stanislav, a young polish plumber said...Gordon Brown on Arms and the Man.

stanislav, a young polish plumber said...

Anonymous said...
Your blog is getting boring Guido. Where the fuck is that Scotch legendary hero McTwat? Does anybody know?

June 10, 2008 2:49 PM


He appears in this brief aide memoire, below.



Gordon Brown on Arms and the Man.

Those made hospital-sick by starvation rations and cruel treatment were singled-out by their gallant and noble captors. Men with crippling dysentery, unable to labour further under the knotted rope-ends of ignorant, vicious Japanese peasant-soldiers had their bodies and faces slashed with bamboo canes; thirsty, hungry, bleeding and diseased, they were repeatedly kicked and jumped upon, cruelly used by their jovial Bushido warrior custodians, beaten half to death. Some were honoured, obscenely, with a ritual beheading into a moist jungle grave; some, despite their comrades' pleadings, were buried alive.

It is said that for every sleeper laid on the infamous Burma-Siam railroad an Allied POW died, from starvation, thirst, beatings, neglect, torture; sick, emaciated, choleric, defenceless soldiers, flogged, battered and beheaded by those with whom, in the words of the UK prime minister last week,

"we have enjoyed a one hundred and fifty year diplomatic relationship. "

To Don't mention the debt mountain, Don't mention the bent donors, Don't mention Northern Rock, Don't mention l'holocaust de nos jours in Iraq, to Don't mention the snot-eating, Gordon Brown, MP, now adds Hush, child, Don't mention the war.

It is all a long time ago and even those who were there, distressed by their memory, recoiled from speaking of it. A few scapegoated monsters were hanged but there's not much can be done for veterans, survivors of such sustained, enculturated, depraved barbarity and that, of course - not much - is exactly what the UK political caste, ever busy enriching itself and its families, setting itself ever further beyond the law, has done, these last sixty years. Less than not much is what Gordon Brown, cowardly, shameless warmonger, did, last week.

Like most of his bumbling, sticky-fingered crew, Gordon Brown has never had a proper job, let alone worn a uniform; a period of extended studentship, a dalliance with the BBC and thereafter Gordon has been kept by the subscribers to the Labour party, the taxpayer, by wealthy donors and associates seeking favour and advancement.

Notably - until the shame grew overwhelming in the light of the first of many unpunished Mandelson offences - Gordon Brown was the kept man of the revolting Gigolo Geoff Robinson, Brown's "office" funded by Geoff's spoils from his lucrative, old widow liason; apartments rented and dinners bought from Geoff's overseas bank accounts; Robinson, as well as being generous to every hustler in the NewLabour brothel, was, coincidentally, the only person Brown, in power, could find to fill the office of Paymaster General but as we saw with Mandy, Geoff, Gordon, Tony and Imelda, 'tis a terrible thing when thieves fall out, doubly so when Secretary Mandy is responsible for investigating the conduct of Robinson, a man who had bunged him a trifling, easily forgotten, third of a million pounds.

Gordon Brown, though he would deny them thrice, has since found other dodgy sources of funding, whilst for more than ten years sermonising to us with increasingly fevered bombast on the right thing and on values and on vision. His right thing, his values and his vision the only possible prescription for all the ills and sins of the World, his moral compass the only one properly calibrated; his malign, preachy, pushy father; his hothouse schooldays, his obsessive ambition, his bizarre and unnatural, stagey, late middle-aged parenthood, his lifelong bullying, his dishonest, plotting, conniving, secretive, paranoid, sexually repressed, presbyterian freakishness all spun, preposterously, as evidence of average guy normalcy. Hush, child, he is not their grand-daddy, he's their daddy.

Gordon Brown's is a terrible, cataclysmic narcissism which dooms to shabby ruination not just his own bloated, self-aggrandising and adolescent folies de grandeur but the entire nation, all of us, the unvalued war dead, the cheated war wounded; the neglected, extorted dying, their houses appropriated to pay for Mr and Mrs Balls' second home; the living, hectored, barracked, moralised to by Blair GrannyBabes like Hodge and Jowell, yes, and the QueenGrannyBabe herself, Imelda Blair, the thieving, insatiably money-grubbing baggage; the unborn, both experimented-upon and carelessly extinguished. Brown's life-long mental disorders threaten us all.


