Sunday, 5 July 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 5th July 2020

The Other Prince and the Other Paedophile
(mr ishmael's drafts: 28/02/15)
   
His Royal Highness Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Extra Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Grand Master and Principal Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Member of the Order of Merit, Knight of the Order of Australia, Companion of the Queen's Service Order, Member of Her Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, Aide-de-Camp, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland; friend, confidante and admirer of the late Sir James Savile, disc jockey, charity worker, serial child sexual offender and necrophiliac.

Sir James Wilson Vincent "Jimmy" Savile
OBE, KCSG.
 Knight Commander of the Pontifical Equestrian Order of Saint Gregory the Great; LLD from  Leeds University; Fellow of the Royal College of Radiologists; Cross of Merit of the Order pro merito Meletensi;  green beret from HM Royal Marines; PhD from the University of Bedfordshire


His Royal Highness The Prince Andrew Albert Christian Edward, Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, Baron Killyleagh, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order, Canadian Forces Decoration, Aide de Camp to Her Majesty. His Royal Highness has innumerable medals, honours,  colonelcies and admiralcies, most of them bestowed upon him by his mother, Queen Brenda. His Royal Highness is friend, confidante and associate of notorious and hugely wealthy  child sexual offender, Mr Jeffrey Epstein, maintaining their close relationship before, during and after Mr Epstein's imprisonment on child sexual abuse charges.

They do keep the strangest company, the brothers Battenberg. Andy, his piggie face like thunder, is vainly trying to con us into believing that his lengthy relationship with Jeffrey Epstein 
 
is not only entirely innocent but actually quite noble whilst his big brother, JugEars, the wifebeater, manages to evade any scrutiny about his lengthy, personal  relationship with the late Sir James Savile.

His Royal Highness, Brian, his ponce fag courtiers will pronounce, as though it were true, gives a great deal of his time to charity and meets, therefore, many individuals from all walks of life;  he simply cannot be expected to investigate the backgrounds of all of them, shut up, therefore,  don't be impertinent, remember your place and go away.


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Succession of Home Secretaries endanger the public




Back when mr ishmael was in the Criminal Justice trade, the Probation Service was still required, under the Probation of Offenders Act 1907  to "advise, assist, befriend offenders" the rationale being that an offender needed good advice to remedy those deficiencies of home, school and society that had led to him (usually him) getting into trouble, needed some assistance to find a job and a home, and really needed a friend. That was a Probation Service that had evolved from the Police Court Missionaries, staffed by men and women with vocations. 
Then along came mass unemployment, the collapse of the family, a massive increase in drink and drug dependence, the rise of an acquisitive society bursting with consumer goods for the few not the many and an ever-widening gap between those with survival tickets and the rest. The level of civil unrest was alarming. And so criminal justice policy was moved away from rehabilitation towards containment, instead of addressing the structural causations of crime.  And along came Michael Howard, Conservative Home Secretary who famously proclaimed, in 1993 that  “Prison Works!” and built more prisons.
 Michael  was followed by a succession of Home Secretaries, all happily using the Probation Service as a vote-generating football. Here's the infamous roll-call - their party political persuasion is included, but it doesn't really matter:
Jack Straw, Labour, 1997 to 2001
David Blunkett, Labour, 2001 to 2004,
Charles Clarke, Labour, 2004 to 2006
John Reid, Labour, 2006 to 2007,
Jacquie Smith, Labour, 2007 to 2009,
Alan Johnson, Labour, 2009 to 2010,
Theresa May, Conservative, 2010 to 2016
Amber Rudd, Conservative, 2016 to 2018,
Savid Javid, Conservative, 2018 to 2019,
Priti Patel, Conservative, 2019 to present. 
Eleven Home Secretaries in 26 years, the longest tenure being that of Theresa May, the shortest only a year.  But - brilliant people, quickly master the brief and do as they are told. During these 26 years, the Probation Service was abolished and the inception of its successor agency, the National Offender Management Service changed the pattern of correctional services delivery in England and Wales. In turn, it then became Her Majesty’s Prison and Probation Service.
 The Offender Management Bill, introduced in Parliament late in 2006, was intended to enable probation areas to become trusts as part of wider government policy to open up the provision of correctional services to greater competition from the voluntary, community, and private sectors.   The privatisation of probation services continues to produce “troubling” results. The Chief Inspector of Probation disclosed that probation supervision for one in four low-risk offenders in Gwent is no more than a phone call every six weeks. HM Inspectorate of Probation maintains half of cases have no proper assessment of risk of harm - so describing an offender as low-risk is more of a guess than an assessment. Most risk assessment tools rely heavily on the concept that the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour - but as most offences go undetected, the past behaviour of an offender consists of those few offences that are on his record. Junior officers working for Community Rehabilitation Companies (CRCs) sometimes manage over 200 cases each; though at most, 60 can be managed safely.
The probation service in London is understaffed and many probation officers are inexperienced. Probationers are seen too infrequently and some are overlooked. A proper risk assessment is not done in the majority of cases.The Justice Select Committee said the 'Transforming Rehabilitation' programme had brought the probation system into a "mess", staff morale was at an "all-time low" and newly released prisoners got "wholly inadequate" support. The committee said that splitting the service between a national body and 21 rehabilitation companies lead to a two-tier system, reducing voluntary sector involvement. MPs said the companies' efforts to reduce re-offending is "disappointing" and some staff are not trained to deal with cases they are assigned.
Against this shambolic background, Joseph McCann received a fixed term sentence for committing an offence of burglary and was released automatically at the half-way point.  He was then seen by probation officers 10 times in the two months following his release in February. That's once a week, short of taking the chap home with his very own probation officer, that's probably as intense as the Probation Service does. The last probation appointment was in April,only days before he carried out the first rape in a series of offences over 15 days against 11 women and children, aged between 11 and 71 in London and the North West; for which he received 33 life sentences with a minimum term of 30 years in December 2019. He was found guilty of 37 charges relating to those victims, including eight rapes, false imprisonment and kidnap.

