SHOCK AS MORE FAMOUS PEOPLE DIE OF OLD AGE.

Millions of emotionally infantilised half-wits have taken to the Afterlife Internet, sending their condolences on his death - at eighty - to Aussie Chinwagger and Champion Gabshite, Clive James.


 A member of Celebrity's Charmed Circle, James was known for his literary pretension and his sneering. That cultural giant, the Daily Mail, proclaimed that James  died surrounded by his friends and his books.  Me, personally, I can think of nothing, absolutely nothing worse than dying surrounded by others; fuck that for a game of soldiers. Still, no business like showbusiness.

 Disappointingly, Lord Death and his Sergeants failed to simultaneously harvest the unspeakable antipodeans,


 Barry Humphries, 
the  pornstar professor and pisshead, Dame Germaine Greer 


and that surviving ugly bloke bastard from the BeeGees,


 a woefully unappealing trio of falsetto warbling popsingers who somehow managed to escape their just transportation to Australia and then infest the radio waveband of Eternity with shrieking, agonising disco music.
 Jive talking, they called it.

Another celebrity culled at only eighty was self-publicist and polymath, Dr Jonathan Miller. 

 A current Radio 4 dramadoc series reveals that Johnny, despite his self acclaimed brilliance, was a casualty of the birthing wars of the National Theatre, a victim of towering thespian towering giant, the towering 

Sir Peter Hall and never really worked again, unless it was in the construction of toweringly facetious abstract sculpures.  One of those gifted men, Jonathan, could turn his hand to anything, badly.

My only knowledge of his work is his dismissive critique, still here, on my shelves, of  Marshal McLuhan's seminal Understanding Media, a work which resonates the louder with every passing decade.


 It was McLuhan who, in the '60's,  coined the phrase and thus the consciousness of  what is now the everydayism of the Global Village. McLuhan's perspicacious understanding of what we now call media, what he properly saw as extensions of self, foreshadowed the corrosive and all-consuming juggernaut of social media, McLuhan declaring that in an age of electronic media, minority groups could no longer be suppressed; his aphorism that individual consciousness is an evolutionary dead end is vividly accentuated as billions upon billions grasp futilely  for  roast-beef-dinners, i-things, dish washers and BMWs. Miller, an airhead dilettante, dismissed McLuhan's insights and prophecies as the ramblings of a provincial Canadian academic. No tears, here, therefore, in Ishmaelia, for the passing of another lucky Oxbridge dunderhead.


In other Dead News, celebrity shit-peddlars are aghast at the death of Sir Gary Sugar.

 
 Gazza, for a long time the public face of the British Sugar Corporation, entreated children and their parents to stuff their faces with his patron's product, never troubling his rock-star head with thoughts about obesity, heart disease and Type 2 diabetes, conditions which he enthusiastically promoted, the cunt. 

Speaking for the entire food-whore industry, the BBC's Sir Gary Crisps  

 said that he was totally and absolutely gutted by the death of his old mate, Gazza.
 I mean, I sell greasy, salty and entirely unhealthy products to generations of children. The BBC only pays me a million and a half pounds per year to talk shit about football. How'm I supposed to make ends meet if I don't earn a crust from poisoning the little ones? 
And so it was with Gary Rhodes, selling poison to children. 'Snot like he was a drug dealer or anything, is it?

THE PAEDO FRATERNITY, A MATTER OF HONOUR.

I am travelling at present, en route to the Royal Brompton hospital for a private consultation and talking of royal have just watched  Prince Brian's half-brother make an even bigger cunt of himself than he was hitherto perceived to be. I have paid for this oily, pampered bullyboy buffoon to receive the best education that my money can buy, yet here he is, aided, counselled, shepherded, lawyered-up and bowed-down to  and the worthless, bloated ponce can't frame a sentence in English; he can weave a garland of barrowboy cliches, an extended clunking solecism of The Reason Whys and fire a twenty one gun salute of Don't you know who I ams? but he is thicker, even, than his half-nephew, the whining, ginger git playboy, Harry Fuckwit Hooligan. 

