Official: British Newspapers Turning on Gordon Brown - 'GORDON BROWN'S LOST HIS MARBLES'

[link to www.dailyexpress.co.uk]


GORDON BROWN'S LOST HIS MARBLES



UNDER ATTACK: Gordon Brown

Tuesday January 27,2009
By Macer Hall & Martin Evans



GORDON Brown was last night accused of “losing his marbles” after hailing Britain’s bloodbath of job cuts as the “birth pangs of a new global order”.

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 shit. Those who effortlessly and without a shred of shame peddled the Golden Chancellor with the Snotty Iron Fist have a fucking cheek publishing, now, their condemnation, beating their pissed-up breasts as though they warned us all along. Cunts, 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 fucking Manse-ing - as though a life-long adolescence informed by the sanctimonious, hypocritical, tight-lipped, disapproving, miserly tyranny of Godless, heathen bastard 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, greedybastard freemason sonsafuckingbitches 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 fucking 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, slags, 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 madbastard 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-fuck last week’s fuck-ups, and next week, guess what - a–ha-ha-ha -, I will be the only person capable of un-fucking this week’s fuck-ups which I will not have made, even though, obviously, I did.

The fuck-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 fuck-ups and obviously, therefore, only I can un-fuck 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 Fuck-up Day. Each day you get up, it’ll be the same fuck-up and the same proposed un-fucking. Day after glorious, fucked-up day. I’m in charge, I have been in charge for twelve years, everything’s fucked, 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 shit, 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 fuck 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 fuck-up, for which someone else and not me is responsible, even though at the time it wasn’t a fuck-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 shit 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 fucked 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 fucking hatter.
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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 fuck all; his strategy is Hang On Sloopy, hang on, while the country slides into a sea of shit, 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 fucking 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, shitting 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.