Thursday, February 7, 2008
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Stanislav's Rants on Guido (www.order-order.com) plus whatever else tickles my fancy.
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- Plumbers Assistant
- This blog is a compilation of Stanislav's Rants as they appear on Guido. It is neither operated nor sanctioned by him. If you don't like it, don't come back.
I used to know but now I BELIEVE, man.
Doesn't matter a fuck who comes to see him. Nancy Brown's in a world of his own. He really believes nobody knows he's gay; he really believes that nobody saw him snot-eating on TV; he really believes that people fall for this moral compass, son of the fucking manse shit; he really believes that the whole nation accepts that he - a nail-biting, snot-eating Jock freak - is taken seriously by General Kill 'em All Dead, of the US Army - that he has some strategic influence in Slaughterhouse Baghdad; he really believes that he is a man, maybe chosen by God, of great moral purpose and personal integrity; when Blair used to say that he could do no wrong, everybody, including the horrid little shit himself, knew he was lying; Nancy, mad as a fucking hatter, really believes his own bullshit; believes that his standing is enhanced by his adroit handling of the Northern Rock bank robbery and by everybody's personal details fluttering around a landfill site and by him taking dodgy money for an election he never fought and by all his boys and girls being crooks and he believes that whatever sewer runs through the house of commons, no whiff of ordure reaches the prime minister; that the nation will not measure him by his criminal madness but - on some futuristic, infinitely receding Judgement Day - by his presbyterian values. He's a lunatic. Worst of all, he believes that artificially inflating the value of homes, and using that false value as collateral for a ten-year debt binge is prudent stewardship of the economy.
Phalanxes of Michael Whites and Polly Toynbees bend the knee to this delusional basket case, endorsing, confirming, quite cruelly, that what his mad Dad says in his head others hear, too.
It wouldn't matter if Codger McCain in his best Rambo sweatband, toting an M40 machine gun, Raging Bull Dyke Hillary, embittered, vengeful veteran of the unlaundered sperm wars and that horrible phony, slimy, doggerel-spouting Uncle Tom, Obamalamadingdong, were all to join hands with Nancy and sing: .. you, me and George Robertson, down by the Schoolyard. He is in a world of his own, where strong enough belief trumps even the evidence of one's own eyes. He used to know he was the chosen one, his daddy told him; now, God help us, he believes it. And nothing else matters; recession, unemployment, shame, scandal, flood, plague, war, let them come; people will judge Nancy by his British values, his visions.
Just look at him signing the Lisbon treaty to understand that Nancy operates in his own continuum of deceit and double deceit; he keeps secrets from himself; he hears voices in his head. He is barking mad. How many times ???
Come out, Gordon; your country doesn't need you.