THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL

 CAMERON TO WAGE WAR ON HATEMONGERS

After chairing a meeting of COBRA - move over, if you please, Mrs May, I'm still in charge - the unelected prime minister, the right honourable Mr CallHimDave, MA (Oxon) MP, said that it was probly time to crack down on those preaching hatred in our country and he had, therefore, ordered the security services to arrest the govament, all three parties of it.  For far too long our country has been seen as a place where totally unprincipled criminal factions have  been able to preach hatred with absolute wotsaname, immunity, is it, impunity?

Now listen, continued Mr Cameron, almost every day of the week one can probly hear these people on the PBC and in the newspapers just simply preaching hatred, that's all it is, setting one half of the country against the other half  and  probly  hoping to get themselves elected. Well, I for one have had enough of it.  Officer, arrest me and take me into custody.  

Before being taken to Wormwood Scrubs  Mr Cameron issued a list of those suspected of hate-preaching.   

Theresa al May

Cameron's security chief

 Abu al Clarke
aka Mr Cool Kenny

Nicky bin Clegg
infamous turncoat, traitor, secretly in the pay of foreigners. 

My Name's Hunt Not Cunningham.
Charged with selling-off NHS to organised crime.

Two Homes Pickles.
I need two homes because I go to work.

Michael al Spit
aka Mickey the Gob, Mickey Gabshite.
Believed to be extra-terrestrial.

Boy George, pm's henchman,
chief hatemonger
    

Brothers in arms, terrorists Balls and Miliband,
colluding in govament attacks on ordinary people.           

Billy bin Hague, international terror chief, 
not flying his not boyfriend around the world
 not at the taxpayers' expense.

Now look, said Cameron from his prison cell,

it is to be hoped, that by jailing all these, frankly perfectly nasty people, we will probly be able to put a stop to all this nastiness of old people being robbed of their pensions, thrown out of their homes, of sick people being forced to look for non-existent jobs, ot workers having no rights whatsoever and of rich people paying little or no tax.

It is a far, far better thing I wotsaname now...a far, far........

DON'T THEY KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?

DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI

(UNIUS FAMA FAMILIA EST SCRIPTOR.)

Sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland
(And for the fame of one's family.)

You can't really wear a black tie with a tee-shirt. 

 And anyway, ItsWod'EWouldOfWanted, his real and his step-relatives, slobbering and snotting in front of the world, dressed not in respectful mourning but  for a barbecue. Dressed a la Philpott.

The new Britons.

There will be bereaved, still,  from WW2, from Korea, Malaya, from  Maggie's election war in the South, from KneeCapsville,  they are  mostly quiet and in public, at least,  dignified; people who really did endure  a quiet, stalwart, No Comment sacrifice.  No longer, we are no longer those people. And sad though it is to say it,  the bereaved of the  officer class make the other ranks' look like shit.  

I don't know how these things work, maybe money changes hands; even so, one would expect the CO and the skypilots to talk these people down, steer them away from the cameras, into private and healing mourning, rather than into rubbishy showbusiness.

 These skriking, BestFriend mothers - escaped, it often seems,  from some grim, bloody-handed, Grecian IncestORama production  - and showy, shepherding stepfathers, you could paper the fucking walls with them, their tackiness, their doggerel poems, their sheer, fucking awful, scruffy, disrespectful  camera-hogging vileness;  is celebrity really so compelling, so addicitve that it blows in, gift-wrapped, on Death's every passing breeze?

These wretched people must spend their squalid, miserable lives rehearsing such a moment, longing, in their tedium, for a death, a lottery win, a next-door murder - anything to get them, even momentarily, into the public gaze.

