This Septic Eye, Ch 10

viciousbutfair, Going Postal
This Septic Eye
Image by agnesliinnea from Pixabay

There were a couple of posts on here the other day from ex Guidos who said that whilst they appreciated the freedom of speech on here, he/she/it/xi/cis felt there should be some better structure to the articles and responses.
The articles are ‘disjointed’ apparently, phew, well thank you, this is where we’ve been going wrong Bob.

We need more structure and discipline to the input on here everybody. We absolutely need a more regimented approach.
Quite soon after we achieve that we will be able to get some uniforms, and probably a marching song and a hat, a hat is very important, and then we can come for all these non-conformists and insurgents in the early hours.
With our uniforms and marching songs and hats we can tell them that these random, disjointed articles and comments can not be tolerated any longer, we must have comments and articles that conform to regular comment and article standards.

I find it hard to believe that anyone can be shat on from such a great height after supporting a site, a site that had patently nothing but contempt for the majority of its commentators.
I equally find it hard to believe that these ingénues can then come to an alternative and benign environment whilst still demanding to be stuffed back into the same strait jacket that they had just been evicted from, Stockholm syndrome personified.

The whole point of GP is that is not on anybody’s payroll, you can make financial contributions to keep it independent and you can even write a ‘disjointed’ article about something either random or even apposite. People can then comment on your article or make unconnected observations about something else entirely, that is indeed the whole point of this site, its raison d’être.

Some great, informative articles have emerged out of this format and myriad comments have enlightened or, at times, disgusted or divided the readership, some inventive and creative dialogue has emerged from our unique style, there have been numerous glorious and exceptional interchanges and also some frankly awful debates at times.

If you are institutionalised to the degree where this is not acceptable you still have the ultimate freedom. You can absolutely fuckity fuck off to something that suits your strait jacketed mindset and no one here will mind very much.
Refugees may have currency in the fake world that exists out there but here we do not acknowledge your jihad. Your intolerance will not be tolerated © Lammy.

This is by no means an attack on the newcomers, all these bearded teenagers, aspiring architects all, are more than welcome here. However do try and assimilate and also understand what we do, do please try and learn the language and, more importantly, the ethos.

I have seen some excellent posts from folk new to these shores but even that is not the point. You are all welcome, erudite or otherwise, articulate or otherwise, but here on GP everyone has something to offer, disjointed or otherwise.

Do not, for a moment, try and organise us into some cohort of faded, paid for Tory shills, responding like Pavlov’s dogs to their master’s bell. I’m sure we will all get along swimmingly but if you can’t deal with that, then seriously, I’m off to Mumsnet.
Now they are properly structured.

* * *

There would have been no London 2012 Olympics without Tessa Jowell, at the time it was discussed here, in those dank, smoke filled rooms, it just all seemed completely inconceivable.
The finest minds had been consulted, experts from around the globe had forensically examined our prospects and their probability. The prognosis was dark, the whole application was doomed, on that final day, on that day of decision the mood around the table was bleak.

It seemed, in those darkest hours, that our bid was indeed bedeviled and damned, many opinions flowed around the table on that fateful day, all intimated it was beyond hope. It was alleged that the Pope, carrying a rolled up copy of The Sporting Life and rapping Tiptoe Through the Tulips, in the style of Jay Z, had more chance of winning the Eurovision Song Contest than this sceptred isle had of ever hosting this pinnacle of sporting endeavour.

However just one lone voice stood up to the naysayers, just one single but strong voice, a voice not afraid to stand up to the overwhelming odds, an inspiring voice that stood out in the face of such insurmountable hopelessness.

“We can do this, let me be absolutely clear about this, we can do this.”
There was a hush in the room, the Chairman of the London Olympic Committee put down his Waterford crystal tumbler of single malt Whisky, this was a very fine 50 year old Glenfiddich, on that particular day. He placed aside his Montecristo cigar into a Baccarat Volute ashtray.
“Madam, is this possible?” he demanded, although his voice was now unsteady.
“We can do this, let me be absolutely clear about this, we can do this.”

A buzz ran around the room and then a mustachioed male, just one man, stood up and applauded, within moments others stood up as well. Soon the entire room was standing and applauding, then a chant began, it was soft at first but rapidly it rose to a swell.

“We can do this, let me be absolutely clear about this, we can do this.”
“We can do this, let me be absolutely clear about this, we can do this.”
“We can do this, let me be absolutely clear about this, we can do this.”

And that, my friends, was how Tessa Jowell overcame insurmountable odds for her finest victory, this was indeed her finest hour.
I know this to be true because our impartial news broadcaster, their name escapes me for the moment, but they said this is how it was, this is how Tessa won the entire Olympics for all of us and that’s good enough for me.

Normally I would have let it lie, back in the old days, I would have let it lie, back in the old days I had respect for the dead and the dying, the bereaved and the grieving, back in the old days, the days before they sang about Maggie and the way they exulted, “The witch is dead”.
After that all bets were off but I’m still better than that, I don’t give a flying fuck if Tessa is dead, I understand her death was a painful one for her and her family, I understand but I find it hard to care. If that diminishes me then I am sorry but it really works for me.

I remember the Fab Four, Hewitt, Harman, Blears and Jowell, merely the sight of just one of the Four Horsewomen was enough to send me into the demented care of apoplexy. The sight of just one of them would send the ex scurrying off into the medical room, the panic room where we kept the pills and potions, and emerge with the Omron blood pressure monitor. The pounding in my chest would often be verified by readings that the late Eric Bristow could only aspire to, a constant 180.

I especially remember the ginger twat Blears holding up her cheque, £13000 and something, her repayment for defrauding every single one of us whilst she was scamming the Capital Gains Tax. I remember her holding the cheque up, like a postcode lottery winner, I remember her big, dumb fuckwit smile on her big, dumb fuckwit face, still signaling her lack of virtue whilst looking trying to look like it was a victory for her and us.

Sorry but I’m not sorry for you Tessa, and I hope you’re next, Hazel.
Let me be absolutely clear about this.

© Viciousbutfair 2018
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