Jihadi John – my dog vomited on your face

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Hugh Paxton’s Blog missed the latest news on Jihadi John. It was in the Bangkok Post but Khun Mee used that particular edition to wipe up some of my dog’s vomit (the dog tends to do and eat things without thinking and if it happens to have ghastly gastric consequences then the whole lot reappears – one reason I subscribe to the Bangkok Post, it’s long, strong and thoroughly absorbent).

This morning, however, I was sitting in a waiting room and there it was. Unread. Unsullied by dog vomit. A newspaper. And there was a story on page four about Jihadi John’s sufferings at the hands of MI5 and other British Secret Service thugs.

Apparently JJ (I’ll call him that because it’s easier, like 9-11 as opposed to September the eleventh and that sort of thing, or ‘Remember, Remember 05/11” as opposed to “Remember, Remember the fifth of November”) was driven to the verge of suicide by their continued interest in him. Poor fellow. There he was involved with people trying to blow up the London Underground and boo hoo! There was Jihadi John getting really stressed out. What a pussy!

The liberal human rights writer, who clearly has water on the brain, or water for a brain, implied that MI5 radicalised poor John by keeping an eye on him.

Effectively, as usual, the blame for all John’s psychotic behavior, death worship, snuff movies and mass murder of the foulest and most primitive sort were Britain’s, England’s fault. Not Jihadi John’s.

The atrocities were, actually, England’s fault. In a way. Our Security people should have assisted suicide from the first.

The ISIS horde of unwashed ignorant louts, rapists, slavers, malcontents, mental cases, fanatics, welcome social and sexual inadequate Jihad Johns. The smaller the penis the better. As they smash ancient monuments and topple priceless statues they exult in being significant and in charge for the first time in their sad lives! They have power. They are in control.

Faced with this plague of black-clad locusts, England’s security forces are constantly monitored by human rights observers, liberal journos, Islamic sit-on-the-fencers, and bored young men who don’t want to work in Dad’s curry shop but will turn out for a riot and throw things at the police.

Barnes said it all. “You can’t win this war with one hand tied behind your balls.”

MI5 should have stopped observing Jihadi John. They should have abandoned binocs at day two and pushed him into yet-to-set cement at a building site.

My guess is that Jihadi John, like those three silly little girls who ran away, had great, confused dreams of grand adventure and romance. A Caliphate! So sour, so soon. Join ISIS and you dine with the devil and if you don’t, he’ll dine on you.

Looking back on my newspapers of this last week the best letter to the readership has been delivered by my dog. A foul plug of vomit on the floor. Washed and cleaned with a very crumpled, undignified, twisted face trying to hide itself behind a mask of black looking like a super hero. Jihadi John!

Next time you make an appearance John, my cat likes a good solid piss. We’ll set you up.

To ISIS and Jihadi John, stop smashing archeological treasures, stop hurting people, start being a nice friendly Caliphate. How about that? Otherwise everybody will hate and want you dead. And they will win.

From

Hugh in Bangkok

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