As with most of his pampered, faux socialist ilk, Gordon Brown's right thing, when it comes to Tommy, is to send him, ill-equipped and underpaid, to fight US gangster capitalism's bandit wars; to get his arse shot off and lie in some shithole hospital, unvisited, unrecognised, chivvied and cheated by moral Titans, like Bob Ainsworth and his boss, Des Jock Browne, the dynamic Brownite duo from the Ministry of Cut-Price Defeat, a pair of over-elevated career cowards who would - Ainsworth a depressingly vulgar, trade union punk and Browne a Glasgow lawyer in a cheap suit - stifle all criticism, even that from HM Coroner.

Brown's contempt for the simple courage of ordinary blokes flashes neon bright in his appointment of Browne - in a time of massive, dangerous, full-time UK military commitment - as part-time Secretary of Defence. Browne's feeble, nit-picking intellect would see him struggling with anything requiring more than the bully's odious skills, that he is charged with coralling a rebellious Scotland whilst overseeing our participation in two conflicts at the other side of the world is a testament not to his meagre abilities, but to his master's contempt for those who really do serve.

The Jap atrocities do date, in truth, from a long time ago but some survivors live still. We can guess what they made of Gordon Brown's hundred and fifty year diplomatic history remarks, being enslaved, starved, beaten, bayonetted and buried alive is a peculiar form of diplomacy, perhaps; beheading lawful prisoners of war not exactly an entente cordiale.

Gordon Brown, though, in squeaky tandem with the Jap premier, lays such ghosts; they, Brown and Fukuda, fanatical incompetents both, have right decisions to make in the long-term interests of hard-working British and Japanese families as they are buffeted by the effects of the American credit crunch and by global economic turbulence. Hush, child, don't mention the repossessions.

Gordon Brown, son of a bullying, censorious clergyman and a bullying, censorious coward himself, flees, shredding his nails, his bowels a-flutter, from any sign of trouble; you wouldn't want him in your fox-hole or your lifeboat. Gordon Brown thinks that if he doesn't mention something it has ceased to exist; that if he does something it can only be the right thing; stealing our liberties, our money, our identity, even our history, Gordon is doing these things and they are, quad erat demonstrandum, the right thing. The impudent Blair claimed he would never do anything wrong; the deranged Brown, from within his Fuhrer complex, insists that his every ruinous, imbecilic, catastrophic misjudgement is right. He was born to be right. Hush, child, don't mention the economy.

With HM Forces operating in two theatres it would not have been amiss for Gordon Brown to have said to his Japanese counterpart, just for instance, Terrible things happened to our servicemen, but now we are friends and partners; he might even have said, We had the horrors of Japanese mistreatment of our men and you had the horrors of Hirsohima and Nagasaki, Sorrow and Shame have been companions to us both, thus mitigating any possible offence while publicly acknowledging the suffering and sacrifice of men now in their eighties and nineties - and, by extension, commending those serving currently, to vaguer purpose.

Gordon, though, his own gilded, pampered, charmed, idler's path fought for and cleared by tortured-to-death or now-tired, old Tommies, is far too cowardly for that and proferred, instead, a revisionist history; our continuing one hundred and fifty year accord with the Nip almost a testament to his own powers, his own values, learnt in the manse. Hush child, don't mention history, history is whatever Uncle Gordon wants it to be.

Here is a bizarre figure; grinning his bleachy grin, he welcomed the Chinese secret service thugs shoving him around in his own frontyard but like a big girly shied away from touching the torch they displayed, I'm not touching that big thing; he signed the Lisbon Treaty but deliberately arrived late, as if doing it after everyone else had gone wasn't really doing it at all; it isn't really a treaty at all, just a wee bit of paperwork, nothing really, see, I am doing the right thing. As always. Hush, child, don't mention the referendum.

Throughout the 'thirties and into the 'forties Japan launched an imperialistic blitzkrieg all over the Pacific and waged a cruel, savage war against all in its path, allied to and exending the domination of the Jew-gassing, fascist master race, Japan's hideous, Samurai hoodlum bullshit was deployed without conscience against babies, women, children and prisoners of war. Hush, child, don't mention the bayonets.