And as if that's not bad enough, the People, readers of the Daily Blame and the Filth-O-Graph, dance enthusiastically to this same nauseating tune;  a glance at the angry columns will reveal a thousand to one in favour of this morbid pantomime, this gurning voice without restraint; some have recorded this unholy press conference and are rewatching it, sobbing their sweaty socks off, time after time, xxx-ing poor Lee, as though they were his sweethearts, one footballnutter posting: From a Liverpool fan to a Man U fan, Lee, mate, You'll never walk alone, RIP xxx, you were a great bloke.

I blame Lady Sir Elton John.  Any chance that he might make another so-called charity record, GoodBye England's Little Drummer Boy, pa-rop-a-pom-pom?  It was mr jgm2 who most recently regretted the awful events of poor mad Diana's funeral,  the applause,  the Mafia-like flower flinging, the mass hysteria,  but it has been a staple for years of these commentaries. Pissing, we are, in the wind.

You can kind of understand the DianaFest, she had been thrust into people's faces for a decade or more - fat, thin, coked or straight -  and the feeble-minded thought that her life was not only real but was theirs, too,  their vicarious fairy story.  Nobody, however, outside his kin and his regiment, had ever heard of Lee Rigby.  Is it the bloody nature of his death, its visibility,  the shocking and incomprehensible self-engagement of passers-by which are so disturbing;  might it be the very ordinariness of speech and demeanour of his killers, blood-drenched, standing there, calmly  explaining themselves?

I've never been to Aff-gan, as they all call it but I would  bet my life that combatants on all sides suffer lengthier and more painful deaths than poor Lee Rigby - degraded. humiliated, terrified, infantilised, crying for mother, smelling their own blood and shit, seeing their exposed bones, their missing limbs, knowing they are dying, despite what their comrades are screaming at them, comrades trying to shoo Death away, knowing that one day this might be them, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow.  Maybe if all the deaths and maimings were seen as starkly and vividly as was Lee Rigby's then we might value them all, regret them all  as profoundly as we have his. Who knows, maybe one day the Daily Blame will take us into an Arabian or Asian home in mourning.

In the meantime, the best BestFriending a mum can do is tell her kids You can get killed in the Army, y'know, or worse. I know that's hard to do because the Army doesn't even say that.  For some reason, a few years back, the Army confused me with a real person and invited me to one of its evenings.  Everyone else was a dignitary of some sort, bent councillors, bent coppers, headteachers, hacks, council officers; haven't a clue, to this day, why I was invited.  But there I was, at an Army PR event.  Even the canapes were standing, millimetre perfect, to attention, served by starched and pressed catering corpsters.

The presentation, by Brigadier Philip King, was as smooth, flashy and seamless as any I have ever seen.  It was brilliant.  There were Phil, a lieutenant, a sergeant and a couple of corporals multi-media spinning the idea that you joined the Army to learn a trade  - and there were scores of them to choose from -  sometimes you went abroad to  help poor bloody foreigners with your expertise, in finding water or building roads and you saw the world and got paid for it;  sometimes you might help out at home, with floods and stuff.  There was absolutely no mention of the basic purpose of the British - or any other - army, which is to shoot or stab or bomb other people to death, to do it as violently as is humanly possible and, of course, to expect much the same in return.

That such well-drilled practices are, in recent decades, largely futile, is immaterial.  People who killed and tortured British squaddies are now sitting in the Belfast parliament with better conditions and pensions than Tommy Atkins will ever have. Iraq is in a much worse state now than before we blew it back to the Stone Age and we will leave Aff-Gan much as we found it. And there has never been, incidentally, so much heroin available on the streets. And this is what so irks and enrages about these fucking press conferences, it is that, via showbusiness, by lionising the dead, by - in fact  - clebrating their deaths, we vindicate by ommission filth like this:

 Snot of Aff-Gan,

 NewLabour unelected prime minister, gets his shit together.

 Drunken Johnny Reid of Aff-Gan, 

briefly NewLabour defence seckatry, 

incompetent, thug, bully, slag and ponce.

Nobody will get shot-at in Afghanistan.

