Fishy Fee-fa F*** and the War Criminal


Blatter gets re-elected then quits, only to then not go until DECEMBER?? To lay down all those precious reforms he so palpably failed to enact in the previous 17 years???

Notwithstanding some vague suspicion he stood for re-election out of vanity and/or to score some better multi-trillion Rouble offshore handshake, WTF that he’s not replaced ’til December? One week for every year served, 12 weeks max, that’s a semi-standard notice period, should be gone in September at the latest.

Just like Tony the war criminal Blair, who stood for re-election in 2005 on the promise he’d leave within a few minutes of victory (??! – stone me, it worked), then he quit in 2006 and spent A YEAR on his swan-song. It was beyond Alan B’stad, or even Alan Partridge, swanning and songing as Bliar ultimately did down in the depths of Norfolk’s finest motels or anywhere else with a carvery and juiced up Nazis to give him a cheer.

I went to one of his farewell speeches, at some trade union hall in London, the exact venue was kept incredibly hush-hush until 24 hours beforehand and we were all suddenly informed (and I told my whole office if they wanted to have a crack at TB he’d be at X a X oclock the next day). I was a member of the Labour party at the time, I joined while it haemorrhaged members because I wanted to see who the crazies were that stayed in, and also the chance to see Blair live, I had this fascination with the ‘touch of the King’, the carry of charisma of one person in the room … how could he, after so much, yet still hold so many in thrall? Was it pheremonal? Did he smell of power? I was also at the time in love with this Spanish girl who worked in Greenwich market and I had the idea if I went to this show and managed to hit him she’d be so impressed she’d dump her fiance and go out with me (it was a fleeting idea, honest Mssrs NSA/MI5 men). Anyway in the event at this top secret venue with thousands of attendees and police choppers overhead and scores of TV crews, I’m there in the audience, and Blair comes in, goons front and behind, and he looks old – he’d only recently been told in as uncertain terms as a maniac like him can finally understand, ‘look, just get out. GET OUT’, and it’d taken its toll on him. I was only four seats from the aisle, not close enough to strike nor smell him, but in any case I confess I was overwhelmed by the sheer intimidation of the enthusiasm of the Nuremburg Rally lot in the hall there to see him, it was like a cult, on the way to Jonestown. I’m sitting next to this Middle Eastern chap and neither of us can bring ourselves to heckle, but we both pointedly stayed in our seats while all the others stood and whooped and wept and wotnot. Then he spoke, or rather HE passed down his message, for about 90 minutes, and as those minutes passed, as he mentioned again and again the peace process he’d set up in Northern Ireland, again, and again, and again, peace, peace, peace, and rippling murmurs of approval ebbed and flowed across the hall, he was indeed a man of peace. The Peacemaker.

A peaceful man, who didn’t go looking for trouble.

Mmm, mmmmm, yes, mmmm, murmured the minions.

A decade of peace.

This man whose wars had killed more foreigners than any other PM since WWII, when Churchill was fighting the Nazis, mind, was a man of peace.

And not one mention of Iraq. Not one. From him, or any of the pre-loaded questioners in the audience. Nope. Not one mention. When I realised that, that was chilling.

And when it was all over and I began to feel I was truly in a room of lunatics, wide-eyed believers and arch self-serving cynics, as I desperately sought the exit and barrelled outside into the sunshine (almost tripping over Hazel Blears), and around the numerous barricades of TV crews with pundits pontificating to camera, from not one person, journalists included, did I hear ‘Iraq’.



I disappeared … ended up in a pub off Leicester Square, down a side street, empty save me and the dust dancing in the spotlights of sunshine beaming through the windows. Me in a darkened corner with a pint of Guinness, wondering, ‘what the fuck was that?’


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