The Nameless One has a quite glorious post up, reminding us all that we should never feel sorry for Gordon Brown.
Sometimes I feel sorry for Gordon Brown. No, really, I do. He is such an easy target these days - a lumbering, injured buffalo of a politician - just waiting for someone to fire the fatal shot, and hating every moment of his miserable existence until someone finally does. Kicking Gordon Brown sometimes seems a little like kicking someone in a coma - fucking easy, but ethically wrong. Hell, even Ming Campbell could probably kick Gordo's sorry ass in this day and age.
Of course, those moments are moments of embarrassing weakness, and they soon pass. Just as soon as I remember just some of the mountains of reasons that exist to justify despising Gordon Brown. Because everything, everything about him screams that here, in this dour, grey form, we have a man utterly deserving of hate and angry contempt. John Prescott—a lard mountain in human form—describes Brown as irritating, and you believe him. John Prescott claims Blair was frightened of Brown, and you believe him. Frank Field talks of Brown's rages, his unreasonable behaviour, and you believe him. There is something about Brown that demands you believe the worst of him. He looks haggard, he looks bitter, he looks unhealthy. Frankly, a piss stained drunk looks marginally more healthy—and certainly more in love with life—than our PM. And then there is his behaviour. He seems to revel in the misfortune of others, at the same time as hating the world every time when even the most minor calamity befalls him. He is like a sulky teenager, without the redeeming quality of being able to grow out of it.
Perhaps it is something in the British psyche—that we feel guilty for laughing at those who have fallen on hard times, even if it is their own fault. But if you feel that way about Gordon—don't. Because—and you'll have to trust me on this, but deep down you know it already—he'd laugh at you if you fucked up and ruined your big chance. Hell, it is that sort of moment that probably represents the only occasions when his sour, grey, creased and ill-looking face is cracked up by a smile.
Quite; I recommend that you read the whole thing, for TNO is in his element. However, your humble Devil would like to express some disquiet about Brown's calamitous and, admittedly, hilarious fall.
No, it isn't the fact of it, but the manner. I'd always hoped that maybe I would be the one to bring him down: instead, the Gobblin' King has utterly fucked up his career all by himself. I consider myself cheated, frankly.
However, a glimmer of hope remains for, whilst he is definitely on the ropes, Gordo is not down yet.
Perhaps, just perhaps, I could be the one—to steal TNO's coma analogy—who delivers the swift kick to the throat that knocks out the ventilator tube and who leaps for joy as—in the grey, dank, dirty hospital room—the machine that has recorded the last moments of this great, fat, joyless tosser's life emits its final beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep before lapsing into a final, remorseless silence.
Let's see the cunt laugh that off...