 Ainsworth of Aff-Gan,  

NewLabour defence seckatry, the most over-promoted politician in living memory

 Hoon of Iraq, NewLabour defence seckatry.

 Iraqi women will one day thank me for killing their children, honest, not invent.  That'll be five thousand pounds a day, please.

And of course....

Tony and Imelda, peacemakers and devout catholics.

They must all love this, mustn't they? 

All filthy rich, untouchable and instead of us blamimg them, 

we are, almost as one, blaming the two Mikes of Woolwich.

Lee Rigby just the latest hero, cynically deployed  by  filthsters like Boris Johnson, who insist that  our foreign policy has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with his death.

No business like showbusiness.

THE LONG, SLOW DEATH OF THE LABOUR PARTY.

God bless her, beseiged by stupid, ignorant, redneck fuckpigs at the Filth-O-Graph, Mary Riddell pleads for a reinvigorated Labour party, no man is an island, she quotes, divorced from the cuts made by indolent trust-funded wankers and she's right,  but she's wrong to expect deliverance at the hands of the NewLabour Project-iles, so to speak.

The current Labour leadership election rivals

their Foot-in-Mouth Manifesto of Suicide 

from 1983 and will be far more damaging;

the election of any of this hideous quartet

of maformed misfits, Blinky Balls-Cooper, 

the bewilderingly  gauche, fish-out-of-water

Milliband Brothers  or AndyPandy Burnham,

the Revlon Boy of modern Westminster

- will consign the very idea of Labour Government

to history,

 completing the Project begun by Mandelstein, 

Blair, Brown and Campbell.  It will be a historic

moment but not  one of regret. 

Whichever of them, or whichever combination 

emerges triumphant, if that's the word, 

will spend leadership in dwindling, irrelevant opposition, 

or routed entirely,  beyond  even that meagre compensation.

And serve them right. All of them, party activist or pampered scumbag parliamentarian. Not worth shit.

It remains possible, in these strange times, that some amalgamation of Kennedy-ite LibDems, disgusted by Clegg, and NewNewLabourites might wrest control of parliament but that would not be the Labour party, just a ragbag of disparate, Not-Really-Tories.  

The Labour Party membership should have risen-up over Ecclestonegate, in 1997, when the ghastly dwarf bribed it with a million quid, only to receive an almost immediate refund  and still have his millionaire sport excused from tobacco-advertising legislation,  the Nannystate sidestepped by the Dirty Old Man. Blair, a pretty, straight guy, could not stand any scrutiny and thus blithely  insisted that Formula One was such an important employer that it should continue to advertise fags. Never mind the bung. Let's just move-on.

Ecclestonegate showed that the British prime minister, at any rate, in Cameron's latest, chilling, CheapLabour4U phrase, was open for business; he still is. The Labour Party membership should have risen up over Lashmi Mittal bribing Tony and Imelda, for steel, over the Hindujah Brothers bribing Tony and Imelda for passports.

I would never do anything wrong, cor, blimey, Sahib.

Instead, rotten, grassroots, peacocking imbeciles like John Burton, Blair's agent in Sedgefield, in the first steps of a long march to betrayal, hosannahed their personal closeness to power. Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we'll stop the red flag flyin' here.

The list of personal and institutional scandals attaching to Labour in office would run down off the page and onto the floor and are chronicled here and elsewhere in vivid profusion;  they are inexcuseable and in a decent society would have resulted in their perpetrators' imprisonment . Perhaps the worst aspect of NewLabour's serial venality is that they have lowered the bar of acceptable behaviour and this current ragbag of lying arseholes will stop at nothing, will feel smugly justified in doing anything  to maintain the government that nobody voted for.

