A call from the Garrigue

Martin Amis Makes An Unedifying Attack On Corbyn.

 

Martin Amis, a writer of no particular talent, whom lacks the most important ingredient,  for those whom eagerly but futilely, search the inspiration to write the “New Novel,” has, in search of which, turned to the likes of James Joyce –  the man whom himself holds the world record for having written a novel, Ulysses,  which remains unread, by the vast majority of those pseudo intellectuals by whom it was purchased – in search of the insight, which he  so clearly lacks.

This purveyor of impenetrable prose, which passes for modern literature, in this age of the nihilistic destruction of Art and Music,  replacing it with the selected tools of a hidden group of destructive Philistines, capable of giving prominence to pap, has profited, through his ability to write a form language, so thick as to be more sludge than fluid, which confused readers have been induced into believing to be “intelligent,” now tells us that he is more impressed by a group of Bullingdon Boys, all of them Jews, all of them products of the Elite Private Schools and top Universities, from where they have been taught to take care of the needs of the rich, as his preferred choice of government.

Amis, who in keeping with many members of the Labour Party, never mind the Conservative Party, has levelled his musket at Jeremy Corbyn, however it may turn out that he did not keep his powder dry. The wrong kind of criticism has a habit of blowing back in your face.

Corbyn could well turn out to be the first Political Party Leader, since Democracy was forced into place in the UK,  to have slipped through the control net of the “Establishment.” He is, at least, the choice of the people and like Michael Meacher, whom is sadly no longer with us,  he has at least seen through  some of the machinations of the controllers.

Martin Amis, shares not only the grizzled face of Khazar Jew Rupert Murdoch, in whose fading propaganda mouth-piece The Sunday Times, he was given the opportunity, to use his “talent,” to intelligently? criticise Corbyn, he also apparently, shares the same extreme political views, firmly held by Murdoch and the Bolshevik Jew in the street, including a deep-seated hatred of Iran.

He instead chose to demonstrate his own lack of positive criticism, by spewing out an in-edifying stream of abuse and a sneering  hatred of decent, ordinary, folk,  just as he once criticised the people of his childhood in Wales.

 

In an article for The Sunday Times, Amis — a leading figure on the British left for three decades — condemns the Labour leader for lacking “the slightest grasp of the national character” and parroting “pallidly third-hand” views.

Amis says that “Corbyn is the fluky beneficiary of a drastic elevation” and is quite unsuited to lead the party after obtaining two Es at A-level before dropping out of a trade union studies course at North London Polytechnic. “He is undereducated,” Amis writes.

“In general his intellectual CV gives an impression of slow-minded rigidity; and he seems essentially incurious about anything beyond his immediate sphere.”

Amis, while presenting himself as an intelligent man, unlike the uneducated Corbyn and despite his illustrious career and his lionising by the literary world, has miserably failed to spot the connection between the chaos in the Muslim World and the behaviour of the demons in Israel, from where hundreds of thousands of Muslim were murdered and dislocated from their homes, by Jews, and the current reaction by those same Muslims, whom in more recent times have been bombed into dust by Jews, skulking in London, Paris and Washington. Why would there not be a back-lash Mr Amis and is it a literary device, to choose to ignore what is staring you in the face, or are you totally without insight?

For a writer of fiction, to have so seriously lost the plot of a Parliament, where even as I write, fat, greasy moguls, chomping on Cuban cigars, drinking whiskey,  sit in the dank shadows of the underworld, with a steady stream of urine running down their trouser legs, with a fear in their heart’s, that Corbyn may just open his mouth, in Parliament, exposing their skulduggery.  There is most surely a bullet, somewhere, engraved with the name of Corbyn,  already rammed down the muzzle of a musket and the powder in that one will most certainly be dry.

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