THE GOT NO SHOTGUN HYDRATED OCTOPUS BLUES
The temple cats all scatter as I vent disbelief, hysteria & rage…
After The Financial Times' ‘The Believer’ [see below], another B/W [= Sit Up Now, This Is GROWN UP STUFF, Plebs] magazine cover serious bizness photey of our Prime Mugger – and boy is he mugging up a storm for this one, on the cover of The Times Magazine [3.5.03 – but found today face up in a public rubbish bin on the road from the Pill Box to the cathedral of Waitrose may its glories be eternal & eternally praised].
This one, yes, black & white again, and here he is the old Nikon tart, like some bleedin’ Old Testament prophet or St Theresa in a spivvy suit, eyes buggin', thoughts rising to that Number Ten in Heaven, jee-zus he really does think he’s Prime Believer don’t he (maybe he thought they said ‘Do you want to BE Job at Number Ten’?), like I say, in some military situ, inside this sleazy shiny spivvy sharkskin suit (‘Psst! Wanna buy a second hand resolution?’) eyes like completely out there Gone Beyond in some act of pious contemplation, and a big pair of military headphones (oh, the REALITY!) clamped round his shell-likes.
And the final insult, the strapline:
To be said in BASIL FAWLTY voice:
‘Oh I SEE! It was BLAIR’s war! No one else’s! His all alone and all along! Him who needed to be frightened! Him who needed to draw on supernatural reserves of courage as cluster bombs crashed thru his flimsy walls, HIM who needed to encircle his sobbing screaming blindly perplexed children!
Oh … right!
That’s OK then.
Then again, maybe I’ve misread the photo –
Maybe he’s just listening to the nice new Jools Holland album, ay?
Down time, like.
Oh no no no no no no no no no no no no no non niet nein NO. STOP now please.
Please god no.
I just summoned up the courage to actually open the offending magazine/article (“unprecedented access’ – all that old cobblers) and go to page 40 and we find the Prime Mugger – the Photoshoot Minister – oh Legba give me strength, I don’t know if I can go through with this – posed for all the world like a mind-meld of Sting & Craig David, cradling an acoustic guitar, and I SWEAR I am not making ANY of this up, the photo caption reads:
“LEFT: Strumming the blues in the hallway of the flat which doubles as Leo’s playroom…”
"Strumming the blues . . ."
No. No more. Seriously.
Actually, now that I’ve calmed down [half a Waitrose Chocolate Chip Sherry Trifle, a Marlboro Light, various stroked cats, a circuit of the Garden, brief cathartic burst of David Baerwald - "We got government by ignorance! / Lots of lobbies in a line!" - and a cup of Cafe Direct rich roast], the thing that really worries me more than upsets me about all this is: how stupid do they think we are?
I mean, it’s one thing to get carried away on a gi-normous global realpolitick light shining out of my arse EGO trip, as he so obviously is (I mean: you don’t think it's maybe just a TEENY bit tasteless to go with such ME-first stories THIS SOON?), it’s one thing to be flooded with amour propre bulked up by flunkies into vainglory … but to be blinded by it to the extent that he/his people ACTUALLY think we’ll SWALLOW this shit – as un-posed snatched in the moment caught off guard VERITE … !?
Just how cut off from real life ARE they?
Or, as David Baerwald so economically puts it:
"Am I alone in this?
Am I alone?
Am I alone in this?
Am I ALONE!?"
posted by Ian 5/06/2003 01:23:00 PM