapped into some strain of sadism in the national psyche that enjoys talking about pain, as long as it's someone else's. The fuzzy optimism is the assumption that other people will now take the hit, some other group, who somehow deserve what's coming to them."

 So says Jackie Ashley, the Official Wife of Mr Andrew Marr, former fluffer pursuivanmt to Prime Minister Snot.

See Ishmael's  previous. S & M Britain for Mrs Marr's inspiration.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE DAILY ISHMAEL.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

HEROES FOR FUCK ALL.

 

Col  Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap,  the British military spokesman in Helmand, said: “It is with great sadness I must inform you that four soldiers were killed last night in northern Nahr-e Saraj, Helmand Province. They were part of a team that was travelling to assist in an incident at a nearby check point when they were killed in a vehicle incident. They will be sorely missed and their actions will not be forgotten. We will remember them. What were their names, again?”

This Afghanistan bollocks, feted as unlikely to see a shot fired in anger by its author, Mr Lord John Glasgow, the infamous drunk, pothead and sexual  bully, has now harvested the souls of three hundred and seven service persons  and the limbs and senses of thousands more; it has, furthermore, acclimatised the nation to the sight of Army Widows and Army MotherWidows, not to mention tellystruck  ArmyAunties, - arentchasicktodeathovem -  insisting that Mark or Wayne loved what he was doing and was happy to spill his guts for whichever worthless bandit was being puppeteered by the White House;delighted, he was, thrilled and honoured,  to die, legless, screaming, so that Mustapha or Ahmed  coud ride off on his rusty Toyota to vote in some utterly pointless, rigged election, Yeah, Mum, I'm totally made-up to be part of organised crime on such a grand scale, so don't you worry, If I should die, think only this of me, that I believed any old shite they told me.

Well, Mum, I'm fed up with all this  fucking sentimental rubbish, if you're happy to see your sons and occasionally daughters crippled and wasted for propaganda,  you can  be happy on your own, you and Huw Welshman, you and the prime mninsiter and his gimp, every Wednesday, namechecking the dead.

You know how these things go, Mum.. Ah, yes, we did promise not to raise VAT/leave Afghanistan but now we know the full facts of what a fuck-up it is we're just gonna have to leave Ahmed to his own devices, after all; we are all in this together, apart from Ahmed of course - or Yes, of curse we don't do deals with the IRA, that's why we let them all out of prison and put them in govament, your sons, yes of course they are still heroes, just heroes for fuck all. 

Still, the world as orchestrated by skymadeupnewsandfilth, loves a martial cliche.   For boys drowning, terrified in the dark, hampered by webbing and weapons,  merely for Obama's election purposes and for the opportunistic soundbiting of idle filth like CallHimDave or Bob The Cunt AInsworth, and who's this new buttoned-up, constipated arsehole, wotsisname, FoxKnowsBest,

DR FILTH, SECRETARY OF STATE FOR BUDGETWARSULIKE,  RELAXES AT HOME


another fucking diploma-waving, Call-Me-Doctor doctor, naturally endowed with the wisdom of Solomon, the courage of Alexander the Great, the acuity of Clausewitz; another shifty, Tory closet fag, another ranting megalomaniac, like that other noisy bastard, Rifkind; Jesus where do these freaks spring from, are they bred in some mad S&M laboratory, bottle-fed sterness and cruelty, tutored in condescension and the humiliation of others, pain and degradation their lullaby; horrible fucking bastards;  and the Labour Partry, les Internationalistes, falling all over each other in their rush to napalm the Muslim working classes all across the Middle East and Southern Asia; how did that happen, how is it that from Cuba to Kathmandu our land, our people, have become a byword for atrocity; well, that's, for me and the boys drowning, a martial cliche too far.

How is it that now we damn the old to exhaustion, penury and hypothermia we still maintain vast numbers of expensively trained people on a Fool's errand, shovelling ever more costly materiel into Failure's abyss? Is there nothing, in this Broken Society, no repair,
which a regiment or two might effect, now that we must retreat, chastened and scourged, to the nineteen-twenties? Can't we do something with them, other than have them blown to bloody bits?

