I came across this polemical comment by a person called Stanlislav, a young Polish Plumber in response to this post:
http://www.order-order.com/2008/09/nec-comrades-we-are-all-united-behind.html
"All these worthy Labour members - slithering out from under their stones, muttering about principles, each avoiding the other’s shit-reeking halitosis, glistening in the arse-slime sheen of Mandelson and Campbell, their impresarios, their malevolent puppeteers; caked in the blood of Hoon’s eviscerated Iraqi babes, festooned with the guts of innocent Afghani wedding guests minding their own business, blitzed by Freedom’s friendly fire, a uniquely NewLabour contribution to world history, the world a so much better place without our boy, Saddam Hussein; the Guantanamo Bay waterboarding civil libertarians, the bad news buriers, the Hinduja tarts and the Mittalites, British passports4sale, British industries4sale, cheap4cash ; Money’s rentboys, like the politically cankerous, smirking Oily Vaz, the revolting, incompetent clowns Milburn, Clark & Hewitt, a whole horrid unHeavenly host of grasping nobodies, grafters, chisellers, thugs and degenerates; jumped-up council thugs, doctrinaire, idle potheads, bent lawyers, ponces, pimps, procurers, slags, child-molesters, blackmailers, and self-serving union windbag phoneys – who is it, one wonders, that they think they are kidding ?.
They would have us applaud their lifelong cowardice, hymn their wretched fear for their jobs and pensions and expenses and stolen gewgaws as though they were motivated by anything other than venality, as, furtively, each avoids grasping the dagger which all want thrust into their erstwhile hero, this freakish, stuttering, grubby, nail-bitten intriguer, foisted on us, by pretend journalists, as a fiscal Solomon, instead of properly caricatured as the repressed, fevered, deranged, bombastic lunatic which all could see; even as their shabby, long overrun pantomime unravels, none has the courage to venture centre-stage and denounce him to the Gods, instead, whispering and leaking and letting-it-be-known, via redundant, inebriate fluffers like the consgenitally obnoxious Sir Michael Kneepads White, that, skulking, shitting themselves, they are unhappy little shit-eating cocksuckers wishing only to get off their knees, rinse-out their mouths and reconnect, as they put it, with the values of those they have long sold down the river, our fourth richest economy providing the worst pensions and benefits in Europe, they are wishing to revive their grim snuff movie, with some equally flaccid, poxed-up bullyboy, maybe Boy Milliband, who buys the best US babies money can buy, maybe Postman Johnson, FilthyHospitalsRUs Supremo or some other vile, unemployable freak vowing to shit, more fragrantly, in our faces, all we have to do is trust him.
Back at the start of what has become impoverished HMP UK, A N Wilson, the last proper writer on the Telegraph, did a weekly piece lampooning the nauseating extravaganza of spin that was Tony & Imelda’s Cool Britannia, rich and dark as it was, Wilson gave up the slot after a while, explaining that this wasn’t funny anymore, that the grinning, rimming Blairs and their Court of grasping, incompetent polysexual stooges, slags and bandits, Mr Vaz, were beyond parody.
Bron Waugh was as dead as a smoker and there was no-one capable of adequately, routinely ridiculing Mandelson, as he, in his own words, born to govern, lubed-up every madcap chancer with some expensive nonsense to display in the Millenium White Elephant – the taxpayer-funded folly, conceived by another vain, mouthy jackanapes, Heseltine the Brooding Hysteric and which, in the end, they couldn’t even give away - a more pungent metaphor for NewLabour’s future than even the tiresome Mr Clarkson could conjure from the amazing steam-driven simile generating engine his doting mummy bought him – this car is so fast your hair catches fire ! this car is so slow you get overtaken by continental drift ! and so on, endlessly recycled, re-announced, like NewLabour’s so called spending.
There were none to mock and condemn whatever hippyshit troilism it was which so engaged bi-Tone, Imelda Gob and Carole Caplin, Mrs Gob’s number one paid best friend, ahead of number two, Fiona Wotsit, Alistair Campbell’s bint, both of them, and poor depressed, drunken pornographer Campbell, himself, conveniently on the Blairs’ payroll, or ours. Imelda, then as now, permitted to charge whatever she wanted, the horrible Scouse slag, either to the Labour Party – which loyally paid her seven grand, yes, seven grand hairdresser’s bill or to the British taxpayer.
