Is Gordon Brown delusional or a liar?
Discussion
Gordon Brown said:
I called for global financial reform ten years ago" - Prime Minister Gordon Brown during his speech on Britain and the Global economy at the Foreign Press Association claimed today that he had been warning for ten years that the international financial markets needed to be more strongly regulated.
Source: Press Association, January 26, 2009Gordon Brown said:
by moving away from the old blanket approach, of 100 per cent form-filling and 100 per cent inspection that is inefficient and wasteful of your time, to a new approach based on risk… And I believe, too, we should consider how we can continue to extend our risk-based approach, applying the concept of risk not just to the enforcement of regulation, but also to the design and indeed to the decision as to whether to regulate at all… And we will take the fight on deregulation to Europe.
Source: Speech to the CBI, 5 June 5, 2006guido
Gordon Brown said:
I Called for finacial reform 10 years ago
timesEdited by jesusbuiltmycar on Tuesday 27th January 11:40
Best rant ever from Guido Fawkes...
Early on, Brown’s fevered parliamentary bombast rang alarm bells; here was, by his own account, the cleverest boy in the school, not elucidating – as, with a huge majority, he could, comfortably - or amplifying his proposals but instead shouting, patronising, ranting, declaiming; offering not an explanation but a deathly mantra of unverifiable self-compiled, dodgy data, offering some fanciful, cast-in-stone economic tests, as though they were holy scripture or - more menacingly, prophetically - as if from some little red book of Chairman Gordon’s Thoughts; a waterfall of tractor production statistics and five-year plans cascaded from the despatch box, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each dubious claim; not a chink of questioning, heretical light could be allowed in on the fabulous economic wizardry taking place, right before your very eyes, ladeezangennulmen, alchemy, perpetual motion, the philosopher’s stone, the holy grail, the lost chord, the fountain of eternal youth, time travel and a cure for the common cold and an end to boom and bust; Brownism was the way, the truth and the light, however maladroit, deceitful and dark its progenitor. Queries were met by heavyweight, oppressive, deeply unattractive, bullying, I-Know-Best motor-mouthing; how dare you ask me questions, me,my way is the right way, my things are the right things to do, don’t you know I am Napoleon, l’Empereur fou?
Some, outside of the blinkered, incestuous, charmed circle of White-Hefferism, deploying meagre mental arithmetic rather than self-interest, never bought Brown’s s
t. Those who effortlessly and without a shred of shame peddled the Golden Chancellor with the Snotty Iron Fist have a ******ing cheek publishing, now, their condemnation, beating their pissed-up breasts as though they warned us all along. *****, all of them. Like Mao's Revolutionary Guards, up and down the land - McWhirter in the Jock Herald, White in the Guardian, Trevor Beard in the Sun and the Gruesome Undead at the Telegraph all assured a succession of NewLabour general election victories, warming their poxed-up arses in front of Brown’s bonfire of the money, peddling lazy journalism and hosannahing themselves all over the airwaves.
Son of the ******ing Manse-ing - as though a life-long adolescence informed by the sanctimonious, hypocritical, tight-lipped, disapproving, miserly tyranny of Godless, heathen ******* Presbyterianism equipped him to save the world - Brown foisted himself on us through Succession, McWhirter's phrase, through some feudal droit de Seigneur; an insane, Voices In the Head, ongoing dialogue with his dead, domineering clergyman father about their shared, timeless sense of Vaaal-ewes, their Sol-you-shuns were paraded to the nation as evidence of his Messianic suitability to become and remain the unelected prime minister. Brown's bogus spirituality, learned among the hate-filled, fork-tongued, tight-fisted, sour-faced, wife-beating, red-faced, greedybd freemason sonsa******ingbhes of Fife was deemed to bypass any need for a democratic process. Brown, his teeth Domestosed and his collars starched made himself over, like some bloated daytime TV housewife. The hallmark of his competence, urged the Man With No Nails, was Trust me, I am mad. Delusions, voices, self-harm, infantilism, the works, ga-ga-ga-ga-ga. Affirm me, he blustered, fearful of an election, not by normal democratic means but on my performance over the coming months, years and impoverished, breadline decades.
As Blair’s domestic prime minister, Brown’s vile, bullying hostility, his battering to death of enquiry or legitimate, parliamentary scepticism - not that there are too many megawatt searchlights on the Tory benches - was, as anyone could see, an alien response, far beyond normal politics, this was crippling egomania, obsessive self-justification, his How dare you question my reality actually being a masked form of Please, for Pity’s sake, don’t question my reality. Talking, at night, to his Daddy, one imagined Brown claiming to have seen-off another impudent challenge to his brilliance, the ******ing headbanger.
As time has passed, indiscreet civil servants, spiteful, slighted former colleagues and Westminster gossip have belatedly and with the dubious imprimatur of the insider with nothing to lose validated our view of Brown as a mad, mad, mad control freak, a mistrustful paranoiac, a revolting bully, prone to rages and deeply, deeply unpleasant, oppressive and violent towards his subordinates, even towards such festering minds and shabby characters as Blears and the schoolboy brothers and Jowell and Hoon and the inexcusable Flint, themselves – astonishingly - more vapid, compliant, grateful and laughably incompetent than Blair’s A-Team of babes, thieves, sgs, ponces, nobodies and the Vengeful Blind; we labour now under a cabinet appointed for no other reason than that, stupid and detestable, they posed no threat to the Lunatic’s, snot-encrusted, nail-bitten, spasming grasp on power.
Ignoring, however, his massively disordered personality and making no mention of his freakish bloatedness and discomfort in his own skin; his nail-biting, snot-eating habits, his unnaturally late marriage and parenthood, nor of the public – body language - dissonance between he and his wife (not given to public displays of affection, Presbyterians. Well. Not the closet ones, anyway) a personality-neutral examination of Brown’s ministerial and prime ministerial conduct alone reveals not only a mind at war with Reason but an immature character intent, hell-bent, on conscripting the rest of humanity to his madbd Triumph of the Delusions. Like a Lilliputian courtier he condemns himself from his own mad mouth, he may just as well bark as speak, for all the sense he makes. Listen:
“This week I am uniquely placed to un-****** last week’s ******-ups, and next week, guess what - a–ha-ha-ha -, I will be the only person capable of un-******ing this week’s ******-ups which I will not have made, even though, obviously, I did.
The ******-ups, you see, when they regularly occur, are not my responsibility but someone else’s, even though I am rigidly in charge, doing the right thing and taking the tough decisions, for you anyway, waking in the middle of the night to devise more ******-ups and obviously, therefore, only I can un-****** them.
It is because of me that we are uniquely well-placed to withstand the global economic turbulence for which I am not responsible even though I was its cheerleader, its veritable stormfront-in-chief; it is because of my competence at being incompetent that even though I say we are uniquely well-placed to weather these storms, we are actually the nation most buffeted by them and this is why you should, if I permit you, vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for an eternal Groundhog ******-up Day. Each day you get up, it’ll be the same ******-up and the same proposed un-******ing. Day after glorious, ******ed-up day. I’m in charge, I have been in charge for twelve years, everything’s ******ed, everything; nothing works and there is no money, therefore, obviously, I should stay in charge, who could doubt it?
Stuff like this, it needs a head-banging, eat his own st, barking at the moon, scratch himself until he’s bleeding, the drugs don’t touch him, lock him up for his own protection madman to sort this lot out. Let me explain, encouraged by me, the banks did too much lending – the more money they loaned to people who would never in a million years pay it back, the more money they were able to pay themselves - and as the people did too much borrowing and spending this caused the High St boom in tat and rubbish shipped in from the Chinese who now own all the real money, and probably some of the gold which I prudently gave away for ****** all but none, obviously, of my special, made-up, imaginary money. Which I keep as a National Currency Reserve. In my mind.
