NEW WARS FOR OLD.
CAN I SPEAK POODLE? COURSE I CAN, I WENT TO ETON,
WOOF-WOOF.
WOOF-WOOF.
As his Big Society delusion whithers around him and his hybrid cabinet of malformed, smirking retards is seen to be but a bunch of incompetent chancers, braying closet homosexuals, greedy, pie-munching, vindictive fatbastards, slimy pinstripe spiv bullyboy cocksuckers and downright clodhopping nincompoops who have, in a very short space of time, fucked-up the armed forces, sent the economy backwards and demoralised the entire nation, unelected prime minister, David MustaphaWar Cameron, seeks a Thatcher Falklands moment to divert attention from his stupefying, hand-waving, shirt-sleeve, shitbrain, good for fuck all and increasingly bad-tempered maladroitness, before pissed-off British citizens take to the streets burning the useless prat in effigy and with any luck in person, rightly blaming him for EU-led treachery, for inflation, rocketing fuel prices, unemployment, repossessions, the gerrymandering of boundaries, the rigging of the constitution, the wholly unmandated destruction and /or privatisation of public services and the shameless, self-interested kowtowing to the financial terrorists who got us all into this shit, all over the fucking world and not just here, under Gordon Snot's ruinous misrule. He thought, the cheeky fucking bastard, that Prince Gormless, wandering about, shaking hands gormlessly and getting married to this gormless bimbo would do, would divert attention from his catastrophic depradations, but it won't, not even with all the help that skymadeupnewsandfilth can give him - in exchange, let's not forget, for him placing Rupert's spunkfaced phonetapper, Coulson, right at the heart of govament, his master's eyes and ears. The inbred, shitstupid, overprivileged ponce, playing at prime minister, thought a wedding would do it, but, more swiftly than we would ever have thought, he needs a war........
I heard some old boy, down the doctorbastard's today, what a great life he'd had, missed the wars, at both ends of his life. We forget that, don't we, about Blair, that Iraq, as well as being in itself illegal, fraudulent, larcenous and atrocious, formally ended the nearly sixty-year peace. Oh, there's not the slaughter of our troops that we have seen previously and we're not blitzed at home but coffins return almost daily and we live, increasingly, with wartime restrictions on our freedoms; the cops, bouyed-up with anti-terror bollocks, tooled-up with automatic weapons and sniperscopes and tasers and body armour and emergency powers piss even more vigourously in our faces, any challenge to their fascist brutishness construed as Sympathy for the Jihadi Devil; the ghastly Mark Carlisle, Q fucking C, adjudicating over which freedoms we may retain; you can't board an internal flight without hearing Ihr Papieren Bitte, no, you can't take this, no, you can't take that, we can confiscate everything you know, and shove our hands up your arse, we're security, regiments of bastard little corporal jobsworths, stalking the land, like a nightmare Dads Army. Blair, the warbringer, eternal war is the price of eternal peace, trust me, I'm a pretty, straight guy. And when I talk to God, I know He understands, He says stick by Me and I'll be your guiding hand, but don't ask Me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to. The old boy was right, at the doctor's. Welcome, friends to the Hundred Years War Revisited, peace a precious memory. How could we let that happen, a flimsy fiction, cut and pasted, cobbled together by a depressive dipsomaniac and Hosannahed by a bent legislature and here we are, down the road, to prolonged martial ecstasy, a weekly orgasm at Wootton Wotsit, ancient, moribund former servicemen in blazers and berets, tattooed wives and girlfriends in stilletos and bare legs and sunglasses, ejaculating garage flowers over passing hearses; a furtive, guilty inquest now and again, a celebrity-hungry widow or mother, hyping their loss incrementally with every transitory cliched headline, every mascara-smudged interview, as though soldiers are not, nowadays, supposed to die, as though bomb disposal in a war zone can be managerialised into a safe occupation. Oh, he was tired, she wails, he shouldn't have been tired, war shouldn't entail fatigue and exhaustion and shortage and emergency and confusion. And then everybody would come home safe. Apart from the wogs, OK for them to be dead in a ditch, flies buzzing around their eyes; they don't have wives and families, do they. It is a relentless, unstoppable slow-march, this, trampling on such heroism as there can be in these shitty wars, all involved betraying the mythologised compact with the military, those whose duty was once to mourn and remember, now gobbing into a microphone from morn til night, those who were once comrades, now merely colleagues. Blair and Imelda cheapened everything, whored his office as none before, unsurprising that in his resurrection of groundless war he has also devalued both widow and warrior.
..........and in the form of Gaddafi and Sons, he can have one. Gaddafi has mustard gas, WMD, and he may use it on his people, squeaks Hannibal Cameron. We must stop him we must not tolerate this regime using military forces against its own people, he blusters, suddenly concerned at the doings of despots; his party the friend of apartheid, his party, his heroine, the friend of the monster, Pinochet, both eminent butchers of tens of thousands of their own people. Mubarak, friend to Tory and Labour alike, ran Egypt like an open prison; the Saudi bastard fuckpigs, joined at the hip to the Bush family and frequent hosts to our own Royal wasters run theirs like a mediaeval torture chamber, how soon will the reformers, Clegg and Cameron, arm their dissidents, declare no-fly zones, seize the assets of Prince bin CokeHead, insist that stoning wimmen to death is not the way a proper Big Society should carry-on?
The story of CallHimDave's new-wars-for-old comes from the Filth-O-Graph, written and read by the stupidest rednecks outside of Alabama, so God knows what relationship it bears to reality, how much of it is wishing and hoping. It is, nevertheless, entirely believeable that Cameron would cheerlead NATO into doing Uncle Sam's will, that he can see himself, like Whiskey Maggie, as a Winstonesque wartime leader, relishes the prospect of standing on the steps of his Downing Street squat, mouthing Rejoice!
It may, of course, simply be tub-thumping, the fuckwit Cameron, even in the absence of an opposition has little else to boast about and shouting at the wogs is the second last refuge of the scoundrel. It may, on the other hand, come to pass that HMS UK, too skint to fund wheelchairs for the sick, can afford to launch another multi-billion pound misadventure, extend GlobaCorp's war on the working class - for that's what it would be - to North Africa; there's a good boy, David, jump up and beg. And if you're very good, we'll give you a medal, for being a piece of shit, sorry, for prime ministerial bravery
YO! BLAIR, WAY TO GO.
FOR SERVICES RENDERED
IN THE WAR AGAINST EVILTUDE.
AND FOR MAKING US ALL RICHER'N MOST FOLKS'D BELIEVE.
