I'm probably a bad person for rejoicing in the death of another (though the title of this blog should be an indication of my stance on humanity), but since I haven't seen anything else out there noting it, I thought I would note with glee on the passing of Joerg Haider.
I would have liked to quoted Orwell on all of our duties in the extermination of fascist scum but I can't find it at the moment and googling it doesn't seem to be of any help so we'll simply have to take comfort in the fact that we were able to save some ammo for later use. Now if the big guy would only get Thatcher in a timely and sufficiently nasty manner I'll be a God fearing man once again.
UPDATE: It looks like Haider was up to more than just grooming a successor. Sometimes you just have to love the audacity of the Right.
6 comments:
Sorry not to remark on this one before. You're not alone in raising a glass to the Lambichl roadsign that got him. Not quite a thirteenth pillar and an ex-princess, but a place of note (says he, who last trip to California added James Dean and Gram Parsons to his check-list of last moments).
I've tried to verify the following story repeatedly, without success. It's too good not to be true.
The Connacht Tribune, following the best traditions of Irish journalism, recorded the assassination of Hendrik Verwoerd in Cape Town in 1966 with the comment:
Hendrik Verwoerd is dead. God rot his soul.
I still like to story about the Skiberdeen Eagle best. I didn't really have anything Against Di but I'm never sorry to see Monarchy go.
But on a partly cloudly Sunday afternoon I'll raise one to the Connacht Tribune and to Verwoerd's rotting soul.
Ah, Zach: there can be worse things than a "partly cloudy" afternoon five miles high in Colorado.
It's been a mixed day in London. I'd much prefer, between slurps, to be reading the Southern Star, successor to the Skibbereen Eagle, in the "Horse and Hounds" or the "Paragon Bar" or (best of all), watching the swans from the Ilen bar of the West Cork Hotel in Skib.
Meanwhile, it's the 500th posting on Malcolm's World Service coming up: I'd like to pick up your idea and do those deaths, by misadventure or deliberation, that we don't regret -- Mussolini's piano wire experience; Ceausescu; Verwoerd ... suggestions welcome.
Well to start with if I was five miles up I'd be somewhere around the stratosphere. I think, actually I don't have a clue since I never payed attention in Science class. But we're at 5280 feet above sea level effectively putting the majority a a couple hundred feet above or below one mile from sea level. I'm going to chaulk that one up to "relaxing" on a Sunday, which is going to be my excuse for my horrible spelling and typing today.
Top of my list for ends would be Reagan's crapping himself before he died. I toasted Pinochet's death, though cursed that he went peacefully. I'm already toasting the end of Thatcher because I can still dream. Same goes for Mugabe. I also seem to remember being told by a friend about a Tory politician in the eighties who had OD'ed in women's underwear? Carnegie and Frick can burn in hell, as can George Peabody, the Rockefeller family along the entire Coors clan. But I'm getting off on a tangent about dead people whom I hate not bastards who met an appropriate or interesting end.
Hhmm, I'll to think on this one
Sorry, Zach: I did a mental flip between 5,000 feet and "mile high city". The confusion existed between what's left of the brain and the keyboard.
Something to do with opening that second bottle, I guess.
The story truth is that too many of the swine die in their own beds, at an advanced age.
Thatcher has been promised a state funeral: the last commoner to get one of those was Churchill. Others have suggested merely building a dance floor over her grave. That's after the stake through the heart, of course.
The Tory with the strange tastes was Stephen Milligan, MP. Found dead, February 1994, wearing only stockings-and-suspenders, bin liner over his head, dangling from an electrical cable. The public joy was that this occurred soon after John Major had proclaimed a "back-to-basics", family-friendly policy. Nobody at the time appreciated that, on the side, insipid Major was banging a woman MP, "vivacious" Edwina Currie.
I guess that, too, was incoherent: try "the sad truth of the story".
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