I've already blogged here about smacking, and have no desire to repeat myself. But on the way home I listened to a report from Parliament which raised my blood pressure beyond what a doctor would consider healthy. I need some typing exercise to lower it.
The MP for Wakefield, David Hinchcliffe, who used by strange chance to be a social worker, made a speech equating smacking children with child abuse, and implied that the lamentable deaths which for the last thirty years have been the subject of enquiries (most of which by strange chance have heavily criticised social workers) would have been prevented if parents who smacked their children had been criminalised.
I'm not sure if I've got words to describe Hinchcliffe, but let me try and paint for you a picture of this vile, detestable apology for a human being, this stinking, festering, pullulating dungheap, this helminthic horror pulled slobbering from the most crooked, rotten, maggot-infested bathroom cabinet in Hell's puke-splashed, faeces-freckled, sputum-spattered lavatory. No giant tube-worm feeds as low in the deepest slough of ocean as this blistered, swelling, pendant boil on the flabby, pendulous buttocks of the Parliamentary Labour Party, this sagging sac of infectious slime, this pus-filled pantaloon, this vial of virulent venom vomited vertically from a vampire's varicocele.
That will suffice for now. I'll add more later, but my daughter awaits her bedtime story. Having finished the Brothers Grimm, we're onto Hans Christian Andersen - and Kay has been taken by the Snow Queen, leaving poor Gerda behind. Can't wait to find out what happens next.
UPDATE - "... this gruesome gargoyle gaping gormlessly from the Gurdwara of Ghastliness, this crapulent corbel on the Cathedral of Cretinism, this seething sore stickily suppurating on the Stone Circle of Stupidity, this moronic, mindless minaret on the Mosque of Madness etc etc ..."
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