Cloaking his paedophilia in some bizarre, underworld chivalric code, Prince Shithead sighs that if he has a fault - and it is a big if - it is that he is too honourable; he must be the stupidest individual ever granted so much airtime by the nation's spiritual paedophile home, the BBC and if Jerry Corbyn had an ounce of courage he would be calling for a national referendum  not on Brexit which we have already held but on Republicanism; funny how he's all for it when sought by Irish mass murderers and torturers and butchers but keeps his  powder dry while the wicked, old crow, Brenda and her vast, parasitic House of Ruritania shits in our faces and those of trafficked youth, everywhere. If the degenerate, corrupt, inbred Windsors are maintained in luxury we must hold to account not the Tories,whose colours are known to be nailed to Aristocracy's greedy mast but the simpering, cowardly duplicitous vermin currently cladding itself in Equality's tattered robes.

Fuck free broadband, Jerry, you are bowing the knee to deeply institutionalised child sex abuse; grow some, you weaselly little shit.

DELIVERANCE

No matter how bad things are they can always be worse.

Johnny Major begat  Butcher Blair;

Butcher Blair begat Snotty Brown; 

Snotty Brown begat Dave PigFucker;

Pigfucker begat Tracey May;

Tracey May begat BoJo

and 

Thieving Gorbals Mick begat Mr Tiny Speaker,

 each worse than his or her predecessor.

On behalf of the nation I offer prayers of thanks  that we  will not suffer as Speaker either the repulsive Reverend Mr Chris Undepants

 or the truly ghastly Harriet Soursister.  

No, no paedophiles are oppresssed and we need to protect them and their lifestyle choices.

Harry and  Patsy Leatherface, Blair's crooked health secretary, back in the day were proper fag hags, only with paedophiles instead of homosexuals.

Shouty exhibitionistic homosexuals will be sobbing in their amyl nitrate at former vicar, Bryant's, failure to formally confirm the House of Commons as LGBT Central.
Paedophiles  will be outraged that their former champion and Labour aristocrat Harriet Harman was denied what she thought hers by right.

I am sure Lindsay Hoyle is as big a cunt as all the other  MPs, stooges, hacks  and troughers - how could he not be? - but at least he's not either of the above. 

editor's note : long ago I was sacked for defending gay rights  before it was even a term, before it was fashionsbla and afe to do so but I'd piss on Chris Bryant not because he's gay just becasue he's a crook hiding behind where he puts his cock.

CATHEDRAL EVENSONG, F.J. Haydn - "The heavens are telling"〈The Creation〉Oratorio / Christoph...

I heard this in Gloucester Cathedral a few  weeks ago,  no band,

just the choir and a stonemad  organist, by God, it rocked.

Haydn, of course was seven hundred years after the building of these cathedrals and if the walls had ears then after plainsong and Tallis and Byrd this would've sounded like the druggy doggerel of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band; no matter, it is brash but exhilerating and what more do we want?

The falling leaves....

Sorry, again, about my absence, friends. What they thought was heart trouble is something much worse, from which there is neither recovery or relief - and just when we had finally bought a Mercedes S class limo, to tour the cathedrals of gay England. We managed Gloucester and Hereford and might yet manage a couple more.

On top of that we had visitors, people I have known forever but whose Remainerism I found insulting, I think unforgivably so, graceless and fascistic; four generations of public sector workers, happy to  condemn as stupid the very people who have paid for theirs, their parents', their children's and now their grandchildren's training, careers and pensions; even if there was time they would never darken my door again; together with the illness it made for a shocking time.

Sorry, anyway. I will try to clear that lunatic from the last post and to review events post-Mr Tiny Speaker.

