stanislav, a young polish plumber said...lunatics have taken over the asylum

stanislav, a young polish plumber said...

Remedy for this latest Arabian Nights bunker wheeze is beyond politics and quite outside the realm of financial jiggery-pokery which so illuminated a couple of recent threads - especially those featuring the man who isn't Tom and the man who isn't really Guy Fawkes.

Buggering about with interest rates won't cure this; this is a mental health issue; one compounded, made untreatable, by the ambitions of those surrounding the patient; those, like Mr Balls, who see, in Brown's inevitable demise, their own ascendancy.

The prime minister of the UK is mincing, stuttering, gulping, barking mad. He eats snot on global tv. Stark raving bonkers. Gordon Brown is a delusional freak, maladroit and obsessional, bad-tempered and bullying, ill mannered; displaying anxiety, paranoia, megalomania; he hears voices in his head, believes he has a Messianic destiny and cannot fail despite the country being in penury, a laughing stock; its soldiers betrayed, government departments harangued by bilious coroners; the cunt Ainsworth still short-changing Tommy Atkins, the cunt Browne shitting simultaneously in the face of his native Jocks and of the armed forces - any member of which is more of a man than this grotty little lawyer-turd; scowling, shrieking like a drug crazed banshee, the unspeakable, the repellent Caroline Flint is let loose in the TV studios, her presence like a form of germ warfare, sickening to man woman and child, ghastly crone. Brown, cowardly and weak, fretful of competition, surrounds himself with the dross of the Labour apparatus.

For all his crass, clumsy, comic pretence otherwise, Brown is as queer as a nine-bob note, though he believes that he fools us all. So ill-attuned is he to the public mood, so closeted among whispering wankers, that he never realised the country would prefer an openly gay prime minister to this jerking, wretched travesty of a man, endlessly hectoring us about values, devoid of them himself. A jowly, farting, air-brushed, cowardly hypocrite, Brown misjudges, gainsays even the tolerance of his fellow citizens.

The remark that the lunatics have taken over the asylum is so often ribald and throwaway that it neuters itself. But here, with this gang, it has profound relevance although, sadly, it is not just the asylum, it is a country, for all its flaws, once great, that is hijacked into despair and ignominy.

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, the beggars are coming to town,
some in rags and some in jags and one in a velvet gown.(Ancient Polish post-Plague street song.)

10:56 AM, February 17, 2008