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Good for fuck all - by Stanislav

These fuckers should be hung up from a lamp post and spat at,
instead they are stuffing their faces and shitting in ours. Alan Milburn, former layabout, amazingly became health secretary, resigned to patch up his common-law marriage, cops a hundred grand a year for "advising" firms trying to privatise many aspects of the NHS. Also drawing a full-time salary as a part-time MP.

NewLabour's Health Secretaries have turned the NHS auxiliaries into paupers, the greedy bastard doctors into idle, dirty tyrants, abandoning their patients to shell-shocked, European locums, the managers into millionaires and the hospitals into full-steam ahead extermination camps for the vulnerable.
Frank Dobson, old Labour stooge, willingly pissed about and shafted by Blair, resigned as Health Secretary to contest London Mayoral election with Ken Livingstone. As if.

Blair had, by appealing to his beardy vanity, removed him from cabinet, leaving room for shits like Milburn. Chump. Not fit to run a St John's Ambulance Tent.
Alan Postman, when health secretary, presided over massive spread of hospital acquired infections, see stanislav, Alan Johnson's Disease. I mean, just look at him.
Glasgow John Reid, thug, drunk, bully, liar, sexual predator - see Reid, Dawn Primarolo - Trotskyist, describes himself as one of Labour's Big Men, Aye, right; horrible little shit, pothead; claimed, when Defence Secretary, that Tommy wouldn't face a shot fired in anger in Afghanistan. Was never anywhere long enough to cop any flak, a sort of a peripatetic minister for bruising. Now full-time Chairperson of Glasgow Celtic Sectarian Football Club, a paid consultant to Securicor and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP. Cunt. Utter cunt, One of the worst of a very bad bunch.

Patsy Leatherface Hewitt, former Kinnock Babe, married to a judge, son's a junky; gobby, patronising, useless career shitbag, jointly responsible with the Postman for national epidemic of HAIs, deaths of hundreds, thousands. Couldn't even see to it that the hospitals were as clean as the local chippy. Wouldn't wanna eat round her gaff. Now working full-time for Boots the Chemists, honest, not invent, and drawing full-time salary as part-time MP.

Not very handy Andy Bubbles, incumbent health secretary, good at saying this is unacceptable and accepting it, Oxbridge, Oxbridge and useless, one of Incapability Brown's bunker barrel scrapings, currently working on strategy for personal care for the elderly - other, we presume than killing them off in NHS hospitals staffed by babbling, hatchet-faced, money-grubbing, pinstripe Rotarians. Lord, have mercy, that our twilights be crafted by such as these. Up against the wall, motherfuckers.

But the worst, the very worst of it, what is unspeakable and unthinkable and intolerable is that people, relatively unsophisticated, came back from Europe and the Pacific and wandered around their bombed-out homes and communities and for themselves and for the dead voted for something different; emaciated POWs, miraculaously surviving the Nasty Nips' work camps, frightened and traumatised, their mates beheaded and starved, voted for something different. And they built houses and they built factories and they suffered rationing and delay and privation but they banished rickets and for a time, unemployment and hunger. And the schools worked. And there were to be pensions, at sixty and sixty five. And health care, from cradle to grave. The people bootstrapped themselves, from shattered, ruined communities, they built homes and hospitals and futures, when lesser people might have merged into, gone along with an uber-Europe, as had the French and the Dutch and the Danes and the Poles and the rest, these people, scorned by Uncle Sam, drip-fed a little aid , a little materiel, a few rusty ships, these people kept the world free and now they and their children enter hospitals built with their taxes and are murdered; their leaders, standing on the shoulders, but shitting in the faces of the post-war reformers, too busy fellating Russian gangsters in Strasbourg, oil billionaires in Kabul, treat them with contempt, No, they shriek, we must have more, the Kinnocks, the Blairs, we must have more, how else will you attract people of our calibre, unless we have more and more and more.They have now betrayed everything for which people fought and died and went without; all must work harder, for longer and for less, the state must see your papers, embed your papers in your skin, the electronic tattoo of the untermenschen; the state must control your children, your diet, your leisure, your habits, your drink, your drugs; the state can now arrest you for an infinite number of crimes against it, even against other states which you have never visited; can photograph you, though you may not photograph it; can enter your home, though you may not know where it lives or how much you pay for its residences. We live in a Nazi state, our SS shoot us at will, whip our women with batons, corral and batter our children as they fight for their Earth, protect with phalanxes of sharpshooters, behind walls of steel the smirking Earthcriminals, visiting Airstrip One and its ingratiating, stuttering, degenerate, fuckwit leadership; the slow or the feeble are beaten to the ground for their tardiness, their killers promoted, bemedalled. Split-second decision, protecting us from Alky Aida, or AQ, owe them a great debt for their magnificent professionalism in whipping and electrocuting and shooting innocent civilians, Iron Cross First Class, at the very least.

The news of the HospitalCrime should give us all pause. Lots, I know, think that the shouty reaches of cyberspace deal in hyperbole, entertaining but essentially just rhetoric, no business like show business. They are wrong.

That old people go into hospital, die through avoidable neglect, indifference and cruelty and that those paid to ensure the opposite happens receive golden handshakes, peerages and yet more positions of responsibility, this is not hyperbole, this is organised crime, this is not a government at its fag-end, part of the merry-go-round of party politics preached by shitbags like the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson, this is much worse; sharpen your sticks, fill your cupboards, buy some seeds and get tough, this is Ruin.

Call Me Ishmael

2 people have spoken:

Neuroskeptic said...

Have you ever been there? Do you know anything about this beyond what the papers tell you? You're getting pretty angry about something you know very little about - which for you is a lot of things - this can't be good for your blood pressure!

Fidothedog said...

Here is Mr Troll again.