EVENSONG. JUST A FEW CHORDS. Franz Liszt: Liebeslied S 566 (Schumann: Widmung)

I have spent most of my life listening to big pieces, symphonies and masses, never knew much about Schumann songs. I heard this a couple of years ago and it rips me up and then puts me back together again, just those couple of bars of Ave Maria at the end. I think it's what they call an homage. It is Liszt after Schumann, realised by Lang Lang and Steinway; inspiration, composition, performance and manufacture. And in that grand piano, trapped forever, lost and yearning, sing all the spirits of the forest.

A FANFARE FOR THE COMMON MAN

Up all night, leaning on the windowsill, I turned on the TeeVee;
it was on mute and I was half-asleep. It looked like a get-together, a knees-up, a community-sing-song in an old folks' home; there was a big guy, with that big hair which Americans have and a big tie, ending down around his zipper and the big guy was working the crowd of old folks, clapping them back as they clapped him, dunno when that started, the recipient of the applause him- or herself clapping the applauders, we are all in this showbiz shit together, ain't we all just wonderful?


Bruce Forsyth in Hell was my first thought, 
until I sharpened my focus and read the crawler text along the bottom of the screen which revealed that it wasn't the late, pitiful but nauseating Brucie but Donald Trump, Leader of the Free World.

It really was like a Rally of the Simpletons, simple people from Simplesberg. Fla. 


Trump wandered the stage saying de-dah-de-dah-de-dah-de-dah-de-dah an'  it was great, it was  reallygreat and the place would erupt, cheering and clapping and him doing a desultory handclap in return.

 Bob Dylan said thirty years ago, Gee, shucks, I dunno, but things're pretty crazy, when I started out, the backing singers,  they'd just run up to the 'mic and do a handclap; now they got machines that do that, c'nya believe that, digitised hand-clappin'?
There oughta be a law against it. 




Trump's handclap responses are just like that, mechanistic and meaningless.

 

And then, again,
de-dah-de-dah-de-dah-de-dah-de-dah an'  it was great, wasennit, that thing,  it was reallyreallygreat;  more cheers, then he went into third person greatitude, I see we got Governor Hiram T. Cheeseburger here, tonight and he's a really great governor of this great state, done some really great work, really great governor, and his wife BetsyLou, a really great first lady of this great state, she's here tonight, ain't that great, no, I mean it folks, these are really great people, doing great work.


 A bit more simianism followed, 

 hooting and clapping and whistling and cheering and then it was time for the Wall, 


 that's a really great wall, folks, reallyreallygreatwall, a reallygreatwall an' we're getting it done, we're holding back that tide a criminals and terrorists that have been stealin' the jobsa our great, reallygreat AfroAmerican communities. really great people, our AfroAmericans.  Really great.

The Trumpster was launching his 2020 re-election campaign  and the more I watched the more I realised that he's actually a much better politician than were the contenders for Tory leadership and brief UK premiership.

Were it down to me Boris Johnson, Ken Livingstone and the Cameron-Clegg cabinet'd all be in jail over Grenfell Tower, alongside the dreadful harpy Firefighting Supremo, Wotsername.

Yes, stay in the building and burn to death,
 this is your best chance of survival. 
 These are my orders.

But no matter, having turned London Town into the money-laundering capital of the world the Austerity merchant-criminals still lord it over us, with their staggering venality, conceit and sense of entitlement. Meantime  Mediaminster rejoices in the braindead, tittle-tattle gossip of the drunken slapper, 

pontificating like a joyless, one-woman conclave of cardinals.

Just when you think Newsnight couldn't grow any worse - Paxman, RentBoy Davies and the skriking, cross-dressing hunchback banshee mutant, 

 Wark, 
all bestriding the dead-zone  show like failed, embittered art students, kicking Journalism's corpse - now we have the pisshead trollop, Maitless, making a clown of herself, half-dressed and half-witted, unable to marshal even a bunch of clowns such as these, unable to dent the collective We-Know-Bestism of intellectual giants such as Saj Javid, esteemed political historians  like Michael Spit and  the  romantic, derring-do adventurers like the boy, Rory Boniface.

