A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Wanna hear a very funny story?
You’ve heard of the sick building syndrome, right? Well, that sickness has now evolved into something much more interesting.
Yesterday the building that housed the offices of Tony Blair’s last remaining groupie, Hazel Blears, got so depressed it committed suicide.
Very much related to this, some journo, called Roger Scruton, wrote a piece in last week’s Sunday Times, claiming that western culture (unlike Islam) had always been about reaching out.
The glory of the West, he wrote, is that life is an open book.
Well, yes. Problem is that this book is basically one long & paranoid war story, with some porn and/or celebrity pictures added as a cheap sales device.
So, while our leaders find ever more ways of controlling us, we spend our miserable little lives buying useless consumer goods, from invisible weight loss products to semen detector kits (that will tell you if your husband has been slipping it to someone else on your nice, new hearth rug.)
Our leaders, of course, are just as clueless as the rest of us. While polls show that Dick Cheney is now less popular than Ted Bundy, his fearless master is not so much running out of friends as making ever more improbable enemies wherever he goes.
(That, while his only true ally, the not so popular mafia boss Tony Castrato, has now gone completely mad. Blair now blames the media for all of our civilisation’s - read: his - woes. Like he once blamed France for the Iraq war, presumably.)
The glory of the West, my arse. It’s more like a rather embarrassing story, written on bog paper and heading for a nose dive into some clever designer crapper.
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