This lending and spending carry-on caused the ******-up, for which someone else and not me is responsible, even though at the time it wasn’t a ******-up but a miracle for which I was, then but only then, responsible. But that is then and this was now. Isn’t it?
Just because it was wrong then, even though it wasn’t, doesn’t mean its wrong now, even though it is. You see, citizens, what is isnae, and what isnae is. And anybody disagreeing is talking down the country and my prudent stewardship of it, which has seen unprecedented stable economic growth, schoolsandhospitals which are prudently on the never-never and an end to boom and bust and not, as some claim, an economy drowning in st up to its nostrils and sinking fast, which it isn’t and that is why President Barack Obama thinks I am wonderful. Which I am. My father tells me most nights. You ken when I was a wee boy, living an ordinary life, banged-up with a bullying religious maniac I learned the Vaaal-ewe of a good sermon every Sunday, blaming the parishioners and demanding money from them and I've always tried to live up to that very special lesson I learned; blame other people, threaten them, bully them, frighten them and take their money from them and spend it better.
If it is now, now, so to speak, I am now going to give the banks some of my special money, more money than there, in fact, is. Or ever was. But only on the basis that they again lend it to people who can’t pay it back but can only spend it, or to businesses which because of somebody else in America or someone else's fault are, for the foreseeable future ******ed and don't actually need any money but just need to be wound-up, thanks to me, and by doing all this,just like before, make the economy strong again, even though it is very strong now, it’s just that there is no money and soon there will be no jobs. Do you understand?
I will explain. I am going to give imaginary money to the banks so that they can lend it to poor, no longer hard-working families and no longer small but instead failed businesses who will never pay it back and when that doesn’t work then my next big idea will be to take everybody’s personal debt and sell it to the banks, which I shall by then own myself and when my banks don’t pay me for all the personal debt I have given them I will just print some more imaginary money and think of something else to do, maybe the best thing to do will be to nationalise the money of those who have saved instead of patriotically spending and give it to somebody else, thus making a level and competitive playing field to help us out of the Recession, which it isn't but only a Downturn and not by any means my fault. The thing is, with the press you can say any old rubbish and they'll print it. Othewise we won't let them in the Lobby. Or let them buy us lunch.
The thing with money, d’you see, is that if you run out of it, you just make-up some more pretend money; not everybody, obviously, where would we be, my Goodness, if people could just make up money, invent it? That wouldnae be very Prudent. Ho-ho-ho. But me, the country’s premier, financial wizard and economics hardman, war leader, social scientist, author, statesman and fruit-and-nutcase, I should be able to magic some money up.
It is by printing mountains of pretend money and throwing it all over the electorate that I will prove that, even though the money rapidly becomes less than worthless, the wrong thing - burning all the proper money and giving away all the gold, making everybody unemployed and homeless - was actually the right thing to do. Even though if it was, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Which we aren’t. More is more when there is more but equally, when there isn’t any more, like now, then less is more, you see. Poverty, the new wealth. Trust me; I’m as mad as a ******ing hatter.
WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHO WILL GRASP THE THISTLE?
Economic and financial contra-analyses, by public figures and commentators, of Brown’s ever more bizarre and destructive, one final push, over by Christmas, soundbite strategems take no regard of his affliction and contaminate the national survival argument.
There is no dealing with a nutter, no point engaging with him, engagement is his victory; engagement permits Look, Listen, I will give you a lesson in free market economics, told to me in days of yore by men of the Northlands and for which, by the way, being a workshy, closet homosexual Scotch lunatic and totalitarianist, I have neither training nor aptitude, even so I will talk tractor production statistics at you until your nose bleeds and your bowels curdle. And by my effortless mastery of this made-up nonsense shall I, Noggin the Nog, render you speechless.
If only the Leader of the Opposition had any meaningful life experience he would know that in disputing with Brown the minutiae of his madness he plays to his snotty strength. Saving his ire for a worthless and redundant PMQs, observed only by drunken journalists and lonesome obsessives, David Does My BaldSpot Show Cameron wastes his time and betrays the nation, which cannot but see him as Brown’s Yah-Boo stooge in this unveiling disaster. Sadly, Cameron, a catastrophically over-promoted airhead, himself starting to pout and mince and play to the gallery of reptiles, combing his hair this way and that, dragooning bloated self-satisfied geriatrics to his cause, adds to the national woe, is good, as we say in Scotland, for ****** all; his strategy is Hang On Sloopy, hang on, while the country slides into a sea of st, and hope to win an election. Lacking all the talents save spin, Cameron, a Blair/Brown Lite, feels he should be prime minister, not because he can bring anything to the post, but because he wants to be and if he hangs on long enough then, through Buggins’ Turn, he will be.
The Liberal Democrats – Good God, what are they good for? Absolutely nothing - huff and puff on the basis that they have in their slender, copraphiliac ranks the Sage of Last Resort. Jesus Wept, this tired old clown, Cable, pretends to the Wisdom of Solomon for lamely trotting-out, as though it were the Unified Field Theory of Everything, the everyday talk of any working man’s club or public bar. You can’t fund a country on artificially inflated house prices. Simple. Job done. But Quick-stepping Vince, Newsnight after Newsnight after Newsnight would have us believe this is Nobel Prize Economics. And in the stupid, insular, up their own arses world of Mediaminster, they believe it is, too. Oh, if only the politics fairy would make Vince Cable Chancellor. And in this worthless reflected glory Mr Nick Haircut –like Mr Cameron, the wrong man, at the wrong time, in the wrong job but possibly the right suit – stakes his claim to have a stab at ******ing things up.
Brown is safe from nitwits like these, watching their own vulnerable backs, tossing their coiffures furiously. The removal of this madman must be depoliticised, engineered from within his own ranks, in the national interest. Brown has created three thousand new imprisonable offences, three thousand; none of them apply to the ruling class or their chums in the banks, obviously, although we can be jailed for messing-up the VAT return or not paying the Ross-Wogan levy. No matter how grave his blackmail, money laudering, fraud or war crimes, how criminal his neglect, the politically-appointed career gangsters in the Met and the bent prosecutors would not countenance a move against a UK minister, let alone prime minister, such would undermine the whole shabby edifice, under which socialism sends its kids to private schools, Diane, overlooks its mortgages, Tess and employs its rentboys at the taxpayers expense, Peter. Immune from prosecution, Brown’s removal must come from the cesspit out of which, spluttering and bullying, he crawled.
Instead of preening, adjusting his cufflinks disconsolately on the Treasury Bench’s Desolation Row, instead of throwing dinner parties in his own honour, the revolting Torture Secretary, Straw, could do one good deed before he retires to wealth and self-regard; he should arrange for Brown to be extradited to a place of sanity, as much in the interests of the bad-tempered, pouting, mincing, gibbering lunatic himself as in ours.
The unelected, illegitimate prime minister of the United Kingdom, for all his Vaaal-ewes and Sol-you-shuns, is a mental case of the worst kind – no smiling, child-like idiot savant, Brown - and should be nutted-off to Rampton or Broadmoor, although, God knows, the denizens of the secure hospitals have far less blood on their hands, far fewer souls plaguing their sleep than does this hideous, gulping, stuttering, snot-eating, loathsome, cowardly warmonger. And yet, cowardly ourselves, we permit him, even now, to strut and posture; we allow Ozymandias Brown impudently to add insult to injury, to brazenly bully and hector an entire nation which he has beggared and - whilst relentlessly lecturing us from his imaginary pulpit, sermonising, stting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.
January 26, 2009 4:27 PM
Early on, Brown’s fevered parliamentary bombast rang alarm bells; here was, by his own account, the cleverest boy in the school, not elucidating – as, with a huge majority, he could, comfortably - or amplifying his proposals but instead shouting, patronising, ranting, declaiming; offering not an explanation but a deathly mantra of unverifiable self-compiled, dodgy data, offering some fanciful, cast-in-stone economic tests, as though they were holy scripture or - more menacingly, prophetically - as if from some little red book of Chairman Gordon’s Thoughts; a waterfall of tractor production statistics and five-year plans cascaded from the despatch box, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each dubious claim; not a chink of questioning, heretical light could be allowed in on the fabulous economic wizardry taking place, right before your very eyes, ladeezangennulmen, alchemy, perpetual motion, the philosopher’s stone, the holy grail, the lost chord, the fountain of eternal youth, time travel and a cure for the common cold and an end to boom and bust; Brownism was the way, the truth and the light, however maladroit, deceitful and dark its progenitor. Queries were met by heavyweight, oppressive, deeply unattractive, bullying, I-Know-Best motor-mouthing; how dare you ask me questions, me,my way is the right way, my things are the right things to do, don’t you know I am Napoleon, l’Empereur fou?
Some, outside of the blinkered, incestuous, charmed circle of White-Hefferism, deploying meagre mental arithmetic rather than self-interest, never bought Brown’s s
t. Those who effortlessly and without a shred of shame peddled the Golden Chancellor with the Snotty Iron Fist have a ******ing cheek publishing, now, their condemnation, beating their pissed-up breasts as though they warned us all along. *****, all of them. Like Mao's Revolutionary Guards, up and down the land - McWhirter in the Jock Herald, White in the Guardian, Trevor Beard in the Sun and the Gruesome Undead at the Telegraph all assured a succession of NewLabour general election victories, warming their poxed-up arses in front of Brown’s bonfire of the money, peddling lazy journalism and hosannahing themselves all over the airwaves.Son of the ******ing Manse-ing - as though a life-long adolescence informed by the sanctimonious, hypocritical, tight-lipped, disapproving, miserly tyranny of Godless, heathen ******* Presbyterianism equipped him to save the world - Brown foisted himself on us through Succession, McWhirter's phrase, through some feudal droit de Seigneur; an insane, Voices In the Head, ongoing dialogue with his dead, domineering clergyman father about their shared, timeless sense of Vaaal-ewes, their Sol-you-shuns were paraded to the nation as evidence of his Messianic suitability to become and remain the unelected prime minister. Brown's bogus spirituality, learned among the hate-filled, fork-tongued, tight-fisted, sour-faced, wife-beating, red-faced, greedyb
d freemason sonsa******ingbhes of Fife was deemed to bypass any need for a democratic process. Brown, his teeth Domestosed and his collars starched made himself over, like some bloated daytime TV housewife. The hallmark of his competence, urged the Man With No Nails, was Trust me, I am mad. Delusions, voices, self-harm, infantilism, the works, ga-ga-ga-ga-ga. Affirm me, he blustered, fearful of an election, not by normal democratic means but on my performance over the coming months, years and impoverished, breadline decades.As Blair’s domestic prime minister, Brown’s vile, bullying hostility, his battering to death of enquiry or legitimate, parliamentary scepticism - not that there are too many megawatt searchlights on the Tory benches - was, as anyone could see, an alien response, far beyond normal politics, this was crippling egomania, obsessive self-justification, his How dare you question my reality actually being a masked form of Please, for Pity’s sake, don’t question my reality. Talking, at night, to his Daddy, one imagined Brown claiming to have seen-off another impudent challenge to his brilliance, the ******ing headbanger.
As time has passed, indiscreet civil servants, spiteful, slighted former colleagues and Westminster gossip have belatedly and with the dubious imprimatur of the insider with nothing to lose validated our view of Brown as a mad, mad, mad control freak, a mistrustful paranoiac, a revolting bully, prone to rages and deeply, deeply unpleasant, oppressive and violent towards his subordinates, even towards such festering minds and shabby characters as Blears and the schoolboy brothers and Jowell and Hoon and the inexcusable Flint, themselves – astonishingly - more vapid, compliant, grateful and laughably incompetent than Blair’s A-Team of babes, thieves, s
gs, ponces, nobodies and the Vengeful Blind; we labour now under a cabinet appointed for no other reason than that, stupid and detestable, they posed no threat to the Lunatic’s, snot-encrusted, nail-bitten, spasming grasp on power. Ignoring, however, his massively disordered personality and making no mention of his freakish bloatedness and discomfort in his own skin; his nail-biting, snot-eating habits, his unnaturally late marriage and parenthood, nor of the public – body language - dissonance between he and his wife (not given to public displays of affection, Presbyterians. Well. Not the closet ones, anyway) a personality-neutral examination of Brown’s ministerial and prime ministerial conduct alone reveals not only a mind at war with Reason but an immature character intent, hell-bent, on conscripting the rest of humanity to his madb
d Triumph of the Delusions. Like a Lilliputian courtier he condemns himself from his own mad mouth, he may just as well bark as speak, for all the sense he makes. Listen:“This week I am uniquely placed to un-****** last week’s ******-ups, and next week, guess what - a–ha-ha-ha -, I will be the only person capable of un-******ing this week’s ******-ups which I will not have made, even though, obviously, I did.
The ******-ups, you see, when they regularly occur, are not my responsibility but someone else’s, even though I am rigidly in charge, doing the right thing and taking the tough decisions, for you anyway, waking in the middle of the night to devise more ******-ups and obviously, therefore, only I can un-****** them.
It is because of me that we are uniquely well-placed to withstand the global economic turbulence for which I am not responsible even though I was its cheerleader, its veritable stormfront-in-chief; it is because of my competence at being incompetent that even though I say we are uniquely well-placed to weather these storms, we are actually the nation most buffeted by them and this is why you should, if I permit you, vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for an eternal Groundhog ******-up Day. Each day you get up, it’ll be the same ******-up and the same proposed un-******ing. Day after glorious, ******ed-up day. I’m in charge, I have been in charge for twelve years, everything’s ******ed, everything; nothing works and there is no money, therefore, obviously, I should stay in charge, who could doubt it?
Stuff like this, it needs a head-banging, eat his own s
t, barking at the moon, scratch himself until he’s bleeding, the drugs don’t touch him, lock him up for his own protection madman to sort this lot out. Let me explain, encouraged by me, the banks did too much lending – the more money they loaned to people who would never in a million years pay it back, the more money they were able to pay themselves - and as the people did too much borrowing and spending this caused the High St boom in tat and rubbish shipped in from the Chinese who now own all the real money, and probably some of the gold which I prudently gave away for ****** all but none, obviously, of my special, made-up, imaginary money. Which I keep as a National Currency Reserve. In my mind. This lending and spending carry-on caused the ******-up, for which someone else and not me is responsible, even though at the time it wasn’t a ******-up but a miracle for which I was, then but only then, responsible. But that is then and this was now. Isn’t it?
Just because it was wrong then, even though it wasn’t, doesn’t mean its wrong now, even though it is. You see, citizens, what is isnae, and what isnae is. And anybody disagreeing is talking down the country and my prudent stewardship of it, which has seen unprecedented stable economic growth, schoolsandhospitals which are prudently on the never-never and an end to boom and bust and not, as some claim, an economy drowning in s
t up to its nostrils and sinking fast, which it isn’t and that is why President Barack Obama thinks I am wonderful. Which I am. My father tells me most nights. You ken when I was a wee boy, living an ordinary life, banged-up with a bullying religious maniac I learned the Vaaal-ewe of a good sermon every Sunday, blaming the parishioners and demanding money from them and I've always tried to live up to that very special lesson I learned; blame other people, threaten them, bully them, frighten them and take their money from them and spend it better.If it is now, now, so to speak, I am now going to give the banks some of my special money, more money than there, in fact, is. Or ever was. But only on the basis that they again lend it to people who can’t pay it back but can only spend it, or to businesses which because of somebody else in America or someone else's fault are, for the foreseeable future ******ed and don't actually need any money but just need to be wound-up, thanks to me, and by doing all this,just like before, make the economy strong again, even though it is very strong now, it’s just that there is no money and soon there will be no jobs. Do you understand?
