Russia stockpiles chemical weapons. Boris Johnson tells us this is true but those of us with the ability to see the micro-muscle movements even in a face as bloated with wealth as his could read the braille. The real essence of the message was not that every major country (and some minor Jungle-based ones too) own at least a phial or two of nerve agent, but that he was caught out for being paid £160,000 by a Russian for a game of tennis. Soak that one in for a moment. That fat oaf received (on behalf of the Conservative party) £160,000 from the wife of one of Putin’s ex-Ministers, ostensibly so she could watch him sweat like a trained dancing hog in an Alabama summer circus spectacular. According to reports, the same woman also paid £30,000 at the same charity event for a ‘Guided Tour by the current UK Defence Secretary around Churchill’s war rooms, followed by a Gala Dinner’ hosted by the same.
Rich pickings for the Charities these days, and the Conservative party. Not every charity worker is raping prostitutes in disaster zones, just like most politicians aren’t lining their own pockets or preparing to when the hammer drops and retirement looms. There is much good work still to do. And if that tennis game provided a key networking environment with a well-connected member of Putin’s inner circle then we were all, as British voters, truly blessed.
Boris levelled his dead black piggy eyes at the interviewer (Andrew Marr) and I leaned forward on the sofa. Was he the best we had to offer – the sum total of all we are worth when our country is dealing with the rest of the World? He spoke again but I couldn’t hear above the rushing noise in my head as if something, some grain of truth and goodness passed down from the cosmos, was trying to escape and laser beam out of my eyes and down the Sky satellite network, right up through the dirty cables laying on the floor in the studio and out of any one of the four or five cameras within striking distance of Boris. I turned off the television. It was safer for all of us. Even the cosmos can get angry, and none of us would refuse a ringside seat in the VIP section when that show comes to town. Be there, or ….err….fry in your own atomic juices.
Porton Down is the UK’s chemical research laboratory facility. They don’t deal in lasers there, or paranoid fantasies about burning the face from politicians, but they love death and the juices it creates all the same. They store death in little glass tubes and research ways to make it more sophisticated and, ultimately, simply better at killing people for less reason than Oppenheimer had when he worked on Fat Boy. I know little more than you do about Porton Down, so here’s what the UK MP, and Chair of the UK Government Defence Committee – Bruce George – said in 1999 about the facility:
“I would not say that the Defence Committee is micro-managing either DERA or Porton Down. We visit it, but, with eleven members of Parliament and five staff covering a labyrinthine department like the Ministry of Defence and the Armed Forces, it would be quite erroneous of me and misleading for me to say that we know everything that’s going on in Porton Down. It’s too big for us to know, and secondly, there are many things happening there that I’m not even certain Ministers are fully aware of, let alone Parliamentarians.”
How does that feel? We’re talking about a military complex with the capability to kill anyone, in probably any numbers conceivable, in the World. This could happen by design, or accident. You choose your poison, if you’ll pardon the pun. And nobody who represents ‘The People’ knows really what it does or to what extent. If you told an American hillbilly the above they’d laugh and point you to Area 51 and a scar on their ass. Only, Porton Down and its contents aren’t as funny as being probed up the anus by Mork. As that poor ex-Russian Colonel (sent to the UK as part of a Spy-swap deal with Russia years ago) and his daughter found out last week.
The Russian Ambassador to the UK appeared on the same show as Boris this morning and he reminded us all that the Colonel and his daughter were administered the almost fatal dose of nerve agent – codename: ‘Novichok’, but it might as well have been ‘Rasputin’, or ‘The Russians Done It, Mister’ – barely eight miles from………yep, you guessed it……Porton Down. Why? Who? Add the rest of the four ‘W’s’ yourself. There are no good answers the likes of you or I will ever receive. Not if you don’t want to be choking on the fluid seeping into your heart quietly five minutes after sipping at a cup of coffee you had…..
Love. A little goes a long way. Always. Just like a nerve agent.