-
Look, you chaps.
I mean. Really.
All I did was take a point of view on Iraq. I respect your right to take a different view. I had long and detailed negotiations with his holiness God on the matter and, ultimately, he agreed with me that Saddam was a bastard worth sacrificing. I mean. I had pressures too, y'know. Those rotters threatening to expose dear Peter [and the other one I suppose] had us over a barrel.
We have achieved so much the forces of conservatism wish to destroy.
And so I ask of you, as I asked of his holiness Him.
Which was the lesser evil?
I commend my soul to The Lord, untarnished. We are still in negotiation over Cherie's.
It is 1983 and Gordon is on top of the world.
-
He has recently been elected to Parliament and is about to embark on the last lap of his long march to immortality. Newspapers observing the latest Labour recruits have all identified him as ‘one to watch’. How right they are!
But there are clouds on Gordon’s horizon, smaller than a man’s hand, but set to loom large as the years roll by.
The first cloud is an obscure young lawyer Gordon shares his office with – an elfin, meretricious light-weight called Tony, whose epicene beauty gradually stirs up almost-forgotten, guilty passions in Gordon’s heart – passions he thought he had managed to leave behind in Bonny Scotland when he decided to go ‘straight’ to London. This unwelcome recrudescence of forbidden lust is easily set aside in the thirst for power and influence, but it just will not go away.
The second cloud is Tony’s friend, Peter, who is always popping into the office from the Party HQ in Walworth Road. Peter flirts outrageously with Tony and Tony, damn him, flirts back. Gordon can’t stand this. Tony is a ‘pretty straight guy’ (the truest words he ever spoke) but he respond skittishly to Peter’s overtures while Gordon can only desire him coldly, and in secret.
The third cloud is that Tony has a plain wife called Cherie, who has already born him a child and, being Catholic, looks set to bear a few more. Gordon cannot understand why an exquisite man like Tony would rather spend his life in connubial bliss with an old boot like Cherie instead of succumbing to ecstatic nights of sodomy in Gordon’s bedsit.
Tony’s big secret is that he is just as ambitious as Gordon, but he doesn’t let on. He plays Gordon off against Peter to nullify both their ambitions. Gordon is jealous of Peter and Peter despises Gordon, but they are locked in their shared desire for Tony and they just can’t walk away. In the end he uses Peter to thwart Gordon, to persuade him that Middle England isn’t yet ready for a firebrand Scottish socialist, that Tony should play John the Baptist to Gordon’s Jesus Christ.
The horror, the horror. Tony becomes PM and Peter is now his handmaiden. Gordon is despatched forever to the counting house and told what a great job he’s doing. Fortunately, Gordon has inherited a successful economy so he has time on his hands to plot. And plot. And plot.
As befits a man attuned to labyrinths of secrecy, Gordon has spies everywhere, one of whom passes on a tip about Peter’s mortgage. The tip is leaked to the press and Peter is sent packing. Job done. But a couple of year’s later Peter is back and Gordon just can’t live with himself. Another spy has a story about some low-grade skulduggery with a passport and it’s bye-bye again Peter, this time for good.
Time passes. The economy is looking ropy. Gordon knows he can’t do anything about it because figures are not his strong point, and he knows he has to get away from the Treasury before his reputation is addled. But his other nemesis, the ever plainer Cherie, has learned to love life at the top and keeps persuading Tony to hang on and to hang on. Gordon now hates Cherie even more than he hates Peter, but his spies can’t find anything against her. The thing he hates most about Cherie is, what you see is what you get. Such an unworthy creature.
In the end Tony decides he has had enough. The opportunity to become seriously rich presents itself, and off he goes, leaving nothing behind for Gordon except a poisoned chalice.
If only Gordon could go back to 1983 and start all over again. He would begin by moving to a different office.
-
For Gordo - Napoleon XIV
note rocking horse rhythm 5/4
Remember when you ran away and I got on my knees and begged you not to
leave because I'd go berserk?? Well...
You left me anyhow and then the days got worse and worse and now you see
I've gone completely out of my mind.. And..
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!
They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa
To the funny farm. Where life is beautiful all the time and I'll be
happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats and they're
coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!!!
You thought it was a joke and so you laughed, you laughed when I had said
that loosing you would make me flip my lid.. RIGHT???