I will explain. I am going to give imaginary money to the banks so that they can lend it to poor, no longer hard-working families and no longer small but instead failed businesses who will never pay it back and when that doesn’t work then my next big idea will be to take everybody’s personal debt and sell it to the banks, which I shall by then own myself and when my banks don’t pay me for all the personal debt I have given them I will just print some more imaginary money and think of something else to do, maybe the best thing to do will be to nationalise the money of those who have saved instead of patriotically spending and give it to somebody else, thus making a level and competitive playing field to help us out of the Recession, which it isn't but only a Downturn and not by any means my fault. The thing is, with the press you can say any old rubbish and they'll print it. Othewise we won't let them in the Lobby. Or let them buy us lunch.
The thing with money, d’you see, is that if you run out of it, you just make-up some more pretend money; not everybody, obviously, where would we be, my Goodness, if people could just make up money, invent it? That wouldnae be very Prudent. Ho-ho-ho. But me, the country’s premier, financial wizard and economics hardman, war leader, social scientist, author, statesman and fruit-and-nutcase, I should be able to magic some money up.
It is by printing mountains of pretend money and throwing it all over the electorate that I will prove that, even though the money rapidly becomes less than worthless, the wrong thing - burning all the proper money and giving away all the gold, making everybody unemployed and homeless - was actually the right thing to do. Even though if it was, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Which we aren’t. More is more when there is more but equally, when there isn’t any more, like now, then less is more, you see. Poverty, the new wealth. Trust me; I’m as mad as a ******ing hatter.
WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHO WILL GRASP THE THISTLE?
Economic and financial contra-analyses, by public figures and commentators, of Brown’s ever more bizarre and destructive, one final push, over by Christmas, soundbite strategems take no regard of his affliction and contaminate the national survival argument.
There is no dealing with a nutter, no point engaging with him, engagement is his victory; engagement permits Look, Listen, I will give you a lesson in free market economics, told to me in days of yore by men of the Northlands and for which, by the way, being a workshy, closet homosexual Scotch lunatic and totalitarianist, I have neither training nor aptitude, even so I will talk tractor production statistics at you until your nose bleeds and your bowels curdle. And by my effortless mastery of this made-up nonsense shall I, Noggin the Nog, render you speechless.
If only the Leader of the Opposition had any meaningful life experience he would know that in disputing with Brown the minutiae of his madness he plays to his snotty strength. Saving his ire for a worthless and redundant PMQs, observed only by drunken journalists and lonesome obsessives, David Does My BaldSpot Show Cameron wastes his time and betrays the nation, which cannot but see him as Brown’s Yah-Boo stooge in this unveiling disaster. Sadly, Cameron, a catastrophically over-promoted airhead, himself starting to pout and mince and play to the gallery of reptiles, combing his hair this way and that, dragooning bloated self-satisfied geriatrics to his cause, adds to the national woe, is good, as we say in Scotland, for ****** all; his strategy is Hang On Sloopy, hang on, while the country slides into a sea of s
t, and hope to win an election. Lacking all the talents save spin, Cameron, a Blair/Brown Lite, feels he should be prime minister, not because he can bring anything to the post, but because he wants to be and if he hangs on long enough then, through Buggins’ Turn, he will be. The Liberal Democrats – Good God, what are they good for? Absolutely nothing - huff and puff on the basis that they have in their slender, copraphiliac ranks the Sage of Last Resort. Jesus Wept, this tired old clown, Cable, pretends to the Wisdom of Solomon for lamely trotting-out, as though it were the Unified Field Theory of Everything, the everyday talk of any working man’s club or public bar. You can’t fund a country on artificially inflated house prices. Simple. Job done. But Quick-stepping Vince, Newsnight after Newsnight after Newsnight would have us believe this is Nobel Prize Economics. And in the stupid, insular, up their own arses world of Mediaminster, they believe it is, too. Oh, if only the politics fairy would make Vince Cable Chancellor. And in this worthless reflected glory Mr Nick Haircut –like Mr Cameron, the wrong man, at the wrong time, in the wrong job but possibly the right suit – stakes his claim to have a stab at ******ing things up.
Brown is safe from nitwits like these, watching their own vulnerable backs, tossing their coiffures furiously. The removal of this madman must be depoliticised, engineered from within his own ranks, in the national interest. Brown has created three thousand new imprisonable offences, three thousand; none of them apply to the ruling class or their chums in the banks, obviously, although we can be jailed for messing-up the VAT return or not paying the Ross-Wogan levy. No matter how grave his blackmail, money laudering, fraud or war crimes, how criminal his neglect, the politically-appointed career gangsters in the Met and the bent prosecutors would not countenance a move against a UK minister, let alone prime minister, such would undermine the whole shabby edifice, under which socialism sends its kids to private schools, Diane, overlooks its mortgages, Tess and employs its rentboys at the taxpayers expense, Peter. Immune from prosecution, Brown’s removal must come from the cesspit out of which, spluttering and bullying, he crawled.
Instead of preening, adjusting his cufflinks disconsolately on the Treasury Bench’s Desolation Row, instead of throwing dinner parties in his own honour, the revolting Torture Secretary, Straw, could do one good deed before he retires to wealth and self-regard; he should arrange for Brown to be extradited to a place of sanity, as much in the interests of the bad-tempered, pouting, mincing, gibbering lunatic himself as in ours.
The unelected, illegitimate prime minister of the United Kingdom, for all his Vaaal-ewes and Sol-you-shuns, is a mental case of the worst kind – no smiling, child-like idiot savant, Brown - and should be nutted-off to Rampton or Broadmoor, although, God knows, the denizens of the secure hospitals have far less blood on their hands, far fewer souls plaguing their sleep than does this hideous, gulping, stuttering, snot-eating, loathsome, cowardly warmonger. And yet, cowardly ourselves, we permit him, even now, to strut and posture; we allow Ozymandias Brown impudently to add insult to injury, to brazenly bully and hector an entire nation which he has beggared and - whilst relentlessly lecturing us from his imaginary pulpit, sermonising, s
tting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.January 26, 2009 4:27 PM
I so enjoyed this..
loafer123 said:
Best rant ever from Guido Fawkes...
Early on, Brown’s fevered parliamentary bombast rang alarm bells; here was, by his own account, the cleverest boy in the school, not elucidating – as, with a huge majority, he could, comfortably - or amplifying his proposals but instead shouting, patronising, ranting, declaiming; offering not an explanation but a deathly mantra of unverifiable self-compiled, dodgy data, offering some fanciful, cast-in-stone economic tests, as though they were holy scripture or - more menacingly, prophetically - as if from some little red book of Chairman Gordon’s Thoughts; a waterfall of tractor production statistics and five-year plans cascaded from the despatch box, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each dubious claim; not a chink of questioning, heretical light could be allowed in on the fabulous economic wizardry taking place, right before your very eyes, ladeezangennulmen, alchemy, perpetual motion, the philosopher’s stone, the holy grail, the lost chord, the fountain of eternal youth, time travel and a cure for the common cold and an end to boom and bust; Brownism was the way, the truth and the light, however maladroit, deceitful and dark its progenitor. Queries were met by heavyweight, oppressive, deeply unattractive, bullying, I-Know-Best motor-mouthing; how dare you ask me questions, me,my way is the right way, my things are the right things to do, don’t you know I am Napoleon, l’Empereur fou?
Some, outside of the blinkered, incestuous, charmed circle of White-Hefferism, deploying meagre mental arithmetic rather than self-interest, never bought Brown’s st. Those who effortlessly and without a shred of shame peddled the Golden Chancellor with the Snotty Iron Fist have a ******ing cheek publishing, now, their condemnation, beating their pissed-up breasts as though they warned us all along. *****, all of them. Like Mao's Revolutionary Guards, up and down the land - McWhirter in the Jock Herald, White in the Guardian, Trevor Beard in the Sun and the Gruesome Undead at the Telegraph all assured a succession of NewLabour general election victories, warming their poxed-up arses in front of Brown’s bonfire of the money, peddling lazy journalism and hosannahing themselves all over the airwaves.
