Scumgate

David Wright MP might be a very nice man in person. He might not really consider members of the opposition party to be “scum-sucking pigs.” However, it has to be said, he’s not doing particularly well to defend his position.

In response to a trending hashtag on Twitter yesterday, Mr. Wright made this comment:

[you've never voted Tory] because you can put lipstick on a scum-sucking pig, but it’s still a scum-sucking pig. And cos [sic] they would ruin Britain.

It’s an obvious mirror of a comment Barack Obama made about Sarah Palin last year, and with it, it brings in the nasty, American breed of political campaigning, where personal smears, lies and deceitful horseshit is generally the order of the day. This is one of the reasons I’m proud to be British – we could descend into this dung-slinging contest every election run-up, but this fecal peddling is mostly left to the Daily Mail and co.: mainstream politicians are way too polite to do so, and when they do cross the line, there is invariably uproar.

So, naturally, this was a nasty comment that got some attention. So what would Mr. Wright do? Apologise? Publish a retraction? Justify it? Why bother, when you can just cop out and blame it on a hacker?

“I put up on twitter a message linked to Barack Obama’s comment in the Presidential race last year about conservative policy, which is you can put lipstick on a pig but it’s still a pig. It looks like somebody, a third party has gone into my account and made it more offensive.
“I think it was a legitimate comment and I mean twitter is edgy and you know it provokes debate, it looks on this occasion as if it has caused a serious problem and we need to go back and look at that.”

Hmm… I don’t know why, but I (and several others) certainly think I’ve seen this defence before, somewhere. Moreover, Guido has helpfully pointed out that the fact tweets cannot be edited blows an awfully wide hole in his excuse.

This is exactly the reason people lose faith in politicians. In this case, while a simple apology could have been in order, he instead chose to blame it on someone else. Trouble was, this pitiful attempt at arse-covering was so obvious and half-baked it was bound to backfire.

Is there a moral in this story? Yes. Two.

  1. You may disagree with someone, but you’re still British. No matter how heated the discussion gets, you don’t resort to name-calling. This is not a teabagger meeting.
  2. For god’s sake, stop blaming any slightly embarrassing incident on a hacker. It’s not working for Rod Liddle, there’s no reason it would work for you. The electorate is not stupid, and certainly does not like being patronised like this.

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Every morning, five days a week, I am faced with a somewhat agonising decision. Each day, as I pass through Ash Vale Station, with at most two minutes to change to the stopping service to London Waterloo via Woking, I must decide whether or not it’s worth picking up a copy of Metro.

There are several factors I must take into account: what’s on the front cover? Does it pique my interest? Do I have room in my bag, amongst the textbooks, stationery and other trappings of a college student, to carry a freesheet? Is it a slow news day? Is the train departing in ten seconds and counting?

Most of the time, the answer is sort-of, yes, no and no-but-with-no-time-for-complacency-quick-grab-it-now-and-dash-up-the-stairs-to-Platform-1. For all its faults, Metro is a decent paper: it usually regurgitates some semblance of facts without trying to slip in political propaganda, and provides a reasonably broad range of stuff to read through or skip over as you please. And it’s free, so you can’t really complain.

That said, there is one major flaw: the news is always at least one day late. Most of the time, this isn’t too bad, although we’ve had incidents in the past (such as the Balloon Boy situation) where the article was written before the story’s climax (or deus ex machina, in this case.) The commuters of Britain knew Falcon Heene was safe and well (and probably used by his parents as an attention-whoring pawn) as Metro screamed about the fear for the little boy’s life.

Today, though, this lateness played an altogether more beak role. While eating breakfast this morning, I was idly listening to the radio, registering in passing the sad news of the death of charity microlight pilot, Martin Bromage, whose body was later recovered off the French coast.

It is, of course, a tragic case that Mr. Bromage’s attempt (and life) were cut so short, so early in the voyage – and it is perhaps doubly cruel that he was raising money for Help for Heroes in the process. However, after flinging myself out of the front door, hopping on the bus, waiting for half an hour for the first train and rushing through Ash Vale Station’s subway, I couldn’t help but note some grim, ironic humour in this item which greeted me as I opened my hastily-grabbed copy of Metro to page 20:

Oh dear.

Oh dear.

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It seems Pat “Dunderhead” Robertson has finally lost his mind completely.

Seemingly discontent with claiming Doomsday in would happen at the end of 1982 (which it didn’t), that Scotland is a “dark land overrun by homosexuals” (which it isn’t), that Hinduism is “demonic” (which it isn’t), that there would be a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest in 2006 (which there wasn’t) and that there would be mass killings, probably nuclear, in the USA 2007 (which there weren’t), Robertson has now made this address on his television programme, in which he announces the cause of the recent earthquake in Haiti:

You know, Christy, something happened a long time ago in Haiti, and people might not want to talk about it. They were under the heel of the French. Ahhh…you know, Napoleon the Third and whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the Devil. They said we will serve you if you get us free from the French. True Story. And so the Devil said “Okay, it’s a deal.” and…uh…they kicked the French out. You know, the Haitians revolted and got themselves free. But ever since they have been cursed by one thing after the other. Desperately poor. That island of Hispaniola is one island. It’s cut down the middle, on one side is Haiti, on the other side is the Dominican Republic. Dominican Republic is prosperous, healthy, full of resorts, etc. Haiti is in desperate poverty. Same island. Um, they need to have, and we need to pray for them, a great turning to God. And out of this tragedy, I’m optimistic, something good may come.

Watch it here if you like (nofollow has been vigorously applied)—it’s about the six-minute mark, and every bit as putrid as it sounds.

I strongly suggest donating to the British Red Cross’s emergency appeal: every penny counts, and Haiti needs our help and attention right now more than this nincompoop deserves in a lifetime.

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