Oh, who will rid me of this turbulent priest-bait?

I have not, up till this point, doled out one of my unpleasant and sexually graphic kickings to Margaret Beckett, the woman so ugly that only the most desperate Catholic priest would wish to abuse her. This is because I try not to think about ugly people too much and, frankly, when they come in the form of Margaret Beckett, even my brain can hardly handle the screaming horror of her hideous physiognomy.

In order to look at a picture of her, I normally take the precaution of polishing up my shield to a high shine and regarding the awful thing in the mirror-like surface, lest I be turned to stone on the spot. Oh, Perseus! If only you had killed all of the Gorgons and we would not now be so afflicted.

But, alas, we are; but luckily, Margaret has at least had the decency to keep relatively quiet. Having totally bollocksed up the Farm Payments at Defra, she was reshuffled to an area where it was thought that she couldn't do any harm, i.e. Foreign Office. The thinking obviously was that, since Toni handles all of our foreign policy anyway, Margaret could sit back and not fuck anything up for a while. Well, she certainly has sat back and, when she is not lecturing American college students on subjects of astonishing fatuity instead of attending important NATO meetings, she has generally kept her fucking visage away from my sight.

Unfortunately, my generosity of spirit in rapprochement for her sparing my poor retinas the trauma of seeing what—for want of a better word—we shall call her "face", has come to an end; this is because she has not only shown her face, but also opened her mouth and words have dropped out of it like Gordo's turds dropping into Polly's gaping maw. Only, instead of having a resident scat-muncher to hoover up the excreta, Beckett has splashed it across a national newspaper.

It was via Tom Paine that I discovered this egregious breach of her self-imposed silence and the only thing that I can say in her favour is that—when you are as thick as two short planks: nay, even envy them their erudition—then you may as well say something astoundingly fucking obtuse rather than settling for a pronouncement of merely mediocre stupidity. And it has worked for even the usually mild-mannered Tom gets shirty (by his standards).

If that is true, someone should be researching the Mental Health Act to establish who is entitled to "section" the Foreign Secretary, based on Perry de Haviland's theory (set out in a comment to this post) that "there may come a time when the desire of statists to control others is recognised as the mental disorder it is."

I really do think that when an individual, usually with a life as screwed-up as anyone else's, exhibits a consistent desire to control the behaviour of strangers, it is a form of mental illness. These people need help.

But what, I hear you cry, could such an ignorant gorgon have said that would move Tom to such harsh words? Well, it is, I think that you will agree, an absolute fucking cracker.

On Thursday, Margaret Beckett, the Foreign Secretary, compared climate sceptics to advocates of Islamic terror. Neither, she said, should have access to the media.

That's right, my dear readers: Margarett Beckett believes that someone like myself some not have access to the media. This excrescence believes that my scepticism of climate change, our contribution to it and the best way to deal with any problem—amplified in posts considerably more well-researched than anything that this evil, old bag has ever written or mouthed—is entirely synonymous with urging young Muslims to go and blow up themselves and others in a continuous stream of homocide bombings.

This ignorant, ill-trained piece of shit—a fuckwit with a face that could stop a charging rhino at 80 yards (sorry, 73.152 metres)—believes that your humble Devil is, in fact, as bad as those who urge young men and women to strap explosives to their chests and indiscriminately blow up innocent people*. She would like to shut this blog down, as your humble Devil "should not have access to the media." Well, fuck you Beckett, you horse-faced whore; why don't you fuck off and die?

No, tell you what; here's a better idea: out of the goodness of my heart, I'll help you (although I must acknowledge the assistance of Fifi in devising some elements of this particularly novel murder). First we are going to prize your legs apart with a fucking carjack (we may need to use several jacks and an army of navvies to get those apart, mind; they can't have been opened in years, and no wonder. No, not even Stevie Wonder) and then we are going to hang you upside down and lower you, head first, into a vat of boiling custard.

Then, whilst you slowly drown in the sticky stuff, huge workmen will take it in turns to go at your cunt with pneumatic drills and then chuck their muck into your now gaping hole. In this way, you will die covered in thick, hot, sticky creme anglaise at both ends.

And, frankly, it won't be a day too soon, you fascist cunt: fuck you. How dare you have the effrontery to keep polluting the Earth with your fucking face? Piss off.


* It had occurred to me that some might detect an element of hypocrisy in my disassociating myself from homocide bombers and then recommending the killing of Beckett and other politicos so I would like to point to a crucial difference: those I advocate slaughtering are not innocents, they're politicians.