To see Gordon Brown stand in 10 Downing Street, in the crumpled cloth of serial cowardice and back-stabbing treachery, flashing his sick, bleached, paranoia demons' smile; his monsterclaw of compulsive emphasis, rat-a-tat-tatting on the lectern with a spastic life of its own; over-medicated, gulping, charmless, stuttering his clapped-out, delusional junkyard mantra and describe our relationship with this nation, Japan, as a one hundred and fifty year diplomatic accord is a sight to chill the blood.

In taking the right decisions for the long-term interests of hard-working British families, Gordon Brown now even decides what is in history and what is inconvenient. Ich bin eine dish of sushi.


Jack and Tom were Yorkshire mates. Jack finished the war liberating, if that's the word, the Nazi-Axis death camps as part of the RAMC; Tom, emaciated, broken and terrified, flew home from the Far East in the belly of a bomber; both were decent, ordinary Labour party voters; not, for them, medals and parades, not for them high office and baubles in the Westminster dignitaries whorehouse; just a family struggle to make ends meet in the austere fifties, bring the kids up decent. Age did not weary them, nor the years condemn for Death arrived early, summoned, maybe, by their service in arms to their country, their dreams grotesque, their bodies and spirits plundered of health and vigour and optimism.


Their memory then and their service, airbrushed away for a soundbite; their nation now subsumed by ruse and dodge and artifice into a subjugated, tyrannised by consumerism, neo-socialist reich which they fought to oppose. In the morning and in the evening and at the going down of the Sun, Gordon, we may be sure, will not remember them. Hush, child, the prime minister is listening to voices in his head.

Despite his wheezing, discordant choir of praise-singers in cabinet, at the BBC and in the school magazine that is the Rusbridger Guardian, mad dreams must plague him, dreams of no return, waking in the early dawn; his cheating heart, his chiselling ambition brings not longed-for, Kennedyesque stature and glamour and flattery and compliment but derision, insult, affront, contempt, slur and slander; no jibe too cheap, no innuendo too far-fetched, no mockery too cruel as his bright, shiny ambition, realised, alas, far too late, rusts swiftly before his rheumy eye.

The man with no nails, the man with no choices, the man with no money, the man with no hope, his fatuous cliches rejected, his flaws derided, his candidates humiliated, his books remaindered, his rocking horse cavalry hamstrung and gutshot.

What we need, of course - and bugger the braying, barrowboy, Tory oiks and their larcenous spawn, all revealed afresh as ever-thieving, whoremongering spivs, led by worthless, arrogant, public school hooligans - is a spontaneous general strike, a mutiny, a downing of tools and arms, a withholding of taxes until we are delivered a referendum and a general election which should sweep away the scum of every shabby political hue and instal, instead, an avenging regiment of genuine no-quarter independents. What we need is Up against the wall, motherfuckerism. Cowards, thieves, spivs, demagogues, charlatans, ponces, pimps and whores; Labour, Tory or the Cleggies, doesn't matter a shit, that's what they are, that, egged on by the reptiles in the press, is what they do. How long can it be before we hear them cry, You! the one good apple left in here, you spoil it for all us bad apples.

And, for now, at the top of the shitpile, Gordon Brown, besieged by failure, scandal, corruption and incompetence, your country doesn't want you, your stooges and lackeys and maids and minders in parliament don't want you; your bankrupt, deserted party doesn't want you, even your presbyterian Jock fatherland - and Scotland, God knows, accepts the most worthless, throwaway rubbish as entertainers, artists, sportspersons, journalists and politicians - doesn't want you.

A ranting, bad-tempered, unstable, maladjusted, non-legitimised and loathed despot, everything you touch turns to shit, everyone you champion stumbles. People with no axe to grind writhe in embarrassment at your lies, your blameshifting evasions, as though daily, after eleven years as head of UK domestic policy, you are confronted by fresh Thatcher depradations, as though while you are lifting every child into debt or imprisonment or illiteracy the historic policies of Nigel Lawson or Keith Joseph snap malevolently at your reforming ankles.

You are the Four Horsepersons of National Apocalypse, meshed and melded into one gibbering, spluttering fool; a pasty, jowly, repulsive, aged clown, no bright young thing, you, but a mug, suckered by your predecessor into being his fall guy, his lightning conductor, his dummy. Never mind re-writing and sanitising history, try doing just one good, uncalculated, unselfich deed before you die and in the name of God, come out, Gordon, and then, handsomely rewarded for your life of utter madness, fuck off.

June 10, 2008 3:49 PM