 Chief Inspector of Probation Justin Russell carried out an independent review of the case, published on 30th June 2020. Mr Russell said there were ‘major failings’ in the way the case was handled, adding: ‘McCann was managed by an unstable team, lacking experienced and skilled practitioners. They suffered from poor management oversight, high workloads, poor performance and high staff turnover.’
McCann – who had a long history of “serious offending” and breaching court orders – saw 10 staff over 11 years, with three different probation officers responsible for his case in the months leading up to his prison release in February 2019.
“There were signs that he posed an increasing risk to the public. There was evidence of his potential for sexual offending,” Mr Russell said. Crucial information, recorded on different systems by various authorities, was “lost” in handovers between staff. In 2013 prison officers identified that McCann – “with the collusion of his family – was attempting to find a ‘young girl’ for his release”. But this “key intelligence” was not passed to probation staff, meaning they did “not have a clear picture” of who they were dealing with and were making decisions based on “inadequate” assessments, Mr Russell said.
McCann’s ability to manipulate staff was “underestimated” and the level of threat he posed to the public was downgraded “too soon” after his prison release, the report added.
An internal Ministry of Justice  review published in March revealed a catalogue of errors in the case after McCann’s sentencing judge described him as a classic psychopath.
Details of police intelligence from 2003, which said McCann and a relative had been involved in the abuse and sexual exploitation of young teenage girls, was discussed at a meeting attended by the offender manager responsible for his case between 2010 and 2013.

One member of probation staff was demoted over the case.
Among 13 recommendations made to prison and probation services, Mr Russell said staff need better access to all relevant records, including historical case files,  urged jails to share information, better scrutiny of recall decisions and more beds at bail hostels where offenders leaving prison are monitored by probation, which is where McCann should have been housed after release instead of with relatives.
The Ministry of Justice said McCann’s crimes were “horrendous” and it had already apologised to victims for the “unacceptable failings”, adding: “We have greatly improved information sharing between prisons and probation officers and all probation staff have received new, mandatory training on when offenders should be recalled and, it added, an extra 800 probation officers are in training.

The system is a mess. Prison doesn't work, unless you lock up offenders for ever. Attempting to drive profit out of "managing" offending behaviour is, frankly, ludicrous. Setting a handful of overworked, inexperienced, ill-prepared probation officers to reverse the effects of generational unemployment, entrenched familial offending, a drink- and drug- steeped culture and an over-aquisitive, over-sexualised society can only have fairly predictable outcomes - more lives wasted - both those of victims and perpetrators. And if society needs a scapegoat for McCann's crimes - other than McCann himself; don't look to blame probation officers, look at the 26 years of Home Secretaries who ripped apart the Probation Service's structure, underpinning legislation, social work ethos, cohesion and identity, driven by an American-derived political and financial model and not by the Scandinavian approach, which actually works - if it's rehabilitation you're after, as opposed to ruined lives and sensationalist headlines.
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  Someone else who's probably sorry. But quite cross. 


Those remarks: ‘Slavery was not genocide, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many damn blacks in Africa or in Britain, would there? An awful lot of them survived and again there’s no point in arguing against globalisation or Western civilisation. They are all products of it, we are all products of it." were uttered during an
online interview with Brexit campaigner Darren Grimes for YouTube channel Reasoned UK.

Dr Starkey is now effectively out of a job; out of several jobs in fact. Probably out of even more jobs now than he had held when I started writing this. He's probably not going to have too many more opportunities of being nasty to fellow-panellists on various PBC and Channel 4 punditry platforms.
Question Time March 2017,  hammering away at Harriet Harman, David Dimbleby, Victoria Coren and Shirley Williams for holding hereditary positions
Vice-chancellor of Canterbury Christ Church University Professor Rama has apologised to staff and students at the university in Kent who have been offended and upset by the ‘appalling’ comments.
He said: ‘Widely reported comments by historian David Starkey during a recent online interview are, in our view, completely unacceptable and do not reflect the values of our university and community. We have therefore terminated, with immediate effect, Dr Starkey’s visiting professorship.....I would like to say sorry to colleagues and students who will have been offended and upset by such comments of this appalling nature, and in particular in these challenging and difficult times for us all.’

Pressure was growing for him to have his fellowship at the University of Cambridge removed but instead it has accepted his resignation. 

The 75-year-old academic has also resigned from the Mary Rose Trust.

 Dr. Starkey could be stripped of his honorary degree by Lancaster University 

Publisher Harper Collins tweeted: "The views expressed by David Starkey in his recent interview are abhorrent and we unreservedly condemn them. Our last book with the author was in 2010, and we will not be publishing further books with him. We are reviewing his existing backlist in light of his comments and views."

