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Carswell, that ends well

Now, I read, there’s famine in Somalia.

Yawn. Is anyone going to notice? Will anyone even care, as the babies swell-up and die? Can we afford to do anything about it? Haven’t they brought it on themselves, with their endless tribal warfare and ongoing al-Shabab insurgency?

We’ve got ten million displaced persons under canvas in Turkey, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria. Winter is approaching.  Makeshift schools and hospitals lack funding. Qualified people do manual work.

A bunch of freelance Muslim gangsters called something, IS, ISIL, ISIS, Deish are establishing a murderous new caliphate spanning the borders of Syria and Iraq. Teenagers watching stuff on the internet, innit, reckon it’s a great adventure, over three thousand have travelled from Europe to be part of the new, innocent-white-people’s beheading party.

Islamic insurgencies are continuing in the Sahel region of Mali, Nigeria, Sudan, Libya, Algeria, Morocco, with hundreds of young people kidnapped and pressed into paramilitary units, into what we in the West would call sex-slavery – in Islam it’s called marriage. We hear nothing about these conflicts any longer, we are bored with them.

(Here in the West, we perpetuate sex-slavery through Pakistani urban rape-gangs, incest and child abuse.)

There are an estimated 37 million people in bondage throughout the world. People of African descent in the West are having a harder and harder time claiming unique historical precedence and special treatment over this historical issue. (Sorry. But you are. So now enjoy being free.) Slavery persists in Arab countries – and in Knightsbridge.

We’ve got ten thousand Ebola cases in West Africa (one, now dead, in the USA, and one confirmed in Spain). The plague threatens the economic survival of Liberia, Sierra Leone, Guinea-Bissau. Poor countries where there is one doctor per half-million of inhabitants, and that doctor and her nursing team are probably already dead from exposure to Ebola.

(Of the Sierra-Leonian team that carried out the gene-sequencing of the virus to show that it’s new and not the old Zaire variety, and originated with one village herbalist who tried to treat a patient with unknown symptoms, six are now dead.)

While in Britain, the sixth largest economy in the world, well-heeled Tories call for cuts in the overseas aid budget to ease their tax woes. They fail to realise that their agreeable third homes in Tuscany are at risk from their craven subjection to the anti-EU wing and the editor of the Mail.

India and Pakistan are shelling one another across the Kashmiri border.

North and South Korea are exchanging machine-gun fire across the 40th parallel.

China and Japan are continuing to face one another off over the ownership of some pointless islands that have become a symbol of historic enmities and atrocities.

Something, whatever, is probably still going on in Ukraine.

Massive global corruption and corporatism are shifting vast resources towards an ever-smaller number of obscenely wealthy individuals, yet foolish, greedy and covetous consumers hold quasi-religious ceremonies to hail the release of new and evermore bendable, oppressive and useless consumer goods.

Through which we are all kept under surveillance, for our own good. Like baby monitors.

While the globe continues to warm.

The once-idyllic tropical paradise, the Maldive Islands continue to drown in a sea of their own garbage.

The Pacific Gyre, an artificial continent of plastic rubbish from around the world, continues to rotate.

And Nigel fucking Farage is rampaging over British politics tonight. Voters are clearly too depressed and Ritalin-damaged to understand that he is not at all what he pretends to be, a man o’ the people. He is as much a product of the ‘Westminster bubble’ as any other political huckster. The antidote to politics, the beer-swilling, pub-going Mr Farage confidently expects to hold the balance of power at the next general election in 2015. God help us, we’re about to hand power to an ex-public-school, ex-merchant banker who pretends to be Arthur Daley, a fictional used-car salesman from a TV sitcom, in his camelshit-coloured, cashiered Army officer’s Crombie coat with the egregious tab collar.

His successful by-election-winning protégé, Douglas Carswell, is a turncoat and a politician with a distinctively crooked smile, as if his face had been slashed with a Stanley knife. It is rumoured that the formerly highly regarded Mr Carswell is already regretting his association with this disaffected rabble and its Teflon-coated leader. Nevertheless he is bathing in his enormous majority tonight, ignoring the obvious fact that, as the popular sitting Tory MP, he has merely succeeded in combining his own Tory vote with that of the gullible and uninformed baboons who tell the visiting media: now, that Mr Farage, he’s one of us.

Please, will somebody get me out of here?

– Uncle Bogler

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