Once in power, of course,career politicians,whatever

their notional allegiance,swiftly forget their

supporters, witness Mr Suit-and-Haircut,

once their sternest critic, elected with a

mandate to oppose them, now  a squeaking,

can't-believe-his-luck, deputy Tory prime minister. Labour haters, of whom there are justifiably many - both those naturally ill-disposed to any socialist-styled movement,  and others, more bitter, betrayed, latch-on to this creep, this pampered, tongue-tied nitwit, little knowing or too frightened to realise that Clegg and not Cameron is the true Blairlite, Cameron will only betray one wing of his party for Power. Cleggy, like Blair, would betray his mother and father, his children and most certainly his voters. Quad erat demonstrandum - as we say at Westminster School.

This coalition of the unwholesome, ironically,  is Labour's accurate and telling legacy; Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Campbell, between them and supported by the parliamentary Labour party and much of skymadeupnewsandfilth  made Westminster a principle-free zone, virtually a party-free zone. Bluster as he may about new govament, Cameron's wool is dyed in the same rubbishy, nineteenth century capitalism as was Gordon Snot's and Tony Blair's. Not a Rizla paper, whatever they say, between them. NewLabour dumped principle like an elephant with diarrhoea, leaving us all with the Kiss-Me-Quick  politics of career legislators; jobsworth prats, idle, thieving, braying layabouts  and nitwits. Who, no, really, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about what Vince Cable says about anything, over-rehearsed, achingly ponderous, I Know Best, silly old man, spinning himself shitless, devising Reasons Why I Changed My Mind But I Assure You It's Settled Now, At Least I Think So. To whom  does this horrid, creepy old fuckwit think he is talking, his fucking grandchildren?  By what yardstick of incompetence is this clown deemed brilliant? Only by comparison with Gordon the Ruiner can this foxtrotting nitwit be deemed capable even of putting on his own shoes. Brown, in finally destroying the Labour party bequeathed us this Last Of The Summer Wine Codger, Cable;  bravo Gordon, son of the fucking manse.  Vince Cable Is  A Star, says CallHimDave, mockingly; go on Vince, show them your one times Tory table,

Oh, alright, then, prime minister, but I'd rather get on with 

the job than show-off, 'cos, you know, that's the sort of man I am.....one times one tory makes one liberal,

two times one tory makes seven liberals, 

three times one  tory makes twenty-seven...

And I get a bit stuck after that.

Do-ya do-ya do-ya do-ya

Wanna dance?

It is awful, isn't it, that this old fart is presented to us as salvation, albeit  salvation with a horsewhip;  that he is even given houseroom is down to the national revulsion for newLabour. Consider, never having done a day's work, Ed Balls, first as special adviser and then as  parachuted MP and accelerated cabinet minister, devised all of the financial policies implemented by NewLabour, straight from Oxbridge to the levers of power, no apprenticeship, merely a friendship, or worse, with Gordon Snot.

Snotty made possible, well, all manner of shit, really, but principally he legitimised treachery and betrayal, made his currency blackmail and deceit and bullying, double-counting, hissy-fitting, poison-penning, tractor production statistics, the sort of gigantic hypocrisy rarely found outside police states or organised religion, this sanctimonious cocksucker, this overgrown, snot-eating, cowardly schoolbully and his henchmen embellished the damage wrought by Mandelstein, a man who,  given the brown-nosing awe  he is held in by all at Westminster,  must surely have the QueerDirt on everybody, in high places and low; Labour's  intensely relaxed view of people getting filthy rich was,  pre 1997, as anathemic   to his party as is gangbanging on the Sabbath to Brown's  dire, sourfaced Presbyterian brethren, the horrible fucking bastard. It didn't matter that he shat on the Hunger Marchers, all that mattered to Brown was getting power and hanging-on to it. Come Hell or High Water. A tragedy  born of massive personal shortcomings, Brown's,  bad parenting and overweaning ego, destined to doom the party which made him, destined to usher in that which he claimed to loathe but so acutely imitated - a natural ruling class.

Brown's rotten behaviour made possible the continuance on the Labour benches of those who should in decenCy have resigned the whip, those who whispered betrayal at every opportunity, but why should they go when traitor-in-chief, Snotty, showed no sign of leaving but clung-on, briefing against the PM, blackmailing and bullying, undermining. Snotty set the tone.

