Welcome to another thoroughly deserved thrashing for everyone across the giddy spectrum of fanciful politics and fascist tendencies. Today’s episode includes Theresa May lost in space, Bob Geldof lost in his own plot, Anna Soubry lost in the mists of Barry Sheerman, Jeremy Hunt lost in admiration, and Tom Moriarty lost in a heap of MarchForMe tags. Their loss is your gain.
If there is one thing above all that social media show us, it is that madness comes in an infinite variety of forms. The only thing digital discussion cannot tell us is precisely how long the madness has existed: did it quietly mature over a lifetime, or was it the result of recently added internet catalysts?
In serious cases such as Alistair Campbell and Baron Adonis, we have the evidence of thirty to forty years of pernicious surreality in public life to suggest that they’ve been on Planet Tonto since infancy. With people like Theresa May (who, like Jim Hacker, lucked into thoroughly undeserved elevation) things are rather less clear. We may never know whether she has simply been cast off from the space rocket like a spent Third Stage booster; or if she’s actually inside the capsule’s padded walls with others, and – having at last begun the journey to Planet Tonto – hasn’t got the oxygen turned on high enough.
Her most recent tweet isn’t that helpful:
One’s first thought is that – if she really does have any serious faith in this as an appeal – she is already at least 50 billion light years from Earth. But then I wondered: does she perhaps not realise she’s been dumped by NASA, is now hurtling towards terra firma, and is nothing more than a piece of useless political space junk?
I’m still baffled.
I am, however, in no state of confusion when it comes to Gob Bellend – as you can probably tell by the deeply abusive and soon-to-be-illegal nature of the pet-name I give him these days:
Of all the severe disappointments with human character in my life, Gob Bellend is high up in the Top Ten. In the 1980s and on into the Band Aid phenomenon, for myself and my first wife he was a hero. Then he married an idiot, saddled his children with daft names, turned into a full-on middle aged moaner, and (worst of all) became a leading member of the Show Business Order of Wishful Unthinking Twats – aka, the WUTs.
The penultimate nail in Gob’s DIY intellectual coffin was his predictably untutored decision to become a Remainer activist. As Saint Gob and the subtle absorption of relevant information are not so much strangers as distantly related species, nobody was especially surprised as he variously used obscene harangues, two-fingered expressions of derision and fantasy ideas of “our European Union” in putting together his incoherent “case” for staying in the European Supranational Socialist Fiskalunion.
The final nail for me, however, is the way in which – like all ideologically fixated bullies – Bellend has now enthusiastically joined hands with the virtue-signalling choir of Hell’s Angels busy trying to undermine, smash and then vapourise the popular vote to leave the EU he so admires from a safe distance.
Musicians, he avers, will “have no voice” (gerritt?) in Europe or globally if we leave the Brussels camp. The Beatles conquered Europe and the entire globe between 1962 and 1966 before there was an EU, an internet or even the concept of globalist business.
Gob Bellend is as replete with unpleasant ordures as he always was. And a diamond-tipped sellout to boot. Or is that jackboot? We cannot know for sure, but we do know he doesn’t like Mondays. I sincerely hope that I have ruined Monday for this unspeakable rat.
The élite Remainers are never going to let go of their objective – which is, spookily enough, to remain in the EU – and they have no reticence at all when it comes to making this clear to the 17.4 million majority whom they now wish to ignore. They are not, needless to say, good at dealing with anyone else being frank about them:
Barry Sheerman is a Labour MP who spent four years as a Shadow Home Office minister (so he’s infected with the Thought Crime agenda) and worked on a cross Party group preparing for monetary union (so he’s a frustrated EC federalist). Like Soubry, he believes the only important voting The People do is for him: all other votes can be overturned at will, on the grounds that some politicians lied. But only the Leavers, mind.
I’ve no idea how the police reacted, but his response to an accurate description of Soubry (barely even harsh, let alone abusive) only confirms my view that, once Wollaston’s appalling Stalking Bill has sailed breezily through Parliament – complete with fluffy lines about online abuse – people like Sheerman might as well have a bunkbed down at the local Nick, so he can make complaints in person, and thus save on the phone bills he no doubt charges to the taxpayers.
Indeed, it is right that Barry Sheerman should step from the shadows and into the limelight, for he is that man who said, “The truth is that when you look at who voted to remain, most of them were the better educated people in our country.” And when you look at who voted for him, the giveaway is knuckle-marks on the polling station floor.
Westminster is full of half-baked ideological control freaks from the ranks of otherwise unemployable academics, legals and parliamentary assistants. Mr Sheerman is a censorious fool, and WollyTory’s Bill is his idea of a wet dream.
Jeremy Hunt, by contrast, is more of a wet nightmare. He is a nightmare for anyone who cares about a society in which the aim is the greatest fulfillment of the greatest number; and he is a damp toady up Theresa’s anus horribilis, while scheming in the background to be her replacement. This complete heap of Uriah below is typical of The Chosen One:
Well Jezzer, if you saw something – anything – special, humorous, passionate, stylish, firm, clear or convincing in what the Dancing Queen had to say, I’d imagine you must spend your time listening to some very, very boring people. Like J J Lewis for example, or James Murdoch. Your brother. Baroness Nettlestone. Mike Elms. People with funny handshakes on the British Council. I couldn’t possibly comment.
But enough of these dark, intriguing references to a Slimeball past of hereditary capitalism; let us end on a degree of brainless hilarity. When Tom Moriarty (FBPE, SNAFU, IS & Bar) first popped above my broad horizons, I thought he was a parody account. But it’s impossible to parody Tom. He is four stops further up the line from Parody. He is that hairy man sitting in the waiting room of Bubblebrain-on-Sea with his tablet, tweeting away 24/7. He is at the end of the line. If only it was the End of the Line for Tom.
Apart from a few exceptions like Baron Adonis & Claire Hepworth, he towers above all others who aspire to the industrial manufacture of prolific poppycock:
Innt maths brirriant, eh? It can turn a tag into an activist, rather than the bone-idle mouthy git who necked too many pints of Old Djugashvilli last night, and thus didn’t make it to the March for the People’s Vote.
You can see how the Nazarene did it, can’t yer, eh? Eh? He had three loaves, two fishes, and 4,995 tags saying Eat Me.
Why be old when you could be young? Why be starving when you can be fed? Why be small when you can be big? When Jeremy of Nazareth is around, everything is possible. With the exception of him being on the March himself as such, as he isn’t pro-EU, and doesn’t want a Remain option on the ballot paper. At least, that was the situation up to and including John McDonnell’s Conference speech. And then it sort of wasn’t. Or was it?
Has many a muckle Moriarty had an enquiry from Jesus of Islington? “Beezer idea Thomas – sorry can’t be there, busy attending Jewish funerals”.
But Tom is pure FBPE: unyielding, unseeing, unkempt, unfathomable and underage, he is Fuck Brexit People Everywhere through and through.
So Forward to the Future Comrades – I have seen the future, and it’s full of berks.
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