And the more I look at this tedious homegrown Summer  pantomime of talking and it's lacklustre coverage the more I think,  well, Trump is much better at this, he makes no pretence,  he just mumbles the prejudicial slogans that he thinks his potential voters want to hear and keeps on mumbling them, in a reallyreallygreat  way.

NOW WASH YOUR HANDS.

A night or two before Trumps New Great Crusade I caught a few minutes of something called, I think, Sex In Their Seventies, on Channel Five; 
 it doesn't have Jon Sox or Cathy Newman or Fat Sweaty Krishnan 

Bigotry, bias and perversion;
 ThassChannelFourNoos.
 Good Evening 

but Channel Five, otherwise, is the new Channel Four, sick porn and specious activism.  This show, anyway, Christ, I nearly died. Everybody knows I'm liberal and everything but, y'know, to a degree and this item fair rocked me back in my armchair of laissez faire tolerance.  
It was about two American geezers in their seventies, iron-grey and in that unforgiving  netherworld between fit and flabby and every day, to celebrate their love for each other - and today, on camera, for the whole world  - they slurped in a deranged, antic manner on each other's arseholes for about an hour.  For a moment I thought they must be getting their whole heads up there.
The deep spirituaity of their love was demonstrated by the fact that whilst their mouths and tongues and probably their noses and chins were firmly rammed up their arses their cocks were rubbing against each other's hearts.  
Ah, bless. 
  I love spirituality, me.

Fuck me,  Jesus, I nearly cried-out in horror. 
Before they started-off dung-munching these two flabby old guys, probably from New York or San Francisco, were articulating forcefully that now was the best sex they'd ever had and the director/cameraman was really getting off on this bizarre specatacle, I think he applauded at one time, as this depravity was delivered just  as though it was the Sermon on the Mount or the United Nations Declaration on Human Rights.

Logically there is no difference between these old boys sucking their intestines clean and  conventional, if that's the word, cunnilingus or fellatio - oral-genital  stimulation - and it shouldn't distress me; furthermore what people do with each other is none of my business, doesn't require my approval or permission. 
It is certainly the case that there is nothing new under the Sun  when it comes to human sexual behaviour and societal taboos, well, they rise and fall.  
It wasn't Prudishness, then,  which jolted me while observing these two old freaks, harking-back desperately to  vigourous youth via their alimentary  canals, it was just full-on So-Whatishness, WhoGivesAFuckishness, Who Cares What You Two Old Creeps Do? 
 The truth is that they are desperate old men,  not having the best sex of their lives, they just want you to think they are.  If sucking an ancient and probably  diseased sphincter is the best sex of one's life then these old boys truly have never had a good time
I have always bridled at gay people calling me straight, they really have no idea.

Watching Trump, though, I wondered what his audience would make of the two grey men, desperate for excitement, lovingly munching dingleberries,  they'd probably want to put them in the electric chair.

I wouldn't go that far but I'd certainly bar them and their doings from the TeeVee screen.  When I was a kid I mocked the phrase: "....a tendency to corrupt and deprave" and it was ridiculed by John Mortimer, QC, I think, in the Lady Chatterly's Lover obscentiy trial,  the book being described by prosecutors as "not the sort of thing one would want one's wife or servants to read." As I grew and read more of what we call transgressive literature I came to have some sympathy with the prosecutors' stance;  there are books in my home that I wouldn't pass-on to just anybody, I do believe that given to an immature or unstable individual they may well corrupt and deprave, and the thing about corruption and depravity is that there's no way back,  that's the horror of, just for instance,  child sexual abuse,  there's no way back, corruption and depravity are pits of quicksand from which some cannot escape. 
 It is a tricky one, these days;  the Vatican has a treasure trove of under-lock-and-key porn  whilst simultaneously anyone in the world can access five thousand years of bestial  gangbang Sodom on the Internet without let or hindrance -  what am I doing, having a shelf of books I consider dirty, and what am I doing excoriating a pair of sad, gobby old queers, knocking on Heaven's arsehole?