Son of the ******ing Manse-ing - as though a life-long adolescence informed by the sanctimonious, hypocritical, tight-lipped, disapproving, miserly tyranny of Godless, heathen ******* Presbyterianism equipped him to save the world - Brown foisted himself on us through Succession, McWhirter's phrase, through some feudal droit de Seigneur; an insane, Voices In the Head, ongoing dialogue with his dead, domineering clergyman father about their shared, timeless sense of Vaaal-ewes, their Sol-you-shuns were paraded to the nation as evidence of his Messianic suitability to become and remain the unelected prime minister. Brown's bogus spirituality, learned among the hate-filled, fork-tongued, tight-fisted, sour-faced, wife-beating, red-faced, greedybd freemason sonsa******ingbhes of Fife was deemed to bypass any need for a democratic process. Brown, his teeth Domestosed and his collars starched made himself over, like some bloated daytime TV housewife. The hallmark of his competence, urged the Man With No Nails, was Trust me, I am mad. Delusions, voices, self-harm, infantilism, the works, ga-ga-ga-ga-ga. Affirm me, he blustered, fearful of an election, not by normal democratic means but on my performance over the coming months, years and impoverished, breadline decades.
As Blair’s domestic prime minister, Brown’s vile, bullying hostility, his battering to death of enquiry or legitimate, parliamentary scepticism - not that there are too many megawatt searchlights on the Tory benches - was, as anyone could see, an alien response, far beyond normal politics, this was crippling egomania, obsessive self-justification, his How dare you question my reality actually being a masked form of Please, for Pity’s sake, don’t question my reality. Talking, at night, to his Daddy, one imagined Brown claiming to have seen-off another impudent challenge to his brilliance, the ******ing headbanger.
As time has passed, indiscreet civil servants, spiteful, slighted former colleagues and Westminster gossip have belatedly and with the dubious imprimatur of the insider with nothing to lose validated our view of Brown as a mad, mad, mad control freak, a mistrustful paranoiac, a revolting bully, prone to rages and deeply, deeply unpleasant, oppressive and violent towards his subordinates, even towards such festering minds and shabby characters as Blears and the schoolboy brothers and Jowell and Hoon and the inexcusable Flint, themselves – astonishingly - more vapid, compliant, grateful and laughably incompetent than Blair’s A-Team of babes, thieves, sgs, ponces, nobodies and the Vengeful Blind; we labour now under a cabinet appointed for no other reason than that, stupid and detestable, they posed no threat to the Lunatic’s, snot-encrusted, nail-bitten, spasming grasp on power.
Ignoring, however, his massively disordered personality and making no mention of his freakish bloatedness and discomfort in his own skin; his nail-biting, snot-eating habits, his unnaturally late marriage and parenthood, nor of the public – body language - dissonance between he and his wife (not given to public displays of affection, Presbyterians. Well. Not the closet ones, anyway) a personality-neutral examination of Brown’s ministerial and prime ministerial conduct alone reveals not only a mind at war with Reason but an immature character intent, hell-bent, on conscripting the rest of humanity to his madbd Triumph of the Delusions. Like a Lilliputian courtier he condemns himself from his own mad mouth, he may just as well bark as speak, for all the sense he makes. Listen:
“This week I am uniquely placed to un-****** last week’s ******-ups, and next week, guess what - a–ha-ha-ha -, I will be the only person capable of un-******ing this week’s ******-ups which I will not have made, even though, obviously, I did.
The ******-ups, you see, when they regularly occur, are not my responsibility but someone else’s, even though I am rigidly in charge, doing the right thing and taking the tough decisions, for you anyway, waking in the middle of the night to devise more ******-ups and obviously, therefore, only I can un-****** them.
It is because of me that we are uniquely well-placed to withstand the global economic turbulence for which I am not responsible even though I was its cheerleader, its veritable stormfront-in-chief; it is because of my competence at being incompetent that even though I say we are uniquely well-placed to weather these storms, we are actually the nation most buffeted by them and this is why you should, if I permit you, vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for an eternal Groundhog ******-up Day. Each day you get up, it’ll be the same ******-up and the same proposed un-******ing. Day after glorious, ******ed-up day. I’m in charge, I have been in charge for twelve years, everything’s ******ed, everything; nothing works and there is no money, therefore, obviously, I should stay in charge, who could doubt it?
Stuff like this, it needs a head-banging, eat his own st, barking at the moon, scratch himself until he’s bleeding, the drugs don’t touch him, lock him up for his own protection madman to sort this lot out. Let me explain, encouraged by me, the banks did too much lending – the more money they loaned to people who would never in a million years pay it back, the more money they were able to pay themselves - and as the people did too much borrowing and spending this caused the High St boom in tat and rubbish shipped in from the Chinese who now own all the real money, and probably some of the gold which I prudently gave away for ****** all but none, obviously, of my special, made-up, imaginary money. Which I keep as a National Currency Reserve. In my mind.
This lending and spending carry-on caused the ******-up, for which someone else and not me is responsible, even though at the time it wasn’t a ******-up but a miracle for which I was, then but only then, responsible. But that is then and this was now. Isn’t it?
Just because it was wrong then, even though it wasn’t, doesn’t mean its wrong now, even though it is. You see, citizens, what is isnae, and what isnae is. And anybody disagreeing is talking down the country and my prudent stewardship of it, which has seen unprecedented stable economic growth, schoolsandhospitals which are prudently on the never-never and an end to boom and bust and not, as some claim, an economy drowning in st up to its nostrils and sinking fast, which it isn’t and that is why President Barack Obama thinks I am wonderful. Which I am. My father tells me most nights. You ken when I was a wee boy, living an ordinary life, banged-up with a bullying religious maniac I learned the Vaaal-ewe of a good sermon every Sunday, blaming the parishioners and demanding money from them and I've always tried to live up to that very special lesson I learned; blame other people, threaten them, bully them, frighten them and take their money from them and spend it better.
If it is now, now, so to speak, I am now going to give the banks some of my special money, more money than there, in fact, is. Or ever was. But only on the basis that they again lend it to people who can’t pay it back but can only spend it, or to businesses which because of somebody else in America or someone else's fault are, for the foreseeable future ******ed and don't actually need any money but just need to be wound-up, thanks to me, and by doing all this,just like before, make the economy strong again, even though it is very strong now, it’s just that there is no money and soon there will be no jobs. Do you understand?
I will explain. I am going to give imaginary money to the banks so that they can lend it to poor, no longer hard-working families and no longer small but instead failed businesses who will never pay it back and when that doesn’t work then my next big idea will be to take everybody’s personal debt and sell it to the banks, which I shall by then own myself and when my banks don’t pay me for all the personal debt I have given them I will just print some more imaginary money and think of something else to do, maybe the best thing to do will be to nationalise the money of those who have saved instead of patriotically spending and give it to somebody else, thus making a level and competitive playing field to help us out of the Recession, which it isn't but only a Downturn and not by any means my fault. The thing is, with the press you can say any old rubbish and they'll print it. Othewise we won't let them in the Lobby. Or let them buy us lunch.
The thing with money, d’you see, is that if you run out of it, you just make-up some more pretend money; not everybody, obviously, where would we be, my Goodness, if people could just make up money, invent it? That wouldnae be very Prudent. Ho-ho-ho. But me, the country’s premier, financial wizard and economics hardman, war leader, social scientist, author, statesman and fruit-and-nutcase, I should be able to magic some money up.
It is by printing mountains of pretend money and throwing it all over the electorate that I will prove that, even though the money rapidly becomes less than worthless, the wrong thing - burning all the proper money and giving away all the gold, making everybody unemployed and homeless - was actually the right thing to do. Even though if it was, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Which we aren’t. More is more when there is more but equally, when there isn’t any more, like now, then less is more, you see. Poverty, the new wealth. Trust me; I’m as mad as a ******ing hatter.
WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHO WILL GRASP THE THISTLE?
Economic and financial contra-analyses, by public figures and commentators, of Brown’s ever more bizarre and destructive, one final push, over by Christmas, soundbite strategems take no regard of his affliction and contaminate the national survival argument.
There is no dealing with a nutter, no point engaging with him, engagement is his victory; engagement permits Look, Listen, I will give you a lesson in free market economics, told to me in days of yore by men of the Northlands and for which, by the way, being a workshy, closet homosexual Scotch lunatic and totalitarianist, I have neither training nor aptitude, even so I will talk tractor production statistics at you until your nose bleeds and your bowels curdle. And by my effortless mastery of this made-up nonsense shall I, Noggin the Nog, render you speechless.
If only the Leader of the Opposition had any meaningful life experience he would know that in disputing with Brown the minutiae of his madness he plays to his snotty strength. Saving his ire for a worthless and redundant PMQs, observed only by drunken journalists and lonesome obsessives, David Does My BaldSpot Show Cameron wastes his time and betrays the nation, which cannot but see him as Brown’s Yah-Boo stooge in this unveiling disaster. Sadly, Cameron, a catastrophically over-promoted airhead, himself starting to pout and mince and play to the gallery of reptiles, combing his hair this way and that, dragooning bloated self-satisfied geriatrics to his cause, adds to the national woe, is good, as we say in Scotland, for ****** all; his strategy is Hang On Sloopy, hang on, while the country slides into a sea of st, and hope to win an election. Lacking all the talents save spin, Cameron, a Blair/Brown Lite, feels he should be prime minister, not because he can bring anything to the post, but because he wants to be and if he hangs on long enough then, through Buggins’ Turn, he will be.
The Liberal Democrats – Good God, what are they good for? Absolutely nothing - huff and puff on the basis that they have in their slender, copraphiliac ranks the Sage of Last Resort. Jesus Wept, this tired old clown, Cable, pretends to the Wisdom of Solomon for lamely trotting-out, as though it were the Unified Field Theory of Everything, the everyday talk of any working man’s club or public bar. You can’t fund a country on artificially inflated house prices. Simple. Job done. But Quick-stepping Vince, Newsnight after Newsnight after Newsnight would have us believe this is Nobel Prize Economics. And in the stupid, insular, up their own arses world of Mediaminster, they believe it is, too. Oh, if only the politics fairy would make Vince Cable Chancellor. And in this worthless reflected glory Mr Nick Haircut –like Mr Cameron, the wrong man, at the wrong time, in the wrong job but possibly the right suit – stakes his claim to have a stab at ******ing things up.
Brown is safe from nitwits like these, watching their own vulnerable backs, tossing their coiffures furiously. The removal of this madman must be depoliticised, engineered from within his own ranks, in the national interest. Brown has created three thousand new imprisonable offences, three thousand; none of them apply to the ruling class or their chums in the banks, obviously, although we can be jailed for messing-up the VAT return or not paying the Ross-Wogan levy. No matter how grave his blackmail, money laudering, fraud or war crimes, how criminal his neglect, the politically-appointed career gangsters in the Met and the bent prosecutors would not countenance a move against a UK minister, let alone prime minister, such would undermine the whole shabby edifice, under which socialism sends its kids to private schools, Diane, overlooks its mortgages, Tess and employs its rentboys at the taxpayers expense, Peter. Immune from prosecution, Brown’s removal must come from the cesspit out of which, spluttering and bullying, he crawled.
Instead of preening, adjusting his cufflinks disconsolately on the Treasury Bench’s Desolation Row, instead of throwing dinner parties in his own honour, the revolting Torture Secretary, Straw, could do one good deed before he retires to wealth and self-regard; he should arrange for Brown to be extradited to a place of sanity, as much in the interests of the bad-tempered, pouting, mincing, gibbering lunatic himself as in ours.
The unelected, illegitimate prime minister of the United Kingdom, for all his Vaaal-ewes and Sol-you-shuns, is a mental case of the worst kind – no smiling, child-like idiot savant, Brown - and should be nutted-off to Rampton or Broadmoor, although, God knows, the denizens of the secure hospitals have far less blood on their hands, far fewer souls plaguing their sleep than does this hideous, gulping, stuttering, snot-eating, loathsome, cowardly warmonger. And yet, cowardly ourselves, we permit him, even now, to strut and posture; we allow Ozymandias Brown impudently to add insult to injury, to brazenly bully and hector an entire nation which he has beggared and - whilst relentlessly lecturing us from his imaginary pulpit, sermonising, stting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.
January 26, 2009 4:27 PM
Early on, Brown’s fevered parliamentary bombast rang alarm bells; here was, by his own account, the cleverest boy in the school, not elucidating – as, with a huge majority, he could, comfortably - or amplifying his proposals but instead shouting, patronising, ranting, declaiming; offering not an explanation but a deathly mantra of unverifiable self-compiled, dodgy data, offering some fanciful, cast-in-stone economic tests, as though they were holy scripture or - more menacingly, prophetically - as if from some little red book of Chairman Gordon’s Thoughts; a waterfall of tractor production statistics and five-year plans cascaded from the despatch box, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each dubious claim; not a chink of questioning, heretical light could be allowed in on the fabulous economic wizardry taking place, right before your very eyes, ladeezangennulmen, alchemy, perpetual motion, the philosopher’s stone, the holy grail, the lost chord, the fountain of eternal youth, time travel and a cure for the common cold and an end to boom and bust; Brownism was the way, the truth and the light, however maladroit, deceitful and dark its progenitor. Queries were met by heavyweight, oppressive, deeply unattractive, bullying, I-Know-Best motor-mouthing; how dare you ask me questions, me,my way is the right way, my things are the right things to do, don’t you know I am Napoleon, l’Empereur fou?
Some, outside of the blinkered, incestuous, charmed circle of White-Hefferism, deploying meagre mental arithmetic rather than self-interest, never bought Brown’s s
t. Those who effortlessly and without a shred of shame peddled the Golden Chancellor with the Snotty Iron Fist have a ******ing cheek publishing, now, their condemnation, beating their pissed-up breasts as though they warned us all along. *****, all of them. Like Mao's Revolutionary Guards, up and down the land - McWhirter in the Jock Herald, White in the Guardian, Trevor Beard in the Sun and the Gruesome Undead at the Telegraph all assured a succession of NewLabour general election victories, warming their poxed-up arses in front of Brown’s bonfire of the money, peddling lazy journalism and hosannahing themselves all over the airwaves.Son of the ******ing Manse-ing - as though a life-long adolescence informed by the sanctimonious, hypocritical, tight-lipped, disapproving, miserly tyranny of Godless, heathen ******* Presbyterianism equipped him to save the world - Brown foisted himself on us through Succession, McWhirter's phrase, through some feudal droit de Seigneur; an insane, Voices In the Head, ongoing dialogue with his dead, domineering clergyman father about their shared, timeless sense of Vaaal-ewes, their Sol-you-shuns were paraded to the nation as evidence of his Messianic suitability to become and remain the unelected prime minister. Brown's bogus spirituality, learned among the hate-filled, fork-tongued, tight-fisted, sour-faced, wife-beating, red-faced, greedyb
d freemason sonsa******ingbhes of Fife was deemed to bypass any need for a democratic process. Brown, his teeth Domestosed and his collars starched made himself over, like some bloated daytime TV housewife. The hallmark of his competence, urged the Man With No Nails, was Trust me, I am mad. Delusions, voices, self-harm, infantilism, the works, ga-ga-ga-ga-ga. Affirm me, he blustered, fearful of an election, not by normal democratic means but on my performance over the coming months, years and impoverished, breadline decades.As Blair’s domestic prime minister, Brown’s vile, bullying hostility, his battering to death of enquiry or legitimate, parliamentary scepticism - not that there are too many megawatt searchlights on the Tory benches - was, as anyone could see, an alien response, far beyond normal politics, this was crippling egomania, obsessive self-justification, his How dare you question my reality actually being a masked form of Please, for Pity’s sake, don’t question my reality. Talking, at night, to his Daddy, one imagined Brown claiming to have seen-off another impudent challenge to his brilliance, the ******ing headbanger.
As time has passed, indiscreet civil servants, spiteful, slighted former colleagues and Westminster gossip have belatedly and with the dubious imprimatur of the insider with nothing to lose validated our view of Brown as a mad, mad, mad control freak, a mistrustful paranoiac, a revolting bully, prone to rages and deeply, deeply unpleasant, oppressive and violent towards his subordinates, even towards such festering minds and shabby characters as Blears and the schoolboy brothers and Jowell and Hoon and the inexcusable Flint, themselves – astonishingly - more vapid, compliant, grateful and laughably incompetent than Blair’s A-Team of babes, thieves, s
gs, ponces, nobodies and the Vengeful Blind; we labour now under a cabinet appointed for no other reason than that, stupid and detestable, they posed no threat to the Lunatic’s, snot-encrusted, nail-bitten, spasming grasp on power. Ignoring, however, his massively disordered personality and making no mention of his freakish bloatedness and discomfort in his own skin; his nail-biting, snot-eating habits, his unnaturally late marriage and parenthood, nor of the public – body language - dissonance between he and his wife (not given to public displays of affection, Presbyterians. Well. Not the closet ones, anyway) a personality-neutral examination of Brown’s ministerial and prime ministerial conduct alone reveals not only a mind at war with Reason but an immature character intent, hell-bent, on conscripting the rest of humanity to his madb
d Triumph of the Delusions. Like a Lilliputian courtier he condemns himself from his own mad mouth, he may just as well bark as speak, for all the sense he makes. Listen:“This week I am uniquely placed to un-****** last week’s ******-ups, and next week, guess what - a–ha-ha-ha -, I will be the only person capable of un-******ing this week’s ******-ups which I will not have made, even though, obviously, I did.
The ******-ups, you see, when they regularly occur, are not my responsibility but someone else’s, even though I am rigidly in charge, doing the right thing and taking the tough decisions, for you anyway, waking in the middle of the night to devise more ******-ups and obviously, therefore, only I can un-****** them.
It is because of me that we are uniquely well-placed to withstand the global economic turbulence for which I am not responsible even though I was its cheerleader, its veritable stormfront-in-chief; it is because of my competence at being incompetent that even though I say we are uniquely well-placed to weather these storms, we are actually the nation most buffeted by them and this is why you should, if I permit you, vote for me. A vote for me is a vote for an eternal Groundhog ******-up Day. Each day you get up, it’ll be the same ******-up and the same proposed un-******ing. Day after glorious, ******ed-up day. I’m in charge, I have been in charge for twelve years, everything’s ******ed, everything; nothing works and there is no money, therefore, obviously, I should stay in charge, who could doubt it?
Stuff like this, it needs a head-banging, eat his own s
t, barking at the moon, scratch himself until he’s bleeding, the drugs don’t touch him, lock him up for his own protection madman to sort this lot out. Let me explain, encouraged by me, the banks did too much lending – the more money they loaned to people who would never in a million years pay it back, the more money they were able to pay themselves - and as the people did too much borrowing and spending this caused the High St boom in tat and rubbish shipped in from the Chinese who now own all the real money, and probably some of the gold which I prudently gave away for ****** all but none, obviously, of my special, made-up, imaginary money. Which I keep as a National Currency Reserve. In my mind. This lending and spending carry-on caused the ******-up, for which someone else and not me is responsible, even though at the time it wasn’t a ******-up but a miracle for which I was, then but only then, responsible. But that is then and this was now. Isn’t it?
Just because it was wrong then, even though it wasn’t, doesn’t mean its wrong now, even though it is. You see, citizens, what is isnae, and what isnae is. And anybody disagreeing is talking down the country and my prudent stewardship of it, which has seen unprecedented stable economic growth, schoolsandhospitals which are prudently on the never-never and an end to boom and bust and not, as some claim, an economy drowning in s
t up to its nostrils and sinking fast, which it isn’t and that is why President Barack Obama thinks I am wonderful. Which I am. My father tells me most nights. You ken when I was a wee boy, living an ordinary life, banged-up with a bullying religious maniac I learned the Vaaal-ewe of a good sermon every Sunday, blaming the parishioners and demanding money from them and I've always tried to live up to that very special lesson I learned; blame other people, threaten them, bully them, frighten them and take their money from them and spend it better.If it is now, now, so to speak, I am now going to give the banks some of my special money, more money than there, in fact, is. Or ever was. But only on the basis that they again lend it to people who can’t pay it back but can only spend it, or to businesses which because of somebody else in America or someone else's fault are, for the foreseeable future ******ed and don't actually need any money but just need to be wound-up, thanks to me, and by doing all this,just like before, make the economy strong again, even though it is very strong now, it’s just that there is no money and soon there will be no jobs. Do you understand?
I will explain. I am going to give imaginary money to the banks so that they can lend it to poor, no longer hard-working families and no longer small but instead failed businesses who will never pay it back and when that doesn’t work then my next big idea will be to take everybody’s personal debt and sell it to the banks, which I shall by then own myself and when my banks don’t pay me for all the personal debt I have given them I will just print some more imaginary money and think of something else to do, maybe the best thing to do will be to nationalise the money of those who have saved instead of patriotically spending and give it to somebody else, thus making a level and competitive playing field to help us out of the Recession, which it isn't but only a Downturn and not by any means my fault. The thing is, with the press you can say any old rubbish and they'll print it. Othewise we won't let them in the Lobby. Or let them buy us lunch.
The thing with money, d’you see, is that if you run out of it, you just make-up some more pretend money; not everybody, obviously, where would we be, my Goodness, if people could just make up money, invent it? That wouldnae be very Prudent. Ho-ho-ho. But me, the country’s premier, financial wizard and economics hardman, war leader, social scientist, author, statesman and fruit-and-nutcase, I should be able to magic some money up.
It is by printing mountains of pretend money and throwing it all over the electorate that I will prove that, even though the money rapidly becomes less than worthless, the wrong thing - burning all the proper money and giving away all the gold, making everybody unemployed and homeless - was actually the right thing to do. Even though if it was, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Which we aren’t. More is more when there is more but equally, when there isn’t any more, like now, then less is more, you see. Poverty, the new wealth. Trust me; I’m as mad as a ******ing hatter.
WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHO WILL GRASP THE THISTLE?
Economic and financial contra-analyses, by public figures and commentators, of Brown’s ever more bizarre and destructive, one final push, over by Christmas, soundbite strategems take no regard of his affliction and contaminate the national survival argument.
There is no dealing with a nutter, no point engaging with him, engagement is his victory; engagement permits Look, Listen, I will give you a lesson in free market economics, told to me in days of yore by men of the Northlands and for which, by the way, being a workshy, closet homosexual Scotch lunatic and totalitarianist, I have neither training nor aptitude, even so I will talk tractor production statistics at you until your nose bleeds and your bowels curdle. And by my effortless mastery of this made-up nonsense shall I, Noggin the Nog, render you speechless.