  The chilly, sour Jesuitical motherfucker, Frank Field, now  working for this unelected  prime minister, should have left the Labour party years ago, anyone in his position with any balls would have done so.  The current Labour Party, if IT had any balls, would throw him out on his scabby arse, as he prepares to legitimise the workhouse on behalf of the Tories. Corbyn, the conscience of Islington, Marshall-Andrews, Q fucking C, the conscience of the Inner Temple; Diane Lard;  these people were against the wars, why didn't they resign and form another party, do something constructive? Useless fucking bastards. Oh, it's  my party, too, why should I leave, best stay and fight for change from the inside. Broad church. All that gutless bollocks. Too late now. Google left wing MPs and who do you get? Yes, Diane fucking Abbott.

That sums it up neatly, for the People's Party, a showy, pushy cheap entertainer,  who sends her spawn to private school, Labour's Left Wing.

You have to hand it to them, the people of The Project, they have secured the longed-for destruction of an ailing workers' movement, and its replacement with an indivisible, political careerist elite,  ruthlessly bent on self-advancement-but-with-a-conscience, reflecting, perhaps, it's remaining media supporters. Maybe that was always Mandelson's mission, a black-op against the only democratic movement which might hinder the smooth gangsterism of he and his ilk. Whoever is the eminence gris or the prime suspect, the Labour party sold itself to Money, Power, Celebrity and War. And now, serve them right, the envelope stuffers, the doorknockers and shopstewards, now,  the Labour Party is dead, long live the New World Order.

WILL YE GO, LADDIE, GO?

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY.

YOUNG PARENT BROWN, AT BAY.

Snotty's friends at the Guardian are saying he will defy a post-defeat coup attempt  seeking the installation  as NewGreatLeader of the even more useless Postman Pat, Johnson, with his arse bent, cheeky-chappily towards the hideous Clegg, C'mon BigBoy, lemme show you a good PR time.

Snotty will stay and fight and fight and fight, say his chums, even in the face of a complete Cabinet rebellion.  That an organisation which cannot even unseat its historically most divisive and unpopular leader insists  that it can nevertheless micro-manage the nation through a catastrophe in which it was enthusiastically complicit is as  cogent a damnation  of the NewLabour party as there could be.

Rank and file members must be aghast that the fate of what was once their party is now finessed  by a queening, unelected, joint prime minister; the unstable, bad-tempered, vindictive and  staggeringly incompetent former object of his affection and by a rabble of greedy, cowardly charlatans; slags, pimps, thieves,  ponces, nonces, murderers, blackmailers, embezzlers, money launderers and war criminals. Serves them right.

GOOD FOR FUCK ALL.

STAFFORD HOSPITAL TRUST. HUNDREDS OF PATIENTS MURDERED BY NEGLECT. GUILTY EXECUTIVES SHOWERED WITH PUBLIC MONEY, MINISTERS BLAMELESS.

These fuckers should be hung up from a lamp post and spat at,


instead they are stuffing their faces and shitting in ours. Alan Milburn, former layabout, amazingly became health secretary, resigned to patch up his common-law marriage, cops a hundred grand a year for "advising" firms trying to privatise many aspects of the NHS. Also drawing a full-time salary as a part-time MP.


NewLabour's Health Secretaries have turned the NHS auxiliaries into paupers, the greedy bastard doctors into idle, dirty tyrants, abandoning their patients to shell-shocked, European locums, the managers into millionaires and the hospitals into full-steam ahead extermination camps for the vulnerable.

Frank Dobson, old Labour stooge, willingly pissed about and shafted by Blair, resigned as Health Secretary to contest London Mayoral election with Ken Livingstone. As if.

Blair had, by appealing to his beardy vanity, removed him from cabinet, leaving room for shits like Milburn. Chump. Not fit to run a St John's Ambulance Tent.