I suppose I wish they'd just keep it to themselves. 
 I never saw anything like that when I was growing-up and I guess I was in my twenties and thirties when I read Burroughs and deSade  and Miller and the rest and these, we mustn't forget, were simply books about depravity, not on-screen, real-life, presentations. 
 If I was now a young teenager, watching Channel Five, the other night, seeing this odd couple I don't know how I would react.  People in High Places, people like Sadiq Khan,  say we must celebrate Depravity as Diversity but the Acquired Human T-cell Leukemia Virus, AIDS as it became,  resulted  from such celebration and it could easily have and may yet annihilate us all; syphillis and gonorrhea are massively increased in the UK; people like Jon Sox - a plague of his own making - blame government cuts but to see the elderly - aided and abetted by politicians and by Trash TeeVee -   evangelising for vividly  unsafe sexual practices seems to me to represent selfish, stupid, narcisistic, eco-criminal, species-hostile irresponsibility. 

Imagine, a tiny cut on your lip or an ulcer in your mouth or a loose filling, you'd need an IV anti-biotic drip in your arm to make this nonsense safe and even then it'd be madness, especially for older people whose natural resistance  is lower. All the AIDS victims, they were all super-fit, know-it-all musclemen, weren't they, much good it did them.  Fuck 'em, anyway, these two old monsters; I hope their tongues drop off in each other's arses. That's proper spirituality, that is.


And if it's OK for arse-munchers to hold sway over sections of TeeVee, to demand respect, to insist that their dodgy antics be celebrated  then it's equally OK for those whom Trump  personifies to want their borders closed and their jobs protected. It's also OK - and entirely constitutionally proper - for a handful of card-carrying Tories - if they so decide - to shuffle BoJo into Number Ten. What he then does there, though,  that's a whole other story, one which may yet reveal that Brexit, like all political creeds,  was only ever  a means to Ambition's end.

stop press. 

That bloke in Turkey, the dictator, he's demanding another election because his candidate lost;  where's he think he is, the United Kingdom?

 Perhaps Nicky Krankie and Jerry Corbyn can hop on a solidarity flight to Ankara and teach him the ground rules of DemoPhobia.  Annie Soubrie, she could get pissed and ranting on the 'plane, too.

HUNT BY NAME

 

I guess that being in office whilst running for party leadership must be a bit of an advantage and BoJo, having resigned from what is now Hunt's job in the interests of his life-long ambition can be seen as being at  a bit of a handicap; on the other hand BoJo, fully employed  by the Filth-O-Graph and moonlighting as a member of parliament, has only a domestic mouth  to put his foot inustrates how crassly ill-prepared  is the modern, career politician  for diplomatic statesmanship and thus self-evidently the premiership of the United Kingdom.

Naz Wotsername is kinda pretty, certainly telegenic and her bloke is deterministically gobby, the typical, sanctimonious, ill-informed, poorly-read Guardian reader, probably  the kind of creep mentioned the other day by mr verge, who has tattoed about his person scraps of literary text which he doesn't understand. Hubby and the Guardianistas are the kind of people who all insisted that AnSangShoeSing

 or whatever the fuck her name is represented living sainthood, whereas what I always said was that if she had been a little old Burmese man with brown-stained teeth and without an Oxbridge spouse nobody would've pissed on him when he was on fire.  
Turns out she wasn't quite as saintly as all that, was she? 


Mr Naz demands that he meet all the candidates for Tory leadership in order to put them straight about foreign affairs.

I'm joining Naz's hunger strike. 
That shows how principled I am.
 Oh, no, it's not to the death,
 just a coupla weeks.
 At most.


Mrs and Mr Naz seem cast from the same unsound marital mould as the reprehensible Gerry'n'Cilla McCann, perhaps unfairly, therefore, when it comes to their plight I tend towards Don'tGiveAFuckism.
 If, however, I was concerned about them I'd have blanched at Hunt's cack-handed, grandstanding on their behalf, today.   

