So that's all right, then.
It is maybe a good time to remember mr ishmael about Snottie, back in September 2010:
She led him on to the stage as though she was his carer, one
of those useless parasites whom we must discard or die, they, far more
than the political establishment shitehawks, all doing a great job, they
are the ones we must seek out and punish, they, the low-waged, it's
all their fault - but she did, lead him by the hand and in a way she
always has. Look, somebody halfway normal, and a woman, too, cares for
Gordon Snot, maybe she'll teach him hankythings, Ah, bless, he's been
too busy, you see, ruining everything, hearing his father's dreadful,
sermonising voice in his head, telling him how clever he is, far too
busy to wipe his nose on a hanky and not throw phones at young women or
burn all the money and give the gold away but now he's married and
that'll make him a much better bullying fuckwit, nothing like a woman
to bring out the best in a chap, Sarah-George will tell him that he's
not really a stone mad, immature, snot-eating lunatic up to his neck in
bribery, corruption, deceit and blackmail, it's all the others. It's
what carers do, calm and sedate and nourish the self-esteem of their
client. Not much good, though, at winning elections.
Maybe
if he'd gone for a floozy, it might have been different; imagine Gordon
Brown coming out of Downing Street with a sexbomb, a pouting,
lipsticked bimbo in spike heels, somebody more like Sarkozy's
Parisienne bicycle, wotsername, Carla, but worse, or better, depending
on your point of view, somebody whose appearance just announced, in
capital letters, that she was only good for fucking and what more could
you want than that; some showbizzy harlot and not some wretchedly
worthy blue-stocking, Home Counties amazon, Hell-bent upon rearing this
mad old bastard's spawn, fathered - like most things about Snotty,
unnaturally, late to the point of risk - one dead and one damaged and
one ok so far, but then great men like him - and he is great, great
with a greatness so complex that few can divine it - are not bound by
the customs and practices, the survival mechanisms not only of other men
but even of Mother Nature herself, in his grotesque attempts to
belatedly fuck his way into perceived normality of the heterosexual
kind. Yes, I'm just like any other normal young parent - he never
actually said it like that, he said parent of young children which
inferred the same thing, the same normalcy - and we just like to do
family things together, I don't really care about this prime ministering
stuff. Although, of course, I never use them for political gain, my
children, just all the time, constantly, without fail. Did I tell you
how much I love my two sons, John and wotsisname? Just as all you other
young parents love your children. What a fucking wretch. A floozy and
no, definitely no kids, especially not the ones who die at birth or have
serious illnesses; and he might still be there, doing that
sol-you-shuns thing. Gay men and wildly attractive women, see them
everywhere, you do. That's the sort of fag-haggery which wins elections,
not doleful, martyred Sarah and her dead daughter. Sarah didn't help le cause Brunoise,
just made him look more like angry mildew than he already did, a
miserable sexual bouillabass, squared, nightmarish in appearance,
nightmarish in outcome.
It's not, en passant, just
Gordon. Champagne Charlie Kennedy did just the same thing, scenting
power, in the 2005 election, he thought he'd better normal himself up
and he wed another stodgy, glamourless breeder, to knock out some
vote-winning sprog. And look what happened to him, all over the place,
his life a mixture of vomit and stagey bluster.
We are
not here, though, to bury Kennedy but to rhapsodise, in tones of
darkness and cruelty, scorn and ridicule, maybe one last time, over
this malformed, ill reared, bad mannered, scrofulous freak. A grotesque
apology for a man, even by the standards of contemporary politicians,
Gordon Brown lost his ever presumed leadership of the Labour Party,
fair, and it must be said, square, to the ghastly Tony Blair; the party
voted overwhelmingly for Blair; the early indications having shown 36%
in favour of Blair, just 9% for Brown , he had no option but to withdraw
from the election. Typically, though, of this horrible fucking
bastard, growling and hectoring, he would not accept the verdict of the
majority, demanding, a priori, of the feeble Blair that he guarantee to
step aside, soon, so that the real leader, rejected, as he was by the
party electorate but never mind that, could take over the job he felt
was his destiny. Mad as a fucking hatter from the start of Ruin's
parliamentary dominion, Brown was able to bully and blackmail all in his
malevolent orbit, having colleagues - Harriet Soursister and Dame Frank
Field - removed or sidelined, when they failed to heed his threatening
voice; establishing a separate Ministry of Leader in Waiting, in which
he was able to withold from his prime minister, the First Lord of the
Treasury, any and all information regarding budgetary matters. The
useless popinjay, Blair, was generally too concerned with his world
image to trouble Brown over much, happy playing Foreign Secretary to
Brown's domestic prime minister. skymadeupnewsandfilth joked about this
travesty of government, about this constitutional outrage, encouraging
government by tittle-tattle, encouraging the Prudence of No More Boom
And Bust's Ruinous posturing until it became a running national joke
that the prime minister couldn't sack his chancellor, that the
chancellor and neither the prime minister nor the cabinet decided
government policy. And nobody cared, voted the same gang in to power
three times.
