A Christmas thought from abroad.
A film is released shortly, I am Legend. Stanislav won’t see it; avoids special effects, Hollywood homo-erotic shit like the fucking plague. The original book, however, written in the late fifties/early sixties, by Richard Mathieson, who went on to write a lot of Star Trek, was a great vampire romp, a lifetime before the delectably violent Buffy -and that prat off the Gold Blend advert - tickled the fancy of a global, literary, Goth-fancying audience.
In the original, the hero, the world’s last surviving non-vampire, Robert Neville, is taunted nightly by blood-guzzlers outside his fortified home, anxious to dine on him, calling Come Out Neville, Come Out Neville.
Our country will continue to fester until those in positions of influence take up the cry Come Out Gordon, Come Out Gordon. Matthew Parris, for instance, in yesterday’s Murdoch-Times comes, eventually, to the conclusion, long arrived at by plumbers, that the prime minister of the UK is profoundly mentally ill, but stops short of pointing out, as he should, the problems of a closet gay fearful of being outed by colleagues and what that means for the proper conduct of his duties. Brown’s position means that we are misgoverned by a knowing privy council of Brownite co-conspirators, organised crime families, like the dismal, lacklustre Alexanders and Ballses, in on what is really an open secret.
And everything's fucked. The schools are fucked, the hospitals are fucked, the army's fucked the navy's fucked, the airforce is fucked, the farms are fucked, the jails are fucked, the banks are fucked, the BBC is fucked, the roads are fucked; morality and decency and civility are fucked; patriotism is fucked, freedom is fucked. And at the top of this mountain of fuckery sits a great, gibbering nancy, stuttering about his fucking vaah-lewes, pretending to be a heterosexual.
We are misinformed by toadying, cowardly, lazy ponces, like the revolting Maguire and White; the smirking, up his own arse Jock Neill, the hustling Marrs and Warks and the ever so fretful people’s tribune, Paxman, who, memorably, slithered around, as fast as his scales would carry him, to apologise to the repellent Mandelson for Parris having stated the obvious about him.
Homosexuality isn't noncing and shouldn’t matter, and probably, to the majority, doesn’t. Dishonesty, though, and spin and fraudulence and masquerade and secrecy and loathsome, spurious, hypocritical, filial piety, however, are their own relentless torture; and Brown, and through him the whole country, are on the rack. Matthew should have formally outed Gordon, as he did Mandelson. Half-truths butter no parsnips. Brown is mad, why is he mad, Matthew ?
it is arguable that Brown's sexuality is of no concern to the world at large and few would condemn him for it. It is the towering, impudent falseness of the man which so rankles and which is quite clearly tearing him apart. His whole existence is a confection; HE defeated the would-be car bombers, HE defeated the floods, HE defeated the foot and mouth outbreak although none of these events were anything to do with him; on the other hand, as chancellor for ten years HE is not responsible for any financial catastrophe which flows from his decisions, HE didn't know, HE wasn't told. As chancellor and effectively domestic prime minister, HE, imprudently, did not give a thought to where millions of pounds of Labour money was coming from, as though his mad father sent it down from Heaven. Brown, at an age when most are grandfathers, suddenly decides, as the premiership looms, to wed and become a normal young parent. This aberrant, contradictory behaviour is deeply offensive to an observer; God knows the impact it has on Jihad-busting, floods-beating, cattle plague-curing, all around Superman Brown, sitting behind his curtains, gnashing at his fingernails.
A recent plumber’s comment was that if Brown had any real friends they would have him sectioned under the mental health act; poor stuttering, twitching, paranoid, droning, nail-biting, snot-eating, cowardly, bullying, delusional Gordon, though, swims friendless, in toxic, muddy waters. Like Hitler, in the bunker, none of his gutless generals, all anxious, still, for advancement even amid the ruins, has the courage to tell Gordon the truth - that he should have come out on John Smith’s death and trusted the people; instead, darker, viler creatures like Mandelson and Campbell and Blair and Kinnock, all now filthy rich, played him for a fool, granting him his Clever-Boyhood dream only as it turned nightmare and they were glad to be shot of it. Let him as he is doing, take the blame, all of it. Must the country be utterly ruined by this man’s fitful delusions, by his ghastly, sermonising father’s Presbyterian voice in his head, by his infantile foot-stamping, his insistence that black is white, day is night; Gordon says it, so it must be so ?
Shifty war criminals like Straw, tacky necromancers like Balls and Alexander; braying, flatulent nincompoops like Benn and Harman, dodgy chancers like Alan Dirty Hospitals Johnson, floundering clowns like Milliband and Darling and egregious, cack-handed spluttering imbeciles like Jowell, Purnell, Blears and Cooper and the utterly obnoxious and useless spiv, Hain, care only for their own grubby survival and not a fig for the country. Honourable members like these will have, before all else, ensured their own financial futures whilst wrecking ours and will cling on, discredited, in power, regardless of the harm they do; they will stick, unpleasantly, malodorously, like shit to a blanket.
Matthew Parris pleads winningly that he really does, hand on heart, believe the prime minister of the United Kingdom to be mad; yet offers only symptoms, no diagnosis, no remedy, no, shall we say, straight talking.
What ails Gordon Brown and paralyses him requires that straight talking and not Emperor's New Clothes collusion; the poor man has none around to tell him. The people, then, in kindly, non-judgmental voice, should take up the cry: Come Out Gordon, in the name of God, before you beggar us all and destroy yourself, Come Out Gordon, Come Out Gordon, Come Out Gordon............
Friday, 21 December 2007
stanislav,a young Polish plumber said...
A Christmas thought from abroad.