stanislav said...Talking of the MSM and its high moral tone.

stanislav said...

Talking of the MSM and its high moral tone. As the great humanitarian and penal reformer, Conrad, Lord Black of the Trannygraph begins his academic research in a Florida nick, a large swathe of the UK press - mouthy turds like Heffer and Field Marshal Hastings; hacks like Daley, Marrin, Moore, Evans and the nutter Steyn should congratulate themselves on their investigative, journalistic prowess, so sharp, so vigilant, so investigative that they all worked for a serious international criminal for years and never suspected a thing.

Politicians all across the world, too, la Thatch and that fucking unspeakable cunt Kissinger, they deserve a pat on the back for their moral judgement, their perspicacity. Funny how all these upright, moralising, cheap cocksuckers can find acres of space, hours of parliamentary time to damn and hound a single parent’s benefit fraud and yet were queuing, shuffling along on their knees before this delusional, facetious bullyboy.

Next time Heffer the prick is huffing and puffing about the awful immorality of the poor, next time revolting bully Hastings, like Black a pretend historian, a pretend journalist, is shouting the odds about personal responsibility maybe one of DimblebyCorp might ask them why it was that they, for all their proximity and acuity, could not, like Joe Public, detect that their employer, pussy-whipped, vain and obnoxious, was spending far more than he was earning and that maybe, just maybe, he was nicking it off other people. If they can’t, in short, spot a thief in their midst what the fuck use are they, gossiping and bitching, lobbying and whispering. C’mon Heffer, you fat, sermonising freak. Tell us how you were always uneasy about Black

The chuckling Boy-Man, Hague, it was, who ennobled this bombastic horrorshow, Black; John Currie-Major wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole. Perhaps the Shadow Foreign Secretary and Ffffffffion and Lord Seb may get down Florida way and pop in, bung Conrad a few dollars, keep him quiet, be nice to reverse the process.

Misled by Campbell, Blair and Scarlett; misled by nasty donors, misled by thieving Black and his jaundiced harpy, Amiel; acting in good faith at all times, never doing anything wrong; gosh, in the media-political nexus such friends we have; tarts and slags and pimps and nonces, thieves and bullies; cheats and extortionists, war criminals and murderers, what a fucking shower.

In any event, given the ensuing dictatorship of PresbyterianLabour, Black was spending in the wrong end of the brothel; if only he had bought his respectability from Michael Kneepads White, Toilets Maguire and Polly Mascara; his protection from Nancy Brown and Miranda Blair instead of Thatcher, ChuckleBoyHague and the reprobate Kissinger, His Lordship would probably still have been here, fawned on by those who lecture, harangue, barrack, bully and extort from the rest of us. Shielded by learned jurists like wotsisname, that sour old Ulsterman , Hutton, that’s it, their Lordships would have been happy to support their noble gang mate. Lessons would be learned, no-one would be prosecuted.

Shitting all over the bold Field Marshal Hastings, Black ran the op-ed pages of the Trannygraph as though it was his personal toilet wall - embarrassing, old man fetishism about his grasping old Mrs, Amiel and strident abuse of any who differed from his world view. Immodest as ever, this gabshite poltroon enters the nick, protesting the injustice of it all, proclaiming his talent, his success, his character, his entitlements. People like Steyn shrill hysterically that Black gave me lotsa money, therefore he is a great man. Max Hastings, in his deep brown voice would roar of his own personal integrity, valour and wisdom. Charles Moore, closeted for decades on his dull Thatcher biography will, if pressed, simper soothing, self-exculpatory words. Nobody will be to blame.

This press gang, this cocksucking, shit-eating, bestial, venal, self-congratulatory, inebriate, thieving, vengeful, pseudo-priesthood, intercedes, they say, on our behalf, with our masters, and interprets for us, without accreditation, the subtleties of matters too vast and complex for our ordinary minds; holding to account, invigilating, scrutinising. We need a press gang, they say, to get to the bottom of things, keep things up to scratch; only not, of course, when, dazzled by a rancid creep like Black, they are being paid, buckets, to look the other way.

Never mind Dave Call-Me-Tony-If-It-Helps Cameron et al reforming the sewer in which they swim; time for a period of sustained Up Against The Wall Motherfuckerism.

11:49 AM, March 04, 2008