If only the Leader of the Opposition had any meaningful life experience he would know that in disputing with Brown the minutiae of his madness he plays to his snotty strength. Saving his ire for a worthless and redundant PMQs, observed only by drunken journalists and lonesome obsessives, David Does My BaldSpot Show Cameron wastes his time and betrays the nation, which cannot but see him as Brown’s Yah-Boo stooge in this unveiling disaster. Sadly, Cameron, a catastrophically over-promoted airhead, himself starting to pout and mince and play to the gallery of reptiles, combing his hair this way and that, dragooning bloated self-satisfied geriatrics to his cause, adds to the national woe, is good, as we say in Scotland, for ****** all; his strategy is Hang On Sloopy, hang on, while the country slides into a sea of s
t, and hope to win an election. Lacking all the talents save spin, Cameron, a Blair/Brown Lite, feels he should be prime minister, not because he can bring anything to the post, but because he wants to be and if he hangs on long enough then, through Buggins’ Turn, he will be. The Liberal Democrats – Good God, what are they good for? Absolutely nothing - huff and puff on the basis that they have in their slender, copraphiliac ranks the Sage of Last Resort. Jesus Wept, this tired old clown, Cable, pretends to the Wisdom of Solomon for lamely trotting-out, as though it were the Unified Field Theory of Everything, the everyday talk of any working man’s club or public bar. You can’t fund a country on artificially inflated house prices. Simple. Job done. But Quick-stepping Vince, Newsnight after Newsnight after Newsnight would have us believe this is Nobel Prize Economics. And in the stupid, insular, up their own arses world of Mediaminster, they believe it is, too. Oh, if only the politics fairy would make Vince Cable Chancellor. And in this worthless reflected glory Mr Nick Haircut –like Mr Cameron, the wrong man, at the wrong time, in the wrong job but possibly the right suit – stakes his claim to have a stab at ******ing things up.
Brown is safe from nitwits like these, watching their own vulnerable backs, tossing their coiffures furiously. The removal of this madman must be depoliticised, engineered from within his own ranks, in the national interest. Brown has created three thousand new imprisonable offences, three thousand; none of them apply to the ruling class or their chums in the banks, obviously, although we can be jailed for messing-up the VAT return or not paying the Ross-Wogan levy. No matter how grave his blackmail, money laudering, fraud or war crimes, how criminal his neglect, the politically-appointed career gangsters in the Met and the bent prosecutors would not countenance a move against a UK minister, let alone prime minister, such would undermine the whole shabby edifice, under which socialism sends its kids to private schools, Diane, overlooks its mortgages, Tess and employs its rentboys at the taxpayers expense, Peter. Immune from prosecution, Brown’s removal must come from the cesspit out of which, spluttering and bullying, he crawled.
Instead of preening, adjusting his cufflinks disconsolately on the Treasury Bench’s Desolation Row, instead of throwing dinner parties in his own honour, the revolting Torture Secretary, Straw, could do one good deed before he retires to wealth and self-regard; he should arrange for Brown to be extradited to a place of sanity, as much in the interests of the bad-tempered, pouting, mincing, gibbering lunatic himself as in ours.
The unelected, illegitimate prime minister of the United Kingdom, for all his Vaaal-ewes and Sol-you-shuns, is a mental case of the worst kind – no smiling, child-like idiot savant, Brown - and should be nutted-off to Rampton or Broadmoor, although, God knows, the denizens of the secure hospitals have far less blood on their hands, far fewer souls plaguing their sleep than does this hideous, gulping, stuttering, snot-eating, loathsome, cowardly warmonger. And yet, cowardly ourselves, we permit him, even now, to strut and posture; we allow Ozymandias Brown impudently to add insult to injury, to brazenly bully and hector an entire nation which he has beggared and - whilst relentlessly lecturing us from his imaginary pulpit, sermonising, s
tting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.January 26, 2009 4:27 PM
loafer123 said:
The unelected, illegitimate prime minister of the United Kingdom, for all his Vaaal-ewes and Sol-you-shuns, is a mental case of the worst kind – no smiling, child-like idiot savant, Brown - and should be nutted-off to Rampton or Broadmoor, although, God knows, the denizens of the secure hospitals have far less blood on their hands, far fewer souls plaguing their sleep than does this hideous, gulping, stuttering, snot-eating, loathsome, cowardly warmonger. And yet, cowardly ourselves, we permit him, even now, to strut and posture; we allow Ozymandias Brown impudently to add insult to injury, to brazenly bully and hector an entire nation which he has beggared and - whilst relentlessly lecturing us from his imaginary pulpit, sermonising, stting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.
Nothing to add.tting in our faces - to grind us into ruination and dust - My name is Ozymandias, Saviour of the World, Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.I think he seriously considers himself to be an economic god.
He like Blair always banged on about the 15% interest rates of the torys year on year yet never were happy to look back to the govt before that where they needed IMF help & way over 20% inflation 3 day working weeks - oh ... I can see a similarity to today here.
Why didnt the torys attack Labour in retort about the 70's?
Anyway the thing is anyone can talk about history its what they are doing now & what they plan to do. In PMQ's Brown never answers any question about the now & future he just bangs it back about the past.
I fear that like Nixon, Bush, Blair he will be despised in history which is sad for his family.
He like Blair always banged on about the 15% interest rates of the torys year on year yet never were happy to look back to the govt before that where they needed IMF help & way over 20% inflation 3 day working weeks - oh ... I can see a similarity to today here.
Why didnt the torys attack Labour in retort about the 70's?
Anyway the thing is anyone can talk about history its what they are doing now & what they plan to do. In PMQ's Brown never answers any question about the now & future he just bangs it back about the past.
I fear that like Nixon, Bush, Blair he will be despised in history which is sad for his family.
http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/politics/politics-he...
In a speech to the Foreign Press Association in London, Mr Brown said: "At any point I could have stepped in and made the necessary changes that would at least have protected the UK, what with me being chancellor of the exchequer and everything. But then I thought 'where's the fun in that?'.
"I was watching that new Batman film the other night and there's a bit where Michael Caine - he plays the butler - says that 'some men aren't looking for anything logical, some men just want to watch the world burn'. That's me, that is.
Mr Brown added: "I'm not right in the head. I've been setting fire to stuff recently. Just small stuff. Books, furniture, cats.
In a speech to the Foreign Press Association in London, Mr Brown said: "At any point I could have stepped in and made the necessary changes that would at least have protected the UK, what with me being chancellor of the exchequer and everything. But then I thought 'where's the fun in that?'.
"I was watching that new Batman film the other night and there's a bit where Michael Caine - he plays the butler - says that 'some men aren't looking for anything logical, some men just want to watch the world burn'. That's me, that is.
Mr Brown added: "I'm not right in the head. I've been setting fire to stuff recently. Just small stuff. Books, furniture, cats.
The excuse for next year's election is already being prepared. He says that if other countries don't follow his lead then his package might fail.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/r...
They are also delaying the budget until after the absurd G20 meeting in March.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/r...
They are also delaying the budget until after the absurd G20 meeting in March.
Bit long, a bit short on statistics, could do with more numbers and a bit more swearing, but on the whole, 10/10 for a rant.
Bang on the button, could you get ole Liz do the treason bit, off with his head, eh what?
Brown has delusions of adequacy, unfortunately he is an oxygen thief. And Gold, money, votes and just about anything else you can think of.
Bang on the button, could you get ole Liz do the treason bit, off with his head, eh what?
Brown has delusions of adequacy, unfortunately he is an oxygen thief. And Gold, money, votes and just about anything else you can think of.
Zod said:
The excuse for next year's election is already being prepared. He says that if other countries don't follow his lead then his package might fail.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/r...
They are also delaying the budget until after the absurd G20 meeting in March.
He was using the same tactics with the original bank bail out; "We need global action from ALL the other countries or our plan will fail."http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/r...
They are also delaying the budget until after the absurd G20 meeting in March.
Surprise surprise, it doesn't look like it's going to be enough, so which country is he going to blame? Or will he just blame them al collectively?
He's not very good at this diplomacy game, is he?
Busa_Rush said:
Politician = liar in these times.
I think thats the worst part of all. Instead of spin and borrocks, if they just said "we're in a bit of financial bother here and its going to take some pain to sort out" poeple might actually not panic, lose all faith in Politicians and we might actually move forward.Who put him in power? Oh thats right, not us.
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