No, among the people’s tribunes, like the rotund Mr Andrew Read My Book Rawnsley, it was all Fuck me, readers, look at all this money at long last being invested in larcenous IT providers and being flushed down the toilet into their pockets; Look, finally the country is getting the level of useless management consultants it has always needed and our hard-working politicians are now able to appoint their own most talented rentboys, Mr Balls, as Special Advisers and they can then be parachuted into safe parliamentary seats in the time-honoured tradition of the Labour movement; horny-handed sons of toil are all very well for a bit of rough, Mr Skinner, but a modern, reformist party needs modern, reformist male prostitutes, Mr Draper, if it is to meet the challenges and make the changes to whatever it is I was preaching about. Look, readers, people don’t need to scrimp and save on the minimum wage, they can just borrow whatever they want because boom and bust has been abolished, no more downturns, buy a shed today for a hundred quid, next week it’ll be worth a million, economic miracle, Gordon is a genius; just keep on taking up the market and it’ll never collapse, because he says it won’t. Just as long as we don’t have those ghastly Tories back, enthused Polly Mascara, blowing Tony for all she was worth, longing for Gordon.
And now, as though none could have foreseen it, all our wine is water, all our pearls are clay, all is tragedy of Shakespearian or Greek dimensions and brave men and true like Gisela Stewart and vengeful, skriking Ulster harpy, Hoey, and whatever gender of cowardly, self-serving plotter best describes the VileThing masquerading as Decency that is poisonous Frank Field, the Christian Socialist, foregather in dark corners to save the Kingdom from the usurper they all so enthusiastically installed, only last year; the authors of our collapse, they insist, will regroup under a new King and redeem our busted nation - but mainly their own employment prospects - they imagine.
Eleven years this Wreckers’ crew has been in charge, should they decide now to selfishly tear the prime minister, their own chosen, acclaimed, gibbering, spasming, ranting, nail-shredding, snot-eating prime minister limb from limb and post his bits around the Kingdom it will count for nothing, none will forgive them their towering incompetence, Mr Byers: their cruelty, Mr Hoon; their greed, Ms Hewitt; their vanity, Ms Abbott-Lard: their spiteful rancour, Mr Clark; their crimes and atrocities and tortures, Mr Straw; their craven lickspittle mediocrity, Frau Schmidt and the shameless, bare-faced grossness of their class betrayal, Mr Prescott.
The absolute vileness of the NewLabour MP is a place from which there is no return to decent society. Who cares what they say, how they plot, whom they eventually elect? Hijacked by the ginger filth, Kinnock, the Blairs, the freak Brown and by simpering, cowardly scum like John Monks and Brendan Barber and Dave Prentiss, what remained of the Labour movement has been completely trashed by this gang of thieves in parliament, by the TUC and by the revolting Dewar-McLeish-McConnell-Alexander succession in Scotland.
Their epitaph should be that they tarnished and corrupted and prostituted the very idea that people might choose to serve each other, rather than, greedily and entirely shamelessly, themselves; that they trampled underfoot such global respect and admiration as Tommy’s and others’ sacrifice bequeathed us in the years between 1939 and 1945; that, thanks to the deft diplomacy of the posturing hypocrite Blair, we are now, to many in the world, the bad guy, our ill-equipped troops spat upon and derided; best of all, thanks to their efforts, Labour, for the foreseeable future, will remain a dirty word. Constitution, nomination papers? Bollocks.
Let's sort-out Dave Thing when he comes to office, the empty headed prick; for now down with Labour, all of them.
Fuck ‘em all and their scurrying hither and thither, screeching. What these people need, never mind a leadership election is a good old-fashioned dose of Up Against The Wall Motherfuckerism. Romanian-style.
September 16, 2008 4:49 PM"
I do not ask if people agree with it. I ask is this the most comprehensive piece of anti-Labour invective ever seen on the internet? Or have people seen examples which surpass it? Or can they point me to an anti-Tory post of similar stature?