From: GDHDTHSHS@SDSRSF.COM   
      
   email to Brentano:   
      
      
   Your most worshipful master of revels,   
      
   I'm glad you're going to interview Mark E Smith, weather permitting. I had a   
   hell of a journey today. To the gynarchy of a local newspaper office   
   (Microsoft word is objecting to gynarchy as a word - typical innit? I saw a   
   typo on the front page of the Standard the other week, after being bored to   
   tears by a lecturer about how good and how much Fleet Street subs get paid.   
   Tutti Pubisimo) where one sees the future: lots of talk about gender pay   
   equality and sarcasm passing for wit. I was considered for work in such   
   august precincts and was found wanting. (My utilitarian stalker would say   
   that I would be happy with a joyless gynarchy as long I was on the payroll:   
   my Christ, no way: I, like you, am one of the anarchs: just not the common,   
   great titted version: stick that up yer Benfam. Twenty Benthams please:   
   'sorry, your cashcard/ID/Socialist finger-up-arse onestop bop card - which   
   you are paying 800 quid for in many, many inconvenient monthly installments   
   at the roiling, queue-out-the-door post office - reveals that your doctor   
   forbades you to buy cigarettes. Once they've abolished money, THAT'S WHAT'S   
   GOING TO HAPPEN)   
   In a way though, we do at least get to see the passing of this country into   
   its endgame, which is like seeing the Fighting Temeraire being towed into   
   dock for real, or John Wayne actually talking to old funny face in The   
   Greatest Story Ever Told, or John Lennon getting shot - perhaps they'll have   
   that on guided time machine tours in the future: we can get a few kicks in   
   and then be off to Berlin to laugh at Adolf when they tell him the Russian's   
   at the door for the Christmas Club tally.   
    It's a decade since I sent you the first of these incoherent missives. Do   
   you remember the first one? I remember but three lines: 'going round the   
   Spar shop now in my slippers to get Special Brew: usual old drug and drink   
   tomfoolery rest o me life: I am von ashenback in toe-tectors.'   
    Moving on swiftly, what do you make of the Mary-Ann Leneghan case? Law of   
   the jungle once again: droogs. Have you been watching Judge John Deedes? It'   
   s a classic BBC bit of left-wing propaganda. Very hand-wringy about you know   
   what and etc: it'll be a hot day in Jan when they get round to making an   
   episode about this.   
    The rope for the lot of 'em: have you been reading the evidence? Jesus.   
   Where's Helena Kennedy with a ready-made explanation for all this old lark.   
   Liberals say it's always gone on and it has or something like it. Funny how   
   they excuse it with its long provenance but must stamp out etc because in a   
   modern etc   
   Well *I* think we're going backwards and I think this society is more crass   
   and barbaric than it was when they hanged the odd psycho. Look at that girl   
   who was stalked by bullies and her FUCKING HOUSE was burned down and her   
   parents killed and the old bill had ummed and aahed about whether to give   
   the family protection. What they should have done was get down the high   
   street and said mildly in the chip shop that they didn't agree with gay   
   marriage: WOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOO can I have your details sir cos   
   you see you nearly committed a crime there you see, sir, no now never mind   
   that man over there sitting on my bonnet smoking crack, sir, I went on a   
   course you see sir, and you see he's a victim of society, sir, you see and   
   you're, well sir, you're a bigot. Yes, sir, you see a nice lass came down   
   and told us all about it now if you want me to give you a fucking big old   
   boot up the arse you'll just fucking respect those gender fucking   
   differences you get me, cunty? Do YA?   
   That fat poof Johann Hari in the Evening Standard didn't have anything to   
   say about the Willesden Murder in his smug Friday column in the Standard. He   
   wrote 500 words about shagging. And if the Willesden Murder had been a   
   homosexual kicked and stabbed for his sexuality and not his money? *That's*   
   yer metropolitan elite for you. I mean who did he nosh to get that gig? When   
   it ain't him it's Yasmin Alibi Brown or her Royal Smugness Jeanette   
   Winterson. The more I think about it, the more that paper is the bloody   
   Evening Guardian.   
    Its theatre critic, Nicholas De Jongh reviewed Osborne's The Entertainer   
   last week and said: .'the song "I'm Looking After Number One" sums up the   
   attitude of people in 1950s Britain. I thought: AND IT DOESN'T NOW? Then I   
   thought: oh no, it doesn't for you, Nick, does it, 'cos taking it up the   
   arse was illegal then so everything must have been wrong and now - CLEARLY -   
   everything is rosy. I suppose it is if you're in the right minority.   
   I don't want to get into minority competition: I saw a Sikh on channel four   
   tonight arguing against holocaust memorial day because it 'makes us forget   
   the holocausts we caused as the Empire'. They took him to Auschwitz and he   
   went very quiet in the snow out there. 'Course, soon as he was back in   
   London he was moaning again. They Benjamin Zephaniah about slavery: the   
   black holocaust - he didn't exactly dwell on Arab slavery. How funny that   
   they they'd all end up arguing about their own importance in the history of   
   victimhood: I'M THE HOLOCAUST! NO *I'M* THE HOLOCAUST! NO I'M THE HOLOCAUST   
   AND SO IS MY WIFE!   
   Nobody mentioned the amount of people who died fighting fascism to guarantee   
   this carnival of puerility.   
    Call me old fashioned: I don't care. According to my old man (who is bored   
   by football as am I) his old man's team was Millwall (his paper was the News   
   Chronicle). So in honour of him: NO ONE LIKES US, WE DON'T CARE!   
      
   Cheers cock!   
      
   Nick   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)