Alan Postman, when health secretary, presided over massive spread of hospital acquired infections, see stanislav, Alan Johnson's Disease. I mean, just look at him.

Glasgow John Reid, thug, drunk, bully, liar, sexual predator - see Reid, Dawn Primarolo - Trotskyist, describes himself as one of Labour's Big Men, Aye, right; horrible little shit, pothead; claimed, when Defence Secretary, that Tommy wouldn't face a shot fired in anger in Afghanistan. Was never anywhere long enough to cop any flak, a sort of a peripatetic minister for bruising. Now full-time Chairperson of Glasgow Celtic Sectarian Football Club, a paid consultant to Securicor and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP. Cunt. Utter cunt, One of the worst of a very bad bunch.

Patsy Leatherface Hewitt, former Kinnock Babe, married to a judge, son's a junky; gobby, patronising, useless career shitbag, jointly responsible with the Postman for national epidemic of HAIs, deaths of hundreds, thousands. Couldn't even see to it that the hospitals were as clean as the local chippy. Wouldn't wanna eat round her gaff. Now working full-time for Boots the Chemists, honest, not invent, and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP.

Not very handy Andy Bubbles, incumbent health secretary, good at saying this is unacceptable and accepting it, Oxbridge, Oxbridge and useless, one of Incapability Brown's bunker barrel scrapings, currently working on strategy for personal care for the elderly - other, we presume than killing them off in NHS hospitals staffed by babbling, hatchet-faced, money-grubbing, pinstripe Rotarians. Lord, have mercy, that our twilights be crafted by such as these. Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

But the worst, the very worst of it, what is unspeakable and unthinkable and intolerable is that people, relatively unsophisticated, came back from Europe and the Pacific and wandered around their bombed-out homes and communities and for themselves and for the dead voted for something different; emaciated POWs, miraculaously surviving the Nasty Nips' work camps, frightened and traumatised, their mates beheaded and starved, voted for something different. And they built houses and they built factories and they suffered rationing and delay and privation but they banished rickets and for a time, unemployment and hunger. And the schools worked. And there were to be pensions, at sixty and sixty five. And health care, from cradle to grave. The people bootstrapped themselves, from shattered, ruined communities, they built homes and hospitals and futures, when lesser people might have merged into, gone along with an uber-Europe, as had the French and the Dutch and the Danes and the Poles and the rest, these people, scorned by Uncle Sam, drip-fed a little aid , a little materiel, a few rusty ships, these people kept the world free and now they and their children enter hospitals built with their taxes and are murdered; their leaders, standing on the shoulders, but shitting in the faces of the post-war reformers, too busy fellating Russian gangsters in Strasbourg, oil billionaires in Kabul, treat them with contempt, No, they shriek, we must have more, the Kinnocks, the Blairs, we must have more, how else will you attract people of our calibre, unless we have more and more and more.They have now betrayed everything for which people fought and died and went without; all must work harder, for longer and for less, the state must see your papers, embed your papers in your skin, the electronic tattoo of the untermenschen; the state must control your children, your diet, your leisure, your habits, your drink, your drugs; the state can now arrest you for an infinite number of crimes against it, even against other states which you have never visited; can photograph you, though you may not photograph it; can enter your home, though you may not know where it lives or how much you pay for its residences. We live in a Nazi state, our SS shoot us at will, whip our women with batons, corral and batter our children as they fight for their Earth, protect with phalanxes of sharpshooters, behind walls of steel the smirking Earthcriminals, visiting Airstrip One and its ingratiating, stuttering, degenerate, fuckwit leadership; the slow or the feeble are beaten to the ground for their tardiness, their killers promoted, bemedalled. Split-second decision, protecting us from Alky Aida, or AQ, owe them a great debt for their magnificent professionalism in whipping and electrocuting and shooting innocent civilians, Iron Cross First Class, at the very least.

