Another one in an occasional series (four, three, two & one (scroll down to “baby girl had human bite marks” and, the very first archive entry “Fucked from birth”)) and – no, this is not, surprisingly, in any way bound to the recent Josef Fritzl case – although here is a little statistic to turn over in your mouth whilst having your dinner.
Rather it is to relate the thick wave of doomed nausea that overwhelmed me when I was walking through Edinburgh the other day. I passed Canonmills Primary School and saw – between the boarded up windows, high above the barbed wire and black iron railings the school’s new motto; work hard. play fair… There was a third part to this soulless, local authority – ergo fat fucking idiot – generated maxim, but I got too sick to hold it in memory long enough to bring it back here.
Work Hard. Play Fair. Is that it? Is that how to get these little stars a’shining?
Why didn’t they just go the whole fucking hog and scrawl in big fucking letters; Comply, Then Die.
Hasn’t been one in this series since last September (see Mouth Replaced – Tears Removed) So I feel almost obliged to cough up some of the backlog of bile I find choking me in the wake of Anna Nicole Smith’s death.
What have we got here then? A loveless wanabee who sucks old cocks for money? Addiction to the idea of celebrity being a valid life choice? Inability to exert self control (encouraged decline by facile peripheral characters morning, noon and night)? Drugs and weight issues spiralling in the public eye under the unquestioning, judgemental but non-intervening gaze of the world on TV?
A weeping cab driving judge lowering the definition of pond scum – only to meet Ya Ya The Whore‘s husband down there? Depression? Abuse? Sex? Your ongoing premature death drama played out on entertainment rather than news pages (see here for instance)?
And there, right in the heart of it all – and being fought over by low life forms each with seemingly valid paternity claims – is a five month old girl.
I ask again – as we circle ever downwards – what hope?
As if the combined memories of Jon Benet Ramsey and Peter Sotos’s texts weren’t enough, those without shame continue to thrive, apparently – watch out for the overweight baby on the next linked page!
Come on – What chance? What fucking chance? What fucking chance do your children have?
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This morning, in the park, I saw a little boy fall out from his buggy.
His “guardian” was sitting with an assortment of ragged, drunk, and “ill” people. “Aw Naw, Aw naw” the adults kept saying. The “guardian” swayed around on unsteady feet trying to pick up child, buggy and coke can with one hand while holding onto a beer bottle with his other hand.
Ugly, yes – just like you see in cities the world over – and lets face it this kind of social disgrace is common and prosaic enough without this humble add on. But what got to me was the boy – barely two years old – fell back from a buggy and hit his head and his elbow off the concrete path – and not a single peep from his injured mouth.
He looked up with a look half sullen, half filled with fear and tried not to make eye contact with his “guardian”
Maybe it is because i am the father of a two year old. Maybe it was because it was a Monday morning and i had been away from the city for a few days… but this hit me raw and sore and i was filled, I mean FILLED with sorrow and disgust and helpless rage. A child of two already understands that for him to make a noise, to show pain, is a potentially fatal move. Where does he sleep? What does he see? How long before he heals over completely and becomes unreachably cold, loveless, and dangerous?