NO SUCH THING AS BAD LANGUAGE, JUST BAD WRITING
Mr Christopher Brooker, a veteran, second-eleven scribbler much esteemed by himself for his personal battles at Democracy’s Barricades, works for the feudalist Bizzarro Brothers at what used to be, twenty, thirty years ago, the Daily Telegraph but is now a lightweight, consumerist, celebrity dailyrag, filled with frothy rubbish, ballasted by the occasional, purple-faced, repetitious spluttering of Simon why-oh-why Heffer, a professional twitterer, overweight, overdressed and by any normal yardstick overpaid and by Janet why-oh-why-Daley, a would-be grande dame in the Heffer mould, though less rotund; Mary Fish-Out-Of-Water Riddle, formerly of the Arsebridger stable of greedy, pretend-liberal bastards, fleshes-out the reactionary, whining bones of the other two with occasional rehearsals of humanity, tolerance and decency, like a saint fallen among sinners. Mr Brooker’s contribution to the Daily Bizzaro consists of nit-picking, hair-splitting, cheese-paring deconstructions of this-or-that piece of EuroLaw – Look, readers, at what I’ve found to anger you, to-day. Mr Brooker, a former public schoolboy, was among the founders of Private Eye magazine.
Private Eye was initiated, it is claimed, to satirise the Establishment; they manage, however, the Eye and Power, to rub along comfortably, after fifty years, old friends, sat on their parkbench like book-ends, giving each other prizes, contracts and commissions; gossipy, spiteful but a relationship beneficial to both; the public school and Oxbridge dominate still, as cack-handed and untrustworty as ever; war, plague, famine, disease, depression, slump and now Earthcrime, all hatched on the playing fields and in the debating societies of the English public schools; the Eye’s pretend editor a repulsive stalwart of the BBC, his silly-face-pulling schtick as funny as leukaemia. And how cool, how so satirical is all that? A ghastly Insiders’ Merry-Go-Round; more wit and clarity in five minutes of order-order or old holborn – largely written by the people - than in fifty years of the Eye’s turgid re-cycling of schoolboy jokes; sharper, more brilliant fire crackles from volunteer sniper regiments all across the Op-Ed pages of Cyberspace.
Our friend, Mr 45 Govt., has never taken a penny from Democracy’s enemies - like Lord Black of the Florida Penitentiary System or the would-be Channel Islands dictators, the Barclay brothers - even whilst such a great man as Mr Brooker has been happy to do so. These public schoolboys, what are they like, eh? Whores, slags and pimps.
Our friend, Mr 45 Govt., has never, to our knowledge, launched an illegal war, endorsed torture and kidnap, money-laundering and blackmail, neither is he a bully, a sanctimonious hypocrite, a scheming, plotting egomaniac with delusions of grandeur or a gross, nail-biting, lying, manipulative, bad-tempered control freak and there is no evidence of him eating the contents of his naval cavity before a global television audience, like a schoolboy dressed in his Dad's suit; Mr 45 Govt. has not cut and trimmed his life history to suit political necessity, he has not had ghost-written books published under his own name, he acts his age and does not pretend to be a young parent, like other young parents, half his age; having run his own businesses, generating employment and revenue, rather than poncing gold-plated terms and conditions from the taxpayer, he must be a thoroughly nasty piece of work, then, Mr 45; or so says Mr Brooker, the bought and paid for Bizzarite and scourge of the Euro legislators, well, not the last bit.
“Can there possibly be,” bewails Mr Brooker, “a more unpleasant person than 45 Govt….” Oh, yes, Chris, there can, where do you want to start “….who rather than commenting prefers to pour the most foul bile on anything to do with Gordon Brown……..why should Daily Bizzarro readers have to put up with this ordure?” You can almost feel his pain. Well, Chris, you don’t have to read it, do you? Millions never read anything with your name on it. And none needs to read Mr 45 if they share your distaste; such, matey, rather than the shape of bananas, is democracy.
The difficulty with most like Mr Brooker, public school bullyboys, effete layabouts, twitterers, of course, is that democracy is something to be written about for a few quid but absolutely not to be practised; not by them, massed on the Opposition benches, awaiting Buggins’ Turn. Play up, play up and play the game, Yah!
Our most undervalued social commentator, the late Mr Quentin Crisp - infinitely more prescient, tolerant and insightful and, God bless him, amusing than the trainspotting Mr Brooker - used to say that Manners were about bringing people in, Etiquette was about keeping people out; Mr Brooker with his faux indignation at Dirty Words - as if - and his breast-beating at Mr 45s wholly legitimate blackguarding of the revolting Brown reveals what a very bad-mannered chap he really is; calling for the censoring, the exclusion of Mr 45 he stands, instead on Etiquette, not quite the right thing, old chap. Best leave political commentary to those who know what they’re about. Trust me, Im a worthless hack. Got any freebies ?
Millions, around the world and at home, share Mr 45’s view of our stuttering, bullying, incompetent, lying, delusional, unelected prime minister; ever more millions will come to share it as the full scale of Brown’s catastrophic, bombastic misjudgements emerges. Countless innocents maimed and killed abroad, millions made refugee, our system aligned with kidnap and torture and frame-up, our liberties trampled, our money burned, our gold given away, jobs and homes forfeit to this snot-eating lunatic’s vanity. There aren’t enough dirty words in existence to adequately reprove this horrible man, Brown, the Mad Hatter; and if you cried, you know you’d fill a lake with tears, but I say, old chap, less of the filthy talk, upsets the ladies, eh.
The post below originated, like many others, thanks to Mr Fawkes’ Order-Order, a political blog, then unmoderated and had been, like many, all of his back pages, forgotten about by stanislav the plumber. A friend suggested recently that it be re-posted here, Mr Brooker’s How Dare They? outburst revitalises it a little.
This was written in response to a Brookerite who had complained of bad language on Mr Fawkes’ blog, apologies to those who have read it previously but it is here re-dedicated to Mr Christopher Brooker, the cunt.
OH Comment: I've lunched with 45Govt. He passes the port to the left. As a gentleman should. Unlike Brooker, who eats like a fucking monkey.