I think he was trying to be clever, in his usual, I'm cleverer than you are, way. Far cleverer. He was letting us stupid folk know that the word genocide is a hybrid combination of the Greek word γένος (genos, "race, people") and the Latin suffix -caedo ("act of killing") and that the failure to emiminate all black people proves that there was no genocide. All he succeeded in doing was proving that although he may understand the word's derivation, he has no conception at all of the word's meaning. And he really, really, shouldn't have used the qualifier, Damn. He probably Damn-well realises that now. Damn.

mr ishmael had his number, alright, back in 2009: 

It is only among such a morally and culturally bankrupt political-showbiz elite that the odious David Starkey, an indifferent history lecturer, could have so ascended from complete anonymity to being acclaimed keeper of his own personal professorial sewer. Like hereditary broadcaster Jon Socks, tough guy Dave is now on a lifetime stipend from the taxpayer-funded Channel Four, one of that channel's modest and self-effacing clever people. Starkey's bitch-history, his over-rehearsed, mean-mouthed whining, consign scholarship and objectivity to, well, history, and promote instead his own told-you-so spite and ugliness, his apparently endless monarchical theses voice his nasty, bitter, little view that too many historians have been what he insists on calling straight, when he means normal, that there is a whole camp-but-true tapestry of history, expertly-stitched by bum-bandits like himself, bloodied and martyred, suppressed by nasty Christian bullies, locked away in the censors' closet; that all great historical figures were really gay, just like him, the horrible little worm. Starkey's sodomite revisionism might be entertaining were it not for his over-dressed aping of stereotypical tee-vee presenters, his scowling pieces to camera, his arch cutaways, his leaden, cack-handed metaphors; his insistence that we take seriously not only the charmless, nasty little faggot himself but also his threadbare, misanthropic queen-bitching disguised as history.
Quicker to judge and damn and bully than a Presbyterian, Starkey peddles his bilious tripe to any who will pay him - normally us - and the wretchedness of Starkeyism, it's significance for the times is not his lame, anal anti-scholarship but that his trademark vileness was nurtured and promoted by the BBC. Radio Four's Moral Maze has lit our lives with a galaxy of mouthy, bad-tempered, bullying nonentities - Mad Melanie Phillips, anybody who disagrees with me is a Nazi; the Marxist fishwife, Clare Fox, of the bizarrely titled Institute of Ideas and the born-again Murdochite, Portillo himself, Mr Angry turned Mr Nice - all eager to condemn the lack of logic, as they see it, in the spoutings of some serve-them-right-for-going-on-the-programme vegetarian or would-be suicidee or flat-earther or homeopath or religious maniac; all, but Mad Mel especially, anxious to play a brutish, graceless, Rumpole, showing-off to the radio audience of teachers and probation officers and embittered blind people; all remorselessly self-promoting their media careers at the expense of some poor sap who believes in something other than Israel, Money, Abortion and New-Age Marxism. As though anybody in their right mind would give a flying fuck for the Daily Mail-funded thoughts of the ghastly Phillips. Grim and forbidding as these grotesques are, their rottenness - and indeed their media stature - is eclipsed by their former fellow-freak, Starkey. It was Radio Four which, instead of throwing him off, promoted Starkey's nastiness, raised him to a septic media grandeur, made vital to our national discourse Starkey's witless bullying; it's not as though he could even claim to be a licensed fool like the Beeb's other catspaw, Hislop; though a risible figure in his blazers and suits and costume jewellery, Starkey never even attempts humour, much less satire; no, cruelty, as is now the case elsewhere in the Beeb, is Starkey's ouevre. Between he and the ghastly baggage, former Maxwell bint, Robinson, and the screeching gay cook, Ramsay, and the arse-fixated Jonathan Ross we have tee-vee role models from Hell. Add the shameless, hypocritical kleptomania of the heir to the throne, of both houses of parliament; the out of control violence of the Cops and the unaccountable ruinous greed of City spivs is it really any wonder that drunken infants knife each other in the playground? Starkey, for all his hauteur, is a grubby little bastard, part of an axis of degeneracy, an historically bad example.


Starkey's latest wheeze was to denigrate, on Question Time, Hibernian bombast. Alex Salmond's deranged Jock-Nazi Tribesmen richly merit mockery, their construction of a mythical, fifty-five million strong, predatory Untermenschen just South of a fanciful border is their raison d'etre, "if only it werenae fer they English bastards we wouldnae be a nation a drunken, wife-beatin', cross-dressin' heidbangers whose main export - although we tend tae drink most of it at hame, the noo, an' we're European Champion Alkies, so we are - is poison, d'ye ken" is Salmond's tub-thumping mantra, and it earns him three salaries and three pensions, God bless the wee fat fucker; Burns is melancholy doggerel, English kids in Scotland are routinely bullied by their native peers, encouraged by sourfaced, embittered, inebriated, cross-dressing, patriotic parents; the Presbyterian highland and island strongholds are rife with child abuse; council corruption is breathtaking, far from scrutiny, their elites in Education, Health, Social Work and the like do just as they please. The Jock press is patronising and parochial and bent and rightly going down the toilet. Starkey's QT remarks, made stagily, self-aggrandisingly, as if by some applause-hungry pantomime dame, in themselves, therefore, are not controversial. Nor, to stanislavians, original.

It's just him. Starkey could read you the Sermon on the Mount and you'd want to go and jump in the shower afterwards; he could whistle Greensleeves and your ears would bleed, he could press large amounts of currency into your hands and they would break out in eczema. Starkey is dirty.

BBC millionaires Stephen Fry and Graham Norton cannot be on air for twenty seconds without mentioning sperm or buggery or both; it may be the temper of the times, it may be a liberation of the language, Lenny Bruce's crusade to take the sting from words like nigger by using them so much that they lose their venom, it may just be that those two queens, the one convinced that he's Oscar Wilde, the other that he's the main attraction at a sailors' gangbang, just love talking dirty on the tee-vee; Starkey, though, humourless and bitter doesn't even do this, Starkey is emblematic of the once mediocre - relishing their ability to bully the powerless; it is a sign of our time that Media makes us celebrate such malignance as Starkey, when we should, in fact, throw stones at him in the street.