I know you laughed, I heard you laugh, you laughed you laughed and
laughed and then you left, but now you know I'm utterly mad... And..
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa,
They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa.
To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket
weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're
coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
I cooked your food, I cleaned your house, and this is how you pay me back
for all my kind unselfish loving deeds.. Huh??
Well you just wait, they'll find you yet and when they do they'll put you
in the ASPCA, you mangy mutt!!! And...
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa.
They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa.
To the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time and I'll be happy
to see those nice young men in their clean white coats and they're coming
to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
To the happy home, with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket
weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're
coming to take me away, ha-haa!!!
To the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time... (fade out)...out....Out...OUT!
stanislav, plumber, open over christmas said...
Bit quiet here recently. And irritating schoolboy on Dad's computer but can't get to blocked favourite doggy-porn and horsey porn sites and sit and pull his little winkie off, so he's come in here and annoy decent anarchist with fucking dirty-word drivel and bollocks. Fucking little turd need some national service, maybe down in HM Royal Army Mysterious Suicide Regiment in Deepcote, useless little wanker learn something useful, like how to shoot own fucking head off with rifle from half a fucking mile away and then carry rifle back and place neatly at own dead feet and wipe over for fingerprints. Teach the pestilential little turd some manners, eh. Anyway, never been before but for a change go and visit Mrs Dale's Diary, next door. Can tell immediately is improperly dress in blue boilersuit. This is cardigan land. Fortunately Mrs has just made new cardy for Stanislav and is off with boilersuit, on with cardy, get nice cup of Twynings Special Stephen Fry Darjeeling and packet of Digestive biscuit, rolled-up copy of Daily Mail and is raring to go in Mrs Dale's Diary.
Fuck me, mates. is fucking dreadful place, every fucker stand to attention in best cardigan and mind their fucking manners. This Mrs Dale, is bastard lovechild of Gyles fucking Brandreth and Anne JellyBelly Widdecombe.
Big story in Mrs Dale's Diary is not insane prime minister, whole country going in fucking pawnshop, everything fucked and people bossed about by gangster politician. No, big story is Mrs Dale not get fucking cleaning job down in
Take with good grace, though. On surface. Oh, best cleaner won, huge array of cleaning talent to choose from. Not mind, if at first not get cleaning job, go down job centre and find some other dirty place need cleaning. But inside is personal hurt, like broken bottle up arse.
Here in Guido world people say, Tough shit Mrs, go out on street corner and earn money like proper woman. Fuck that cleaning shit. Is for fucking Poles. But in Mrs Dale's world everybody dip biscuit in tea and go Oh, rotten show, old gal. still, their loss is our gain, you can stay here and carry on cleaning for the Daily Mail crowd. You were far too good for them anyway, dearie. One bloke says: I am so glad you are not leaving us to do our own cleaning, and can you come round and walk all over my naked body with spiky shoes, please. And bring feather duster to tickle ringpiece ? Yours in Christ, Rowan Atkinson, Archbishop of
Goes on for fucking hours like this, is not so much Diary as group therapy session. One bloke come in and say, Y'know Mrs Dale, once I didn't get cleaning post on which heart was fucking set, but after appearance on Trisha programme, reading Failed Your CleanerJob Apllication ? A strategy for coping by Dr Raj Persaud and few years psycho therapy and regular visit off community nutter nurse, and some fucking right heavy duty injections has nearly pulled myself back together. You can find me down the toilets, Mrs Dale, if you want to chat, or just shit maybe, Yours Mr Mark Oaten, former Toilets Party shadow cabinet cleaner. He was Stanislav favourite.
But think with this ocean of sorrow is best for plumber to sign Mrs Dale non-job condolence book and maybe send few quid. Is, after all, hundreds of folks all saying so sorry but glad you are staying here, is best have message from plumber community. But, fuck me, go to write words of fucking sympathy and is big unfriendly sign saying: Mrs Dale must, a fucking priori, approve anything you say about her cleaning. Honest, not invent, is worse than fucking BBC. This is fucking utter shit. No wonder mad old biddy not get cleaning job. Can't even do freedom of fucking speech.
