The Prime Minister of the Westminster parliament, called on to form an administration by an octogenarian, hereditary head of state after being imposed on his own pary without election in any part of its electoral college, and sitting for a seat in a country that has its own parliament (and that led by a different party that has defeated 'Labour' at their last general elections) may choose to call a general election.
Not: feels bound by every idea of constitutional and democratic decency to call a general election so that he might cease to be the only wholly unelected, indeed imposed, prime minister in the democratic, advanced free world. Not: feels bound to obtain assent to the imposition of a high tax, grossly redistributive (and that does not mean in favour of the poor, they just have redistribution among themselves), civil-liberties abolishing, constitution-wrecking, financially laughable, economically incompetent, nomenklatura-corrupted state whose like was last seen under Erich Honecker. Not: in honour acknowledges that ratification of the new European Constitution must be at the heart of the general election.
Go on, you've paid the bribes, don't you trust the people?
You can do it Brown, all it takes is the courage to ask us.
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8 comments:
HG: good one. Now, how to call him to account? Daily Parliamentary persecution by William Hague? Or a march of monks?
Henry VIII did for the monks, S; and Parliament sits so little, and even when it does it operates within procedures designed to render it impotent if not ridiculous; the country is apparatchicked to the gills in all its administration - the long march through the institutions that was mooted and organised and set out in the 1960s has arrived at its destination and holds all institutions.
Still, the queues of thousands outside a UK bank offer hope; it was surprising they weren't dispersed for conspiracy to threaten the state. The regime will have considered it - police loud hailers first:'Go home, your money is guaranteed by the Labour government; you will receive further information within days! if you do not leave quietly you will be committing an offence under the terrorism acts! this assembly is unlawful! you are required to disperse!' Then they start tasering people who react sharpish.
England is the last east european country, no wonder they all feel so at home.
Courage ? Brown ?
There’s a one-eyed yellow Scotsman of a dour and sullen hue
There’s a stench of pious bullshit all around
There’s a broken-hearted woman dreams of socialism true
And the yellow Scot forever lets her down
He was known as Red McBroon, and he made the Party swoon ...
Yes, I live in expectation of the introduction of new crimes like Casting Doubt Upon Official Statistics
and of course Mocking the Person of the Prime Minister. It's deportation for me.
He is a cowardy custard isn't he ND, it's really noticeable, not just my own particular lip curling.
People always break off when chanting that poem - so many versions I suppose - do go further, when you have a moment. As for crimes:
How about 'removing deposited excess income without prior authorisation',
'conspiring to bring London as a world financial centre into disrepute'
'using or attempting to use an accountant or other professional with intention to deprive the regime of the use of resources generated within or outside of the state'
'attempting to remove wealth before leaving the UK'....
Bit too wordy?
Here it all is, well, as it is originally:
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
He was known as Mad Carew by the subs of Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.
On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars;
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.
He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket, saying,' That's from Mad Carew',
And she found the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone, and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hastened to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing through the gloom.
His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through,
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the 'Vengeance of the Little Yellow God'.
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
Oh, well if you insist !!
(warning: strong language, strong sentiments, and mild peril)
There’s a one-eyed yellow Scotsman of a dour and sullen hue
There’s a stench of pious bullshit all around
There’s a broken-hearted woman dreams of socialism true
And the yellow Scot forever lets her down
He was known as Red McBroon, and he made the Party swoon
Though his cowardice had long begun to smell
But for all he was a wanker he was feted by the bankers
And Polly Toynbee smiled on him as well
He’d been stringing her along with his socialism strong
She’d swallowed all he put into her head
When she judged Blair’s time was short, she said Broon had her support
Provided he would prove himself True Red
He wrote to ask what promise she would like from Red McBroon
They met for lunch as many times before
And fervently she told him then that nothing else would do
But his vote against Blair’s mad Iraqi war
On the night of the debate, Red McBroon was in a state,
His followers could bring mad Tony down
But he’d never in his life had the balls to wield the knife
For he knew the wielder never wears the crown
When it came to the division, courage gave way to ambition
And his scruples failed as surely as his balls
When she heard them read the vote, fury welled up in her throat
And ‘betrayal!’ was her cry around the halls
Now Hell it hath no fury like a jilted Polly Toynbee
First Blair and now McBroon had sold his soul
As she stomped off in the night, for her op-ed piece to write
She vowed vengeance on the yellow Scots arsehole
There’s a one-eyed yellow Scotsman of a dour and sullen hue
There’s a stench of pious bullshit all around
There’s a broken-hearted woman dreams of socialism true
And the yellow Scot forever lets her down
It has to have a post of its own , ND, lights, bushels..
Any other versions very welcome, either here or after ND's prize winner.
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