Let the work of change begin, he gobbled,
caring, dopey Sarah planted at his side, as he entered Downing Street,
unelected; no more this and no more that, he grunted, as though the
efforts of all others, the previous ten years, had been misguided and
worthless, as though his empty coup set straight a history blighted by
inconvenient reality; his stitching-up of the leadership was, at last,
the true, magnificent result of the May 1997 general election. Let the
work of change begin. Cunt.
She was big in
BGLT, Gordon's Sarah, one of the Priding, one of the bisexual, gay,
lesbian and transgender thought police just looking for a harmless,
old-fashioned normal to abuse, one of Ruin's bullyboys and girls, let
loose on society to insist that sodomy and bondage are the very will of
God, opposition to them the work of the New AntiChrist; for a long time
now I've been wondering why can't people just be queer like they used
to be and none of this bollocks? Blokes in chaps, with their arses
hanging-out, marching down the street, where are their heads at ? I
think it's awful and I think most of this gang, Paddick and that
ghastly ladyman, Jenny, at the LibDems staged conference are just
old-fashioned fucking malcontents, they should all, men dressing as
nuns, bearded ladies with Adam's Apples and dykes in brogues, just join
the Old Bill and beat-up on ordinary people officially. And as for
transgender surgery which the LibDems want made available on demand,
what on Earth is all that about if its not malcontentism running riot
through Ruin's consulting rooms, why don't the doctors just tell them to
fuck off ?
I mean, if I went into psycho-sexual
counselling and said Look, Doc, can you fix it for me to have two cocks,
and right big ones, one at the front and one round the back, only
nowhere near the wotsaname thing, the anus, above, far enough above it
so's a nice pair of balls can hang down and not get all covered in
poo-poo, you know, and not get all crushed-up when I sit down, maybe cut
out a new pocket or something, you surgeons are clever......? Say
that again, Mr Ishmael, you want me to transplant an extra cock and
balls onto your arse...is that it...? Yes, Doc, I'm serious., You see
I'm actually a bi-phallic man trapped in a uni-phallic existence, and I
am so unhappy, I've been unhappy since I first started having erections
and noticing there was only one of them....There's only supposed to be
one of them, Mr Ishmael.... But if a bloke is born a bloke and wants to
be a woman, claims he's been, wotsaname, wrongly assigned, then you have
no problem cutting his balls out and shoving his scrotum up inside like
a vagina and reducing his John Thomas to clitoris-size? That's what
you do, isn't it? It is fucking grotesque and you all oughta be up
before the BMA, not that they're any good for fuck all, the mentors of
Harold Shipman. But the police, certainly, they should be talking to the
surgeons mutilating folk like that, they should all be banged up. It's
almost a byword here, that scrotum sanding story, but for newcomers,
it was in England, about fifteen-twenty years ago, there was a group of
blokes met up regularly and applied Black and Decker sanders to each
others Crown Jewels. The judge ruled it illegal, even among consenting
blokes. You're not doing any of that shit in my jurisdiction, he said,
no matter how much you like it, and banged the freaks up for a few
months. They were also nailing each others' foreskins to the
workbench. Seems relatively harmless, compared to that ladyman Sunday
Roast carve-up shit. Take a perfectly good set of meat and potatoes,
hack it to bits, turn it inside out and shove it up inside where it
hadn't ever oughta be......That's different...How is it different, Doc,
it's worse than me wanting two cocks; I wanna stay a man, for fucks
sake, I just wanna have two cocks so's I can, y'know, so's I can
entertain two ladies at the same time. Twice the fun. And how would
that BLGT gang react if they couldn't get in to have their balls scooped
out of their scrotums, like they were bits of melon, or Stilton cheese,
the mad fucking bastards, because the place was full up of normal
heterosexual geezers having penile and testicular enhancement surgery?
The size twelve stilleto'd be on the other foot then and no fucking
mistake. Sarah-George Brown'd be up in fucking arms. See what Brian
Paddick has to say about that, the silly LibDem fucker. Invented for the
likes of Paddick, the LibDems. Married, now, to a Norwegian bloke he
is. But only in Norway. Go down a bomb that will, with the voters of
London.
