Monday, June 16, 2008
Where am I?
In The Village. Unless of course, you aren't. The village in question is of course the soi disant 'Westminster Village', a designation I find more irksome and generally irritating with every passing day. It's a term which manages to imply warmth, mutuality and community; with overtones of rustic simplicity and forthrightness. In short, a skip-load of old bollocks. Matthew Parris had a few things to say on the topic here, and worthwhile reading it is too, as always.
A parliamentarian, earlier today.
However, I tend to the viewpoint that the so-called village embodies everything to deplore about village life and nothing good. Stupid, myopic, parochial and incestuous. Even more unforgivable is the rampant xenophobia exhibited to any individual not a part of the community - especially given that this includes the entire electorate. Even the one attribute normally synonymous with community - coziness - becomes a disgusting inversion. It is the coziness of ticks infesting a huge urine soaked bed, it's sweat stiffened sheets inflated by a constant stream of rancid farts. There they all thrive, breeding and feeding off their despised hosts.
Nah, for future reference; it's not a village. It's not even an enclave. It's a whorehouse. A place where prostitutes gather in order to fuck us all for money.
A whorehouse, last night.
Where it's always business as usual.