Could be quite amusing at times, though 

 Question Time 1/3/12 


mr ishmaels's essays: 

The Other Prince and the Other Paedophile              drafted : 28/02/15
Nasty Little Faggot (extract)                                      posted : 25/04/09







Sunday, 28 June 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 28th June in the Year of Ruin 2020

At it like Rats in a Sack again.
Cummings applauds as Boris says farewell and the door is held open
Sir Mark Sedwill, the UK’s most senior civil servant, will announce his departure this week under Cumming's plans - woops, typo -  Boris Johnson’s plans for a Whitehall revolution. Sir Mark was appointed National Security Adviser by Theresa May in 2017, a year later was made Cabinet Secretary  and allowed to do both jobs. The Cabinet Secretary post is now a lost cause and the National Security post is under a Damocletian sword. Cummings told a meeting of political aides last week that “a hard rain is going to fall” after setting out Whitehall’s failures during the response to the coronavirus. The hard rain will see a scaling back of the Cabinet Office. A friend of Sir Mark said: “He has been viciously briefed against. The whole Gove-Cummings axis has been sowing discord between the Prime Minister and Mark Sedwill.” So that's why Cummings retained his post after doing nothing wrong under Lock Down. Good to know.

And Sir Keir is busy taking politics out of the equation, as he steers his party to the right
by removing Corbyn's slightly-left former Deputy and his own former rival for the leadership, Rebecca Long-Bailey, over some usefully-timed nonsense or other.
which made Corbyn cross.



Roll up, Roll up, get your Political Analysis here:
  1. They fight like rats in a sack
  2. There is no left and no right any more 
  3. Which means there is no Opposition
  4. The independant and politically impartial Civil Service is now controlled by the big rats in political office
  5. Boris is a big girl's blouse and Cummings runs the country.
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In a spirit of Ecumenicism this week's prize for Comedy Ecclesiatical Hat:



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Analytical and prescient, mr ishmail's musings  in 1987 may provide a guide to life post Lock-Down as, yet again, the poor will be thrown out of work by the tanking of the economy, and again, as ever, those benefitting from the miseries of others float on the surface of the Great Latrine of State. 

The Sturdy Beggar and the Impotent Poor

Ishmael Smith 1987

The first of the Poor Laws, passed in 1536, provided relief for “the impotent poor” but compelled “the sturdy beggar” to work….New attitudes to poverty in the 20th Century resulted in the introduction of national insurance schemes which provided a comprehensive social security system that replaced the Poor Laws.  


Long ago, there was full employment and we’d never had it so good. Technology was relatively infantile and even the unskilled members of society could earn a crust on the hod, on the shop floor or behind the bar. Then as now, there were worthy folk, lacking in Social Work qualifications who wanted to help those who had fallen from grace. The authoritarian became J.P.s, the milder souls became prison visitors; some even managed to do both. All over the land there were small, ineffective but harmless and meaningless Discharged Prisoners Aid Societies. Manned – or peopled - by second-generation Guardian readers, clergy persons and the occasional Judge, they doled out alms and clothing to the ex-con. Sometimes they were able to secure gainful employment for the defrocked vicar, the accountant caught cooking the books or the teacher with his hand up a pupil’s skirt or trousers. In those days the phrases blue and white collar worker were, like nancyboy and nigger and yid; legal linguistic tender. The blue collar criminal could always find work; the motor industry was booming as were construction and engineering. The resourceful ex-con could always buy a set of National Insurance cards in a pub for a fiver and then get a job without disclosing his past; or work cash-in-hand while signing-on. The disgraced professional, however, faced a different set of problems before he could put his past behind him. Burglary was one thing, child molestation or professional misconduct were quite another; the disgraced professional provided a valuable client group for the middle-aged, middle-class Lord or Lady Bountiful to work with.

Times have changed. The Arabs decided they’d had enough crumbs from the rich man’s table and grabbed the cake, the loaf and nearly all the biscuits. This event, like any other disruption of global capitalism, meant that the poor had to be squeezed a bit more; they had to feel guilty about their low comparative productivity. Nobody, of course, said anything about offshore investment or antiquated plant. It was all due to overmanning, restrictive practices and Marxist union barons. When the poor would not respond to the demands of the rich, inflation was invented. The Tory press rallied round the pound in our pocket and a minority of the electorate returned a government determined to see that the things which divided society remained greater than those which united it. The only way for the rich to maintain their differential was to throw a few million onto the dole. Suffering became the handmaiden of efficiency, and, as we see daily, graft and corruption the bedfellows of investment.
So-called high technology completes the tide of change. Robots don’t go on strike. Since the discovery of fire and the wheel technology has been hijacked by the powerful. The silicon chip – produced for pennies, from sand – has certainly liberated people from the tedium of the factory and the danger of the pit. But whilst the Fat Cat Hooray Henry, almost as a birthright, “earns” a fortune on the Stock Exchange, the recently-liberated on the dilapidated Council Estates balefully view the Pandora’s Box of consumer goodies and the “lifestyles” enjoyed by the majority. The future is here, but only for some.
Among the dispossessed some, righteously indignant, oppressed by a racist, brutal and trigger-happy police force, and others aping the greed of their betters, took to the streets. 
Margaret Hilda Thatcher, Baroness Thatcher, LG, OM, DStJ, PC, FRS, HonFRSC , Prime Minister 1979 to 1990
What was a poor girl to do? How was one to create the New Jerusalem with all these uppity blacks and all these unemployed criminals kicking up a stink? How could one hold up one’s platinum head in the world’s councils with unprecedented civil violence erupting every summer? You know, when one was abroad, as one often was, representing Britain, one found it extremely tiresome having to explain about the wreckers within. Was one presiding over a revolution?
 
  
As Prime Minister Thatcher and her Cabinet became alarmed about unemployment they dreamed up the Special Employment Measures Action Group, which funded a raft of programmes to prepare the young and the unemployed for jobs which didn’t exist. The pain of unemployment, which is as much to do with boredom, purposelessness, apathy and the erosion of self-respect and identity as it is to do with a poverty-line income led the once-proud worker and provider if not into debt, alcoholism and marital breakdown, then despairingly into the Micky Mouse world of Special Employment Measures, a shoal of red herrings, the cosmetic caring face of a savagely repressive, compassionless and short-sighted society, providing sinecures for yesterday’s yes men, failed captains of industry earning a nice little supplement to their pensions, the difference between four holidays a year and two and an opportunity to spend one’s declining years in good works.

Although the work is no longer there the long-enforced values linger. Nobody in power seems able or willing to address the simple fact that there will never be a return to full employment. There is simply no need for it. Instead of resculpting our values and redistributing our resources we sentence millions of our fellows to poverty and despair. In a recent televised “debate”, The Ancient Scarman, the Establishment’s one size fits all, batteries not included, multi-purpose placebo, assures us, quoting in one breath, Jefferson, les sans culottes, and the worthless European Convention on Human Rights, that everything’s ok really. Just a period of transition. We really are a caring society, the evidence is everywhere, says his Lordship from his Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera TV studio. 

Leslie George Scarman, Baron Scarman, OBE, PC (29/7/1911 to 8/12/2004) Barrister, Judge and Law Lord.
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The Stanislav Spot:


Stanislav, commenting on a post in which Guido Fawkes appears to have mispelled faint as feint:

A good recovery Lord Guido, but it was only a typo and you should have owned-up. We would all still respect you in the morning. Anyway that first bloke was a cunt for drawing attention to it. Stanislav know straight-up what Lord Guido mean. And is fucking Pole. Mean damning with faint praise. Only maybe finger is shake from cocaine and hit mistaken key. Maybe head fucked up with red wine and mix words, easy done. Happen all time. Worms come out all wrong. No need for big elaborate cut-and-stick rebuttal from dictionary to show CAN be damning with feint praise. Is like vanity number plate. If squint can read "I AM CUNT." But is not really correct spelling of I AM CUNT is probably LAM 644T and all twist up with screws and shit. Police should arrest, give good hiding and confiscate car; what else we pay them for ? Tell driver Yes, You IS Cunt and throw down nearest mineshaft.

Is one thing Mrs Alana Johnston make excuse himself for holocaustal slaughter of patients in shithole hospital run by greedy imbecile career fuckwits (like whole fucking country). Another altogether for Lord Guido twist and squirm like fucking politician and make cover-up, think nobody notice. Well Stanislav notice but not mention until now. Many people think Stanislav stupid fucking Pole, eat beetroot, drink vodka and cry about war, think Stanislav know fuck nothing. But is wrong, Stanislav know fuck all.

Anyway better watch out or get Lord Cover-Up Stevens of Northern Ireland and the Met uncover real facts of FeintGate. On second thoughts, no point; right Worshipful brother Stevens not recognise fact if bite on fucking nose. Stevens and fact is not acquainted. Not even feintly.

Stanislav in conversation with mr anonymous: 

Stanislav said:   (15:06  16/10/2007)  Dear Friend Mr Hitch. Once Mr Hitch and Mr Mad As Fish and Mr 45 was Stanislav valued friends in new country and Stanislav fix toilets for nothing but Stanislav now too fucking busy and important for plumb. Make preparation for sisters come work as nanny/concubine in grand house of Lord Guido. Is modern European. Is adult about work in sex industry. Guido is great man, no? Make future rosy for Stanislav sisters. Instead of drive oxen in overalls, like Scotch woman, and dig beetroot back home in fields of Cracow, sisters dress in thigh boots, scrub floors for minimum wage and sleep in cellar of Guido house. Make sex for Guido when Mrs Guido go out make film with big Jamaican boyfriends. Guido give valuable on-job training and employ sisters as escort in party conference only not LibDem as prefer boys. Guido let sisters keep some of money, but not enough to make spoiled. Or afford own drugs. Oh, England truly land of aspiration and vision. One day Stanislav be proud uncle Stan to many little Guido bastard. Be proper English gent like Gordon Brown, voices in head and everything.

Anonymous said...:(20:28 17/10/2017) "Stanislav": your "Polish" accent is slipping a bit, dear boy. I'm inclined to think Stanislav is either the Hitch or a Guido alter ego.
stanislav for real said... (21:51  18/10/2007) mr Anonymous - Fuck off English cunt. Stanislav is real person. Not Guido. Not Hitch. Everybody know Stanislav. Fix-up toilet cheap and help economy. In spare time rant and rave like fucking nutter. Is ancient venerable Polish tradition. Same as getting fucked up arse by Germans. Can't help if english improve, is why come in UK, learn English, be doctor, like Stanislav heroes, Gerry and Cilla McCann, not work, Just go in and out of church for tv cameras; just live off public. Is great. Better than politician scam. Only pension not so good and wonky scouse wife go barking. Woof-woof, woof-woof. I is brilliant mother, woof-woof, woof-woof.
 
