Document:Bob Ainsworth on the subject of the melted cavalry man

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A simple guide to understanding politicians

Disclaimer (#3)Document.png article  by Stanislav dated 2008/03/12
Subjects: Politician, Bob Ainsworth MP
Example of: Rant
Source: Stanislav's Rants (Link)

DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA INCENDERE

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If we would know our rulers - in all parties and in all media - look no further than the TV interviews given recently by Armed Forces Minister, Bob AInsworth, MP, on the subject of the Melted Cavalryman.

Bob the Wig, famous for dismissing squaddies' concerns as absolute bollocks, fought bravely himself in the dangerous world of trade union sinecures before donning the Blair Kneepads in 1997. A coarser, crasser, stupider version of Stephen (There's A Good Boy) Pound, Ainsworth is another class traitor in the mould of the cock-waving, thieving bastard, Prescott

On the business end of an RPG, this ungrateful soldier, anyway, was awarded a hundred and sixty grand for receiving seventy per cent burns, his face melted, his ears burnt off and years of agony to come; he came by this shocking set of injuries defending Haliburton's stolen oil in Tony Blair's War for Peace in Iraq and Afghanistan (and other locations, to be announced, as the Great Peacemaker weaves his spells) and Ainsworth, who yearly draws about a hundred and thirty grand in "expenses" - his safe Coventry constituency being thousands of first class miles from London - deemed that a hundred and sixty grand was appropriate compensation; Tony and Imelda have had seven million so far, or is it ten, and never even got near the shooting, although they probably did some hot praying.

Ah, but, whined Ainsworth in his best, know-it-all Brummie, peepul don't rea-loyse, we're paying this man a pension, too, you have to look at things in the round. Yes, minister, look at things in the round, easier when you have no ears. The Opposition of Hooray Henrys don't jeer this worthless piece of shit, Ainsworth, because they, too, are more concerned with their own pensions than in even trying to ameliorate the lifetime of horror faced by this lowly lance-jack, cruel disfigurement and agony and sorrow wrought in a worthless invasion and occupation that they all voted for; micromanage the economy like a good 'un, can George Osbourne but Alistair Campbell shouts WMD! and the boy shits himself. War? Yes, fuck me, I'll vote for that. Maybe, now, instead of embarrassing decent people with his mangled face, Tommy'll just fuck off and die while BoyGeorge and DaveCallMeTony play at being grown-ups, useless pair of truculent, mouthy public school pansies.

Ever loyal to his men, concerned for their post-conflict welfare, General Gabshite Dannant is too busy getting his nose browned, up the Royal Familial arse, too concerned with his own pension and peerage and so it fell to another melted hero, Simon Weston of the Falklands to raise this latest Whitehall obscenity. One melted man speaking up for another, because none in parliament - showering themselves, their families and lovers and rentboys with pensions and expenses and honours and perqs - will. Jesus wept; such filth, lording it over us.

In Scotland a little while ago the Lab-Lib coalition, led by the staggeringly incompetent prick, McConnell and the grinning clown, Wallace, in an attempt to shut down a Scotch criminal justice system scandal, awarded a former wpc a sum of three quarters of a million pounds, £750,000, not for wrongful imprisonment, she was never locked up; not for injury, not a hair on her head was damaged, let alone her face all melted away like wax, no, Shirley McKie was embarrassing the entirely rotten Scotch system of jurisprudence and they wanted her to shut up; McConnell and Wallace, then leader of the Scotch Toileteers' Party and Justice Minister, ensured that Ms. McKie was paid this money to compensate her for her "hurt feelings." Honest. Not invent. Hurt feelings.

Our rulers plunder limitless amounts of our money to ensure their own political survival or the commercial success of their friends with dodgy IT companies, or rubbish banks but they put up this charmless, uncouth, bewigged, jobsworth poltroon, Ainsworth, to chide and pennypinch and force the hideously wounded to beg at the bar of public opinion for a square deal. Thieving, cowardly scum; steal from Tommy and shower the prat Kinnock and his whole gahstly tribe with gold and honours; that's what they're like, that's what they do; is it any wonder they are all so wrong about everything else?

Given some of the anger expressed by disillusioned servicepersons, Ainsworth might well take care in his own luxurious retirement; his own pension, of course, will be armour-plated, but his fat, cowardly arse won't. One night, with any justice, maybe walking his wig on Hampstead Heath, he will hear an angry whisper in his ear, Up Against The Wall, Motherfucker.

10:50 AM, March 12, 2008

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