Douglas Bastard's Rants of Rage

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This article was written on 28 Dec 2015, and is filled under Uncategorised.

If I should die in a terrorist outrage

If I am blown limb from limb, fatally injured or maimed beyond the point at which I can speak in some terrorist outrage, there are some things I’d like to say now, while I still can. And I want to say them because the Government will wreak terrible vengeance in the name of me and all the other luckless sods who were caught up in whatever happened. In short, I want it made quite clear that I want no part of whatever ‘military solution’ happens next.

Perhaps the terrorists were home grown, radicalised on these shores using the internet and their own gullibility. Or perhaps they arrived here in a crowd of desperate people, which will give the usual suspects chance to say that our society is too generous and also too gullible. I find this idea laughable. Britain is a desperate, hard-faced, mean and miserable little country worthy of endless opprobrium. There are kind and noble people here, but the swine always shout louder. And let me say something else.

When it comes to groups of desperate refugees maybe harbouring terrorists who mean people harm, I’d rather love too much than not enough. If the price of allowing entry to 100 people is that one terrorist gets in, then better that than leaving those 100 people to fend for themselves. The Daily Mail reading faction have probably had apoplexy at reading that, which I find vastly heartening.

To anger them still further, I’d additionally like to disavow any policy which attempts to brutalise anyone in my name. And I mean anyone. Blowing someone up won’t make me any less mangled, or mean that whatever thing it was that happened didn’t happen. It’ll kill a bunch of people, they’ll have a sense of grievance, so they’ll kill some more people and on this will go forever, with nobody ever having the courage not to retaliate.

If you want to do something that makes more of a statement than a missile going ‘phut’ somewhere in the desert, bury me with the person who killed me. No matter how much he hated or how foul he sees the West as being, I think we’d probably have a lot to talk about in eternity with any scores now settled and me having been unwittingly martyred for a cause I barely understood.

While we’re both there in ground sanctified by whatever remains of victim and aggressor being laid in it, stick up a peace garden and have a few benches to get people talking. On the anniversary of my death, our death or whatever, have a drive to get more people to donate blood, because that is what I did on the tenth anniversary of the death of my friend, murdered in the London bombings.

The one thing I wouldn’t want to be, post mortem, is a political football. The Tories are obviously vile for reasons I can’t be bothered to rehearse here and New Labour set most of the Middle East on fire, so if any politicians do want to use me as an example, they need to think very carefully about what their legacy is. I’m all about peace, reconciliation and thinking people like George Galloway are arses, not more bombing or, and this is the kicker, George, quite alarmingly unbalanced, windbag rhetoric full of gusts of hate.

Anyway. I’d be dead, the world will turn and the politicians who, to an almost bizarre extent are venal and self-serving halfwits with all the integrity of a teenager sneaking upstairs for a quick wank will do what they were always going to do. Which is to frame policy to advance their own interests, appease mouth-breathing voters and watch the consequences from a gated estate in Hertfordshire. It will get the same result, of course, but all I ask is that you don’t sanctify it with my memory.

 

 

 

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