Anonymous said... (23:06  18/10/2007) STANISLAV Are you really Matt Allwright from the critically acclaimed 'Rogue Traders'on bbc1(soon to be on channel sky2..probably) doing his impression of the eastern european worker? you fraud mongering scamp..) 
stanislav said...(2:21   19/10/2007) No, is Polish plumber live in Scotland, best part of England and have some time when not down toilet make effort learn about politics in new country. Also has MRSA from shithole hospital run by Mrs Alana Belsen-Johnstone, minister for extermination and is all fucked-up with bug drugs. Can't therefore be BBC entertainer. All those cunts go private. In Bupa, innit?

Call me ishmael said:
"Confiscate car.....Tell driver Yes, You IS Cunt and throw down nearest mineshaft."
He used to make me laugh out loud, stanislav, weep rivers of tears. One guy said his wife had had to call him a fucking ambulance, he'd damaged his sides, laughing so much. His voice and subjects are anachronistic, here, and discordant, but fuck me, Jesus, he was a one-man Zeitgeist of Rage. I wish he was still around. (21/06/2016)
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Essays:
The Sturdy Beggar and the Impotent Poor       written 1987
Stanislav know Fuck All                         posted 21/06/2016
In conversation on another place         posted  Ocober 2007

Wednesday, 24 June 2020

The Great Patriotic War - Thank You

God bless you, and thank you. Our greatest Ally. 
Enjoy your parade. Your suffering and sacrifice is remembered.


The USSR’s losses are now estimated at about 26.6 million, accounting for half of all World War Two casualties. 26.6 million people. More than a third of the entire current population of the United Kingdom. Imagine that. 26.6 million. I can't - never any good with numbers. For comparison - the United Kingdom lost 449,700 people, military and civilian; the Unites States lost 405,399 military personnel.

The memory of the war, known in Russia as the Great Patriotic War, is particularly venerated. In the USSR the end of the war was considered to be May 9, 1945, when the German surrender took effect. The date has become a national holiday – Victory Day – and is commemorated in a grand military parade on Red Square. This year, the Parade was delayed by the coronavirus pandemic, and was held today, June 24th, creating a Time Bridge to the Moscow Victory Parade of 1945, ordered by Joseph Stalin:
"Order #370 of the Supreme Commander in Chief, Armed Forces of the USSR and concurrent People's Commissar of State for Defense
To mark the victory over Germany in the Great Patriotic War, I order a parade of troops of the Army, Navy and the Moscow Garrison, the Victory Parade, on June 24, 1945, at Moscow's Red Square."

 The  victory parade was held by the Soviet Armed Forces (with the Color Guard Company representing the First Polish Army) after the defeat of Nazi Germany. This, the longest and largest military parade ever held on Red Square in the Soviet capital Moscow, involved 40,000 Red Army soldiers and 1,850 military vehicles and other military hardware. The parade lasted just over two hours on a rainy June 24, 1945, over a month after May 9, the day of Germany's surrender to Soviet commander.

 26.6 million dead.
Have a great Parade and a great Day.

And, in the States, they do things with great gravitas and stage craft:


We have our own way in Britain of honouring the War. (The only war to be instantly recognised just by that: The War)

Cass Pennant, writing in the Spectator:

"Why ‘hooligans’ want to defend statues

‘Saturday the 13th…everyone’s out to go up town to do Antifa. Loads of West Ham, Millwall, Chelsea, Arsenal, Cockney Reds, even northern firms are coming down. It’s gonna be massive. Birmingham are on the prowl up there looking for ’em and their firm’s half black. Saturday everyone has to go.’ There followed some emojis: 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 ⚒️ 👊    (NB the flag should be Union Jack - Ed :-)
I read the text and was amused — but not surprised. Funnily enough the West Ham lot have done ‘statue protection’ before. A few years ago, some of us got up very early to go to Upton Park to protect the monument to our World Cup winners, Geoff Hurst, Bobby Moore and Martin Peters. Rumors had gone around that Millwall fans were planning to desecrate it. The Hammers fans stood guard. It worked. And last weekend, West Ham and Millwall — not for the first time — buried past feuds to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to guard the already boxed-in statue of Churchill.
I predicted there would be a backlash from the previous attacks on statues. That sort of thing rightly touches a nerve; particularly the defacing of Churchill in Parliament Square. For Britain — and much of the world — he represents the never-surrender backbone that overcame the Nazi threat. And sure, some of the views he expressed are unacceptable today. But it doesn’t take away from what the man achieved."


Sunday, 21 June 2020

The Sunday Ishmael - the longest day, 21st June in the Year of Ruin 2020

The Caption Contest
Thank you for your entries. The Dodo's Verdict: Everyone has won and all must have prizes. Especially mr verge.

The News 
There isn't any good news. There isn't any new news. There's lots of same old, same old, news, dressed up in new clothes.  
Surprise! Rich man allegedly attempts to corrupt the planning process.
Covid -19 remains a Bad Thing. People continue to die. But shops and restaurants must open. People must spend. How do you eat spaghetti in a face mask, by the way?
The Party and Event scene crowd in Stuttgart got drunk and abusive. More than a dozen police officers were hurt  during rioting and looting by an indeterminate number of up to 500 people.
The man responsible for a terrorist stabbing in Reading was known to MI5. The fourth suspected terrorist knife attack in recent months followed November stabbings at Fishmongers’ Hall, HMP Whitemoor prison in January and Streatham in February.