How is it that here, in the future, nineteenth century fantasies of Regiment and Corps of dulce et decorum est pro patria mori so vigourously survive? If these customs are suborned to cheap Blimping, to a  trumped-up  cassus belli, to a strategy of torture and kidnap, a tactic in which our side pays and trains the other side to attack us and to a high command more attuned to the power of the telegenic soundbite than to the folly of the mission, then these customs grow hollow and their practitioners may not always  sing a Warrior's song.  And from Londonderry to Baghdad, too often, a darker refrain sounds. Armies should fight armies, not civilians, which is what we have been doing since Shock and Awe, seeding the fortunes of Tony and Imelda, corroding the values and traditionss of our armed forces;  the managerialists, the I-Know-Besters, the SpivULikes, everything they touch turns to shit.

The first time, at least, fighting the fuzzy-wuzzies, there were interests of Empire at stake, now there is just politicking.  Barely out of the Cold War we have been plunged into a new state of constant warfare, George Dubya's  War Of Endless Terror, Gordon Brown's War To Keep Safe The British Street,  CallHimDave's War Of Staying In Office, Obama's War Of I'm In Charge.  For the militarists it couldn't be better, an invisible, infinite army of enemy Others, hiding under the bed, behind the curtains, they're everywhere, in the East, in the West, even though we can't see them we're gonna be fighting them forever.  Just like the Communists. Only better.

Well, said Lord Reid truculently on Radio Glasgow,

these yins drowned, did they no', in the fucking canal, so I wis right, they didnae die frae a shot fired in anger, so there, bollocks and Ah'm  the first Trotskyist peer in history so you better watch oot or Ah'll be gi'ing ye the famous Glasgow Emroidery Lesson (Can Ye Sew?  Vicious Headbutt. Well Stitch That, Then.) No, we owe these lads a great debt of gratitude, we who'd rather go in prison than go soldiering, and we're no' gonnae pay it, nae fuckin' way, if they wisnae oot fightin' fer Queen and country, they'd only be on the dole. Not like me, one of Labour's great men. And very rich, thank you. Service life? Me? No, I sincerely never  believed in armies. See You, Jimmy, if you dinnae watch oot I'll be roond yer hoose at midnight, bawling up that I'm gonnae fuck yer mrs, like I did wi' that Dawn Primarolo.  Aye, I ken, a dog, but I was pished

John Reid and Geoff Hoon and Jack Torture and Tony&Imelda; cardboard, cut-out generals, generations of Ruperts, mouthing their master's voice, that's what Armed Forces Day celebrates; that ludicrous, idle, pampered gabshite, Windsor, sponge, nonce and incompetent, taking the fucking salute, the BBC commentators wetting themselves with sincerity;
 
some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, of Hector and Lysander and such great names as thes, but of all the World's  great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow row row row row row row, to the Britsh Grenadiers.

And  that's why we piss 'em away in others' Wars of Empire, throw them in jail when homelessness and unemployment and the drink are the price they pay for service..

Now, God help us, Widows are  more anxious for celebrity than private grief and acceptance, encouraged by politicians routinely lip-serving a phony gratitude - none of their sons in the forces - and poor lonely boys parroting a mission mantra, the falsities of which they could not begin to comprehend,  and deploying it on a civilian populace which does not recognise it and wouldn't want it if it did.  And Tommy is alleged to be happy to die for this shit, his widow happy for him to die, look, there she is on the telly.

And the danger she poses, Widow Mark or Widow Wayne, is that together with  the funeral-junky ghouls at Wootton Bassett, the posturing Golightly-Jockstraps on the teevee sofa - lovely to have you back again, General Sir  Mike, with your deep, brown, knowing voice - and the serried ranks of cowardly reptiles in the commons bleating and gurning, we head into a happy acceptance of permanent, glorious war, in which all are heroes, for fuck all.

In the new S&M Britain,  Tommy Atkins' death throes are the new snuff movie - created, produced and directed by skymadeupnewsandfilth. It is how  rotten journalism sidesteps the indefensible, just as Murdoch taught them. Dead Tommies, the new page three, the new first item, top of the bill on Wednesday's Order Paper.  There is nothing which cannot be spun. There is no business like show business.