No fucking point in Stanislav waste fucking time here with would-be charlady. Throw cardy in go-to-Oxfam box, pour tea in aspidistra pot, stuff dog up with biscuits and put down Daily Mail for him to shit on should he get caught short.
Park van outside on double yellow line with orange light flashing as though is national emergency and come back in disorder-disorder in nice blue boilersuit, leather jacket and hobnail fucking boot.
Hope old Mrs Dale get cleaning job in future but frankly couldn't fucking care less. Is few things slightly more important. As for Diary, as it says in great old cocaine-snorting song by President and Mrs Clinton - Never going back again.
The cartoon captures, better than most, the true legacy of the Blair Brown Campbell years. Catch you at the wrong moment could make even a plumber weep. Well done.
Despite current nightmare of tyranny and rottenness, Happy Christmas to Guido and friends.
ps If plumbing emergency happen over Christmas, view of plumbing community is: tough shit. No, is bad joke. Just shout out for StanislavPlumbCheap4U. Proper plumber is always on duty. Double time, mind.
You say hello, I say goodbye 4.26
AS an admirer of his efforts I am sure Stanislav would appreciate your approbation. But I am also sure that if stanislav had wanted it on CIF he would have put it there. They're quite clever chaps these plumbers. Grubby, of course, and you can't trust them near your women, dicks like donkeys I understand, but they have some initiative.
To the best of my knowledge Stanislav only posts here and infrequently with one or two of the other regular GF posters. I don't think he wants to rub cyber-shoulders with the Guardian. It would not be his way of plumbing.
A close study of his oeuvre would reveal that he excoriates the self-serving, pseudo-liberal bien pensants, like White and Hoggart and Toynbee who have hijacked a once-great liberal newspaper and used it to keep the poor in their, dependent, supplicants' place. Rusbridger ? The man's a cunt, is, if memory serves me well, Stan's typically succinct and florid estimation of the Guardian's Editor. Stanislav believes, further, as I recall, that people like young Brian Emu of the Liberal Democrats' youth wing also write in places like the Guardian and you will not be surprised to know that he thinks Mr Emu is to music what Mr Rolf Harris is to painting; that is to say, he should not be in any way encouraged.
It is presumptuous of me to contradict you but I think the young plumber would prefer that people were directed to order-order, which is a whole other barrel of monkeys and not to an organ so supportive of, indeed instrumental in bringing about, the present, criminal regime.
Speaking in my capacity as professor emeritus of Stanislavian Anarcho-plumbing Political Studies at the former Polytechnic of Stoke, now University of the
Others may disagree of course. For the time being disagreement is still possible.
Goodbye, Mr Hello and Happy Christmas
robbierotton said...
Mrs Dale reply to Stanislavatory humour.
You simply must come to Mrs Dales house anytime you like - have slippers and kit-kats ready. We do have free-speech, Mrs Dale says, "Do have another Hobnob!" as she flicks a duster about. Enabling my commenters to remark ad nauseum, with plentiful ho-humming, that Hobnobs are the very spawn of the devil, but will partake if one must.
Gosh you make Guido's House of Debauchery and Promiscuity sound very austere and not unlike having sordid sexual relations with a vast number of partners on a casual basis. It verily sounds nebulously idylic in a Chav sort of way.
In conclusion Mr Stanislav, sirrah*, please call in soon and bring that nice Guido too, we are sampling jams tomorrow, ...and I may even let you swear a bit, but not out load, so as not to offend any Laideez.
* Sirrah is a great metal band from
stanislav, plumber, open over christmas said...
Stanislav never go In London, is full of fucking foeigner. Would his Excellency and First Citizen Livingstone permit comment from critic, or is Information Age fascist, like disappointed Mrs Dale - not get cleaner job in Maidstone and world come to fucking end - and do infamous "moderating."
I can't figure it either. Judged by his actions he is a money worshipping, Godless, heathan, charlatan bastard who, along with Sharon Blair QC the freeloader, whored the office of prime minister like none before him; along with Bush and the little Spaniard, launched World War Three and, in a Devil's bargain with the hapless stuttering Brown, beggared abd shamed the United Kingdom.
I wonder if Pope Nazi, Protector General of Global Nonces R Us, would tell his congregation quite what one has to do to NOT be admitted to Holy Mother Church.
ps That Lord Robertson of Dunblaen, is he a catholic ?