And as America's Civil War, commenced on April 12th 1861 and now in its 159th year, continues with burnings, murders and rioting, here's a note from mr ishmael:

I was reading in my apparently uncancellable Time magazine subscription about Hillary Trousers' encounter with a small group of  Black Lives Matter activists in New Hampshire. Yo, bitch, was your ole man, Spunky Bill, introduced this Tough On Crime shit, which means, trouserlady, that black folks, walking down the street, mindin' they own business,  can just get their nigger heads all blown away by any redneck cop who feels like doin' that shit; wochoogottasayboutthat, bitch?
Time magazine, ever gracious to Power, did not report the fleabitten old buzzard's response; we can, however, frame it for ourselves, from our own experience. Aw shucks, I'm just poor Southern trash, jes like y'all, an' it don't mean shit that me an' Spunky Bill done raised a billion dollars in bribes fer ourselves, we's still poor at heart. Y'know, friends, I'm kinda like the Dolly Parton a politics, I came from nothin' to bein' First Lady, an' I done it on my own efforts,  an' by standin' by my man. (sings) sometimes it's hard to be a woman.......
catcalls: Yeah, bitch, stand by yo' man even when he's noncing an intern, Way to go, DykeLady. Pure feminism, that is

The Art Appreciation Pages
  I read those words years ago, decades ago, in McLuhan's Understanding Media, and they are always around, somewhere, on a shelf, a mantelpiece, not prominent but never out of sight.
Levels my head and eases my mind
The intrusiveness of the TeeVee arts presenter has been a regular theme, hereabouts;  recently, we have  focused on Dr Tubby Ramirez, punk-Goth arts historian, and the grotesque Simon Russell Beale, a man who would talk-over Beethoven at prayer,  but we have looked at lots of them, socialist peer, Lord Belbin Bagg, pension fiddler, Alan Yentob, dunderhead Mark Potato, the PBC's cawing Kirsty Wark and many more; it is a  self-ordained priesthood of gabshitery, a predatory band of media-hedin
holypersons, wise ones, explaining to us the sacred mysteries of architecture, painting, writing, even of trashy pop music, 
Yentob, in all seriousness, taking us on a tour of Mark Knopfler's expensive guitars. 

Well, essentially, viewers, Fender only make about a quarter of a million of these per year.  And not all of them are in pink. So that makes this one very rare. A work, in fact, of art; given sixty years of production, there can't be more than  a few million of these in existence. In fact, viewers, I am so up myself to be holding this that I might just piss.  Mmmm, smell the garlic; sometimes I think my bodily functions are a work of art. 
But just mine, not everyone's, obviously.

Yes, Alan, that's so deeply, profoundly, shockingly correct; when I am taking a dump, after a night of delightful pasta and Chianti, purchased for me, naturally, by the license-payer, I think to myself, Simon Russell, these are maestro turds, it is philistinism that they are flushed away.
They belong in the Louvre, my droppings. Where ordinary people can appreciate them
This pseudo-arts-crit posturing has gilded not just  arsehole presenters such as those above  but also his or her - chosen field of arseholery,  creating a Synod of Shit, in which clerics and laity joyously fellate and cunnilingualise one another, rather, one suspects, as happens in Synods and conclaves proper.  Private Eye has at least one regular cartoon devoted to Britain's growing smarmyarmy of artfucks; critics and collectors who compel us to believe that this stinking heap of shit, fag-ends  and condoms


is art.

We were talking a while back about the contradictions of creativity and decay inherent in curating and conserving works of art.  I wouldn't want to be the curator charged with looking after Tracey Emin's bed, dirty fucking slut.
I'd just set fire to the fucking thing.


And her bed, anyway, looks different each time you see it.

In this new church there is no  heresy, no penance to be served, however grave the sin; however disgusting the scandal, there is no excommunication. The charmed circle of celebrity knows no shame, sins are airbrushed away, by the hand of Entertainment's Dark God. And those who have lived a life of criminal debauchery are Hosannahed by people like this prat,

into superstar glory.


As in  most things, with art, we are dictated-to by those who have, by fair means or foul, acquired a lot of money,  people like these,


art collector Saatchi and his coke-snorting ex-wife, Lawson, seen here enjoying an artistic moment.
 Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin, doncha just love 'em, love what they've managed to get away with, sharks and shitty beds. No business like showbusiness.

And then there's this numbskull and his tedious, domestic architecture schtick. I know that house-building's not art but Kev and his producers attempt to make it such - cliff-hanging vacuously through each episode,  will the maniacs  finish in time, will the money run out - but Kev always manages to make each madcap project sound as though it has added to the national landscape, is a Versailles, a Castle Howard, just waiting to be discovered.
Zen in the Art of BreezeBlocks

Tarquin and Jocasta really have succeeded in creating a unique home which sits with great integrity in the landscape. (No, Kev, it fucking doesn't, it should be demolished) It may have cost them and their over-indulgent parents an arm and a fucking leg but they and their children, Shelby, Dimitri and Francesca, will enjoy it for many years to come. Or until the hideous, preening, facetious morons turn on each other and divorce, probably next week. 

I wish I could find a phrase for this thing that's happened, whereby art and culture and craft and trade have been NutriBombed, blended into homogenised televisual product, squirted at us by pushy, shameless nobodies.

All I  know about Assyrians is that they  came down like a wolf on the fold. Other than that, until life-long socialist, Sir  Tony Robinson 
I'm only accepting it on behalf of my profession. Archaeology. Not showbusiness.

and his grave-robbing scruffs do a Time Team feature on it, Assyria will remain in a mental file marked Look-up On Wikipedia When You Have Absolutely Nothing Better To Do, i.e. never.

I am surrounded by stoney old shit,  here.  Much, much older than the Tower of London or Kenilworth Castle, some of it is supposed to pre-date the pyramids in Egypt, being five thousand years or so old.  I have seen it all:

The Standing Stones at the Ring of Brodgar

Skara Brae

Maeshowe


I once crawled through the Maeshowe tunnel into the burial chamber. Once was enough, maybe once was one time too many.

 

Dark and painful, half-stooping, half-crawling, arriving in an empty space, five thousand years old, vandalised in the 700s by my Viking ancestors who left graffito such as Sven wuz 'ere, honest. 

There is an enforced  reverence which hangs in the air of all these places, you get a blast  of it when you buy the tickets. I do wonder at  stuff, when I visit these places, but only for a while.  I repaired one of the floors, here, at home, last week, varnished it all up again, and one of the boards I removed was laid well over two hundred years ago and grown some time before that; it had some man-made marks on it which I have yet to decipher but this old bit of pine is as much a link to dead hands as any of the piles of old stones, what am I to do with it? Start a museum? Hang it on the wall? Can't just throw it out, can I, put it in the fire. The place is filled with stuff, one, two, three hundred years old; it is, I sometimes feel, just  a fucking tyranny, the past and its fucking stuff

Doesn't matter where the historic sites are, Lindisfarne is plagued by old biddy Godlessheathenbastards  from English Heritage, tut-tutting their shrivelled,  verminous lives away, watching you suspiciously, as you try to think yourself into the minds of Bede and Cedric; they call Jarrow Monastery BedeWorld, honest, straight-up. 

I had a row at Lindisfarne, with one of the custodianati.  mrs ishmael's grandson, six, was climbing on the walls and this old boot freaked-out. Alright, i'll get him down, I said, screech-screech-screech, she went, he shouldn't be on there in the first place.  He's a little boy, little boys have been climbinmg these ruins for a thousand years, and he's about the weight of a coupla seagulls. She had, being a minor curator, completely lost perspective - on the building, on history, on God.  I wound-up snarling at her, at her veneration for rocks, at her snooty, violent sense of ownership.

  Every stately home in England is icily guarded by regiments of  these vindictive, blue-rinsed volunteers in  mean, sensible shoes and support hose, daring you to cross through the blue ropes keeping you from contact with the Chippendale,  as though dining chairs were holy fucking relics, as though the cruet sets were silversmithed by God, Himself. It's all Canticle for Liebowitz stuff, this insane reverence for the mundane, and it all keeps us, even today, in line, obedient to fuckpig Dukes - Dimbleby minor, on the radio the other night, YourGrace-ing some arsehole descended from the Duke of Wellington, I nearly crashed the fucking car -  Noncing Monsignors and ancient WiseMen, all the PowerFilth, all the elites, mumbo-jumboing, droit de seigneuring, excommunicating, human-sacrificing, all those rotten bastards who have besmirched human existence; the monastery, the stately home and the stone circle, all remind us that there have always been bastards to lord it over us, keep us off the grass and charge us for entry to our own fucking property, often upon pain of death, torture or both.

And now the keepers of Subservience's Flame have gone global;  we are all supposed to lie awake at night worrying about some old rubbish in Iraq.

God only knows what kind of arseholes built these Assyrian towns, over which everyone has their knickers in a twist but civil liberties and equal opportunities won't have figured at all in their civic ordinances. Boiling in oil, decapitation, flogging  and being pulled-apart by horses was probably the usual drill for freethinkers like us and we may also be certain that health and safety issues went unrecognised - there would have been no hard-hat areas.

 
I should think that most people in the world have never heard of these artefacts and that only a handful will have visited and in any event, all of it - or enough of it - will have been digitally archived, accessible to scholars and other layabouts with nothing better to do.
............................................................................

If I could Sing Only One Song

I don't do that much talking, these days - doctors, tradesmen, people like that and those conversations are actually a constant negotiation. I might have a chat with someone I bump into, Uptown, hoping it will end very quickly,  but sitting down, drinking and rabbiting is hard going. And the telephone is worse, talking to someone whose face you can't see is like taking a piss wearing gloves.  I am out of practice, therefore, in the art, if such it is, of small talk, I can only do big talk. It's all your fault, for reading this stuff and joining-in; blogging, it is the other woman in my life.

Such conversations as I do have take the form of a quick blog post, not that I do many of them, and are shaped, unknowingly, really, to be completed before being commented upon. It is not quite, Shut Up and Listen, but there is a cadence which beats-out, saying This Is Where I'm Going, This Is Where I've Been, Right, Now We're There, WhaddaYouThink?    

I think it is more respectful and purposeful to communicate thus and maybe those better educated than I have always done so but for me it is relatively novel.

mr ishmael's essays are taken from 2015:

White Folks Do this Shit, too                                drafted 19/7/2015
Trouser Woman Unbound - Black Lives Matter   drafted 29/8/2015
If I could sing only one Song                                drafted 20/7/15 
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Advertising Break


Gardening Corner
Here's the bits of the garden I promised you in the Garden is Bent, passim:
Rhubarb for mr mongoose

the old brew house for mr mike
mr ishmael's workshop

The fucking hedge
Facing off the solid, clipped wall of eschallonia and hebe, the hedge on the other side of the lane has some excellent shrubs and trees: eschallonia as a specimen, which does like to be beside the seaside:


And golden elder:


And black elder:


On the night of the 20th/21st June, the sun sets at 22: 30 and rises next day before 04:00 . The after-glow and the crepuscular light between them ensure that on a cloudless night there is no dark. I took this photo at 11:40 on Saturday night.


Music and quaint folkore page
Richard Durrant - now, I've skipped a few of his virtual gigs, but here he is at Sherwood Forest. Fun encounter with Friar Tuck, and some seriously weird English folk and Morris music. mr ishmael, the musicologist, who revered the Copper Family, and the Incredibe String Band, would have liked this. Me? I like Meatloaf.