I think he said to BadIran that, in the opinion of himself, Naz was innocent  and they should  therefore let her go, probably to be photographed with him at the next Tory party conference, if there is one.
Jerry Hunt doesn't care about anyone but himself but even a pretence to caring about Naz would have stopped him using that language. 
Accusing the BadIranians of jailing an innocent woman  is not the way to secure her freedom, soft words turneth  away wrath, tabloid spiv moralising only puts people's backs up.
The nutters in the US State Department will have been pleased by Hunt's cloddishness but I expect Mr and Mrs Naz will see no benefit.

AND COMING UP TO NUMBER TEN THE RUNNERS ARE ALL STRUNG-OUT.

From the archives, 
Call Me Ishmael, November 2011

Bless you, my children;  in the beginning was the Gove.

MR MICHAEL SPIT-GOVE,

CABINET TEABOY AND EDUCATION SECKATRY.

One of the Coalition of Shit's non-public school, non-millionaire arseholes,  the saliva-exporting Micky Gove,  is  sending to schools copies of the King James Bible, with a new foreword by - honest, not invent - himself;  spit-flecked, holy book flyleaves will, we must assume he imagines,  carry his grimy little name forward into history, long after the govament which he champions is swept away on a wave of popular realism.  ( a reader writes:  Will that be next week, mr ishmael?)

This gesture will cost half a million pounds of disability benefit but future scholars, he imagines, will  learn to revere the name of Spit, conflating his squeaky, Uriah Heep existence with  those of the great scholars who originally translated and  wrote the influential work - if not, actually with God, Himself.

AND FROM JULY 2010

I AM SPIT-GOVE.
 SMELL MY BREATH

ISN'T IT SICKENING?

Tory-Murdoch MP  and alien, Mr Michael Spit-Gove, despite his insistence on Monday's Newsnight that he wouldn't,  is to apologise to everybody, only not for being an obnoxious little cunt.

There must be a dozen such commetaries here, for Micky Gove has been ridiculed in these quarters since forever.

We called him Michael Spit in honour of his late-night TeeVee exchanges with the dreadful Polly Toynbee in a long forgotten LateShow slot. 
Toynbee, 

Of course I care about the poor,
I'd be nowhere without them. 

flying-in from her Mediterranean home, would attempt to burnish her I-Love-The-Poor credentials but could never get a word in against her fellow hack, Gove, who would cocaine rap for the whole show, never pausing for breath, bright-eyed, back-tracking, cross-referencing himself, anticipating himself, almost proof-reading and cutting-and-pasting his words as they tumbled pell mell from his lips, driven as though the fate of Creation itself hung on his next subordinate clause. And the one after that. although not, if you will kindly permit me, Polly, for it is crucially important to make this clear at this juncture, the ante-penultimate  one prior to that subordinate clause to which I, with your forgiveness made oblique reference  hithertofore and to which, 
notwithstanding and of course with your indulgence may approach tangentially a little further on.  And then he'd get straight back into why free market capitalism was the  best shit ever.
His showery non-stop diarrhoeaic
 peregrinations caused the saliva to gather in the corners of his mouth and then gather some more; it was morbidly fascinating but mainly it was utterly repulsive. 

For me, he has always been Michael Spit, Prophet of his own Madness. His current lunatic self-obsession is his very public exhibitionism 

or  jogging as he calls it, and being prime minister, into which role he clearly believes with his irritating, stagey politeness he can balls-achingly talk himself.

 Once, years ago, I knew a delightful and engaging junky. Martin told me sheepishly that during one amphetamine-fuelled, ranting evening he became so carried-away, so Goveish that his mates locked him in the cupboard under the stairs, where he continued speed-sermonising, in the pitch black, to the underneath of the stair treads. 
No such luck with Gove and Toynbee at the BBC.

As MediaMinsterians do Spit has outed himself as a coke head probably a full five minuters before someone else did and done so on the grounds that WeAllMake Mistakes, BestToBeOpen, MakesUsBetