Thursday, January 6

Blumenthal's Gas

Frankly it seems rather pointless to stick it to one of yesterday's men, a forgotten figure, a jew in the wilderness; but bullshit is bullshit and he's still trousering a considerable amount of spondulicks for emptying his sack, so . . . peruse the latest guff from Mr Sidney Blumenthal (most exalted role: relief fluffer for Bill Clinton during the blow-job years).

And shit, I know that I should let pass his pissy point re the old salary of Saint Pedro Martinez being larger than the US govt's initial aid. But I can't. Fuck: I'm afraid the little folk of Aceh, Phuket and other recently-drowned hovels have done nothing to brighten my life; whereas Pedro? He deserves every cent of his $17m paycheck just for slamming down old Don Zimmer. Pedro has given way more than seventeen million people oodles of pleasure over the years - and then there are those who despise him but have still drawn succour from his exploits as the petulant pantomime baddie.

The Thais et al? Unless you enjoy Cat Stew, underage sex and/or grooming, What have they done for you lately?

Be honest.

By the way, I can cheerfully confess that I was in the midst of a jolly good run at the wank wall throughout the three minutes of silence. Action over gestures!

And as I've argued here in recent days, I'd keep your change. Real change in that armpit of the world will only come from Western intervention; an intervention that will take decades, involve a lot of political shenanigans, and consume hundreds of millions of dollars.

Timothy Garton Ash ponders the probabilties and the possibilties here.

Personally, I'd let the fuckers dig themselves out of their own holes. It's the only way they'll learn. Tough Love. No charity box built the British Empire, which invigorated itself despite the torments of plague, famine, pestilence, and powdered wigs.

Still, give if you must. And, if I may reiterate: £10, 20, 25, 50, 100 - all are tantamount to fuck all; the least you can do is remortgage your house. Then sell all your possessions. In my moral handbook, the least should equal the most. All, or nothing. Everything in between is posturing; self-pleasing bollocks, handcream for the smug generation. YES: pure yarbles.

"Doing your bit." Yeah - bit being exactly apposite.

Give, if you must. But please! spare me the gatherings of solemn faces for some three minute pedantic exercise of shallow-end grief. We all know the moment they disperse they're straight into Starbuck's for a latte, and texting like monkeys attempting to compose Hamlet to ask where everybody was for that special moment.

It's pathetic. It's vomitific. It's weepy-weepy Britain. And it's why I'm fucking off out of it.


posted by DD @ 13:31 


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