The news of the HospitalCrime should give us all pause. Lots, I know, think that the shouty reaches of cyberspace deal in hyperbole, entertaining but essentially just rhetoric, no business like show business. They are wrong.

That old people go into hospital, die through avoidable neglect, indifference and cruelty and that those paid to ensure the opposite happens receive golden handshakes, peerages and yet more positions of responsibility, this is not hyperbole, this is organised crime, this is not a government at its fag-end, part of the merry-go-round of party politics preached by shitbags like the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson, this is much worse; sharpen your sticks, fill your cupboards, buy some seeds and get tough, this is Ruin.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. TORTURE, THE NEW ENLIGHTENMENT.

LYING BASTARD SPEAKS OUT

One of Britain’s most senior bent spooks, Mr John Tosser,

JOHN SCARLETT, ONE OF BLAIR'S PLAYTHINGS, SWEETIE.

insisted today that none of the unintelligence services would torture suspects, or wogs just lifted off the street, unless they could make-up a very good reason for doing so.

Mr Kim Nutter Howells MP, of GayWales Labour, a former communist, a former minister and a complete arsehole

MACHO KIM

said that his Torture committee had been looking into the matter of torture, there hadn’t been any and if anyone said there had, he growled in his manly baritone, they would soon find themselves wired-up to the national grid, their balls in a vice. We’ll keep a welcome in the hillsides, alright, only not the kind you’d want. We have to torture people otherwise the IRA and the animal rightists and the wogs will be blowing our arses off.

Mr Scarlett, who distinguished himself by his fictional account of Iraqi WMD, said that his priority was the maintainance of the liberal democracy which his department was working so hard to subvert and make totalitarian. It is only by having a police state that we can preserve your freedoms for you.

Mr Tosser said that his remarks had the full approval in advance of Mr Ali Campbell, the famous bisexual, drunk depressive who had in fact written them, just like all the false Iraq war stuff which led to his, Scarlett’s, promotion. And the deaths of probably millions. But we won’t linger on that. The peerage is in the post. And the oil well.

"Dr." Kim Howell’s remarks as quoted in the Daily Heffer:

"So I'm very worried that these calls for judicial inquiries and so on are really treating the intelligence agencies as guilty until proven innocent and that's very, very dangerous for the security of this country." Mr Howells said "no government on Earth" could guarantee that prisoners who had been picked up and held in another country had not had their human rights abused in some way. But, he added: "If we don't have that information from other intelligence agencies, how can you be sure that there aren't jihadists who are trying to murder citizens on the street or Irish republicans who want to blow people to pieces in order to further their cause? You have no way of knowing that."

The mindset of a Labour MP is wonderful to perceive. Cunt. Here, Mr Torture Howells MP poses with his chums.

(from the Guardian)

“It's a measure of how utterly out of touch and contemptuous New Labour apparatchiks are towards their own party - let alone wider progressive opinion - that the foreign office minister Kim Howells not only thought it a good idea to pose for a picture with a Colombian general linked to rightwing death squads and an army unit accused of killing trade unionists - but then proudly posted it on his department's website”


So that's it then. No more torture. Unless we have to.

WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN.

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THE ENEMY WITHIN.

In the appraoch to the illegal invasion of Iraq, NewLabour propaganda echoed Mad dog Thatcher’s description of ordinary people as the “enemy within”, describing the threatened firefighters strike as a threat to national security at a time when the country was on the eve of murderously blitzing the Iraqi population.

The firefighters, for charging into burning buildings, sought a wage of thirty grand, less than half that of the crooks troughing in Westminster, a fraction of those worthies' bloated, total takings.

Both parties, typically, condemned the firefighters' demands.

Today, in Edinburgh, thirty-five year old enemy within, Ewan Williamson, killed on duty, was seen off by comrades from all over the world.

Tony Blair, twenty million pounds richer, is still setting the world on fire.

BASTILLE DAY 14TH JULY, VIVE LES FROGS