Some war criminals in attendance employed sophistocated methods to conceal their identities.
The Centre Court at Wimbledon last Sunday saw a plethora of famous faces and porcine celebrity past-its packed into the stands to watch the men's singles final between Roger Federer of Cuckoo Clock Land and Andy Roddick of the good ole’ US of A.
While Gorbals-bred Man’ United boss Alex “See you Jimmy” Ferguson was happy to suffer bare-headed third degree sunburn - which blended in well with his alcohol-induced scarlet-faced Rosacia – other dodgy deviant types skunked off and retreated into the shadows to hide from the sun’s July rays and publicity’s fickle stare.
Conversely, visible to crowds and cameras alike, Russell Crowe, Woody Allen, Ralph Lauren, Sasha Baron Cohen’s ‘Bruno’ and the Duke of Kent shared meat pies, pizza and an eskie of cold beer while trading dirty jokes and boasting who had the biggest cock – and occasionally watching what was actually happening on the centre court.
Former tennis champions, decked out in Cyclops tints, now well past their sell-by date - and retrievable slim waistlines - sat sweltering through layers of accumulated ‘good life’ flab next to their high maintenance asset trophy wives – or gay partners - debating between each other who was once the better man with the racket – and listening to commentator John McEnroe utter repeated profanities, shout ‘Chalk dust!’ and demean umpire Lars Graf by announcing “He’s from Bastad in Sweden.”
But there, deep in the shadows, camera shy and hidden from all but the most scrutinizing gaze, were ensconced the world’s infamous career criminals – who had crawled out from beneath their habitual rocks for a high society breather and a £12 punnet of poxy strawberries.
Columbian and Mexican drug barons, disgraced money-laundering banksters, SEC-convicted insider trading stockbrokers, African tyrants and despots – their tickets paid for by conflict diamond wealth and the blood of others.
Each time the cameras sweep across their covert positions they pull down the brims of their headgear or a hand conceals their wanted poster faces, or they simply look down or turn away – none has the gall – or the courage – to stare the camera in the eye.
Dis-Grace Mugabe, Martin Bormann, celebrity nanny-basher Lord ‘Lucky’ Lucan, Fritz Eichmann – brother of the infamous Jack Eichmann, Simon Cowell, Dubya Bush, Tony Bliar – and there – right in the middle of this sub-human collection of dross we have the man responsible for more deaths in Cambodia than that master genocidal maniac Pol Potty himself - former US Secretary of State Henry Alfred Kissinger – who fidgets and squirms around as though his chronic haemorrhoids are deservedly causing him grief.
The wrinkled Zionist Asknenazi Jew sits there watching, inured by a stifled conscience to the index and tally of the blood and deaths upon his hands – of children and women – and good men too.
Where now our dedicated and resolute police force? - our celebrated immigration mandarins and their Border Agency? – to serve an outstanding warrant – issued by a British court - for the arrest of one Henry Alfred Kissinger on multiple charges of war crimes under the Geneva Conventions Act 1957.
Indo-China, South-east Asia, Latin America, the Middle East, Africa – where has not this foul political meddling reprobate’s hand been the cause of carnage and suffering?
British law states that violations of the Geneva Conventions are war crimes, and it is expected – by We, the People - of the Attorney General - to uphold the law.
Further, under the edicts of the Geneva Conventions there are no immunities from prosecution, and no one is beyond the law – no one!
Apart from Henry Alfred Kissinger – who, bathed in the cloak of his own inherent Masonic-Zionist arrogance, is too busy watching tennis to ever consider justice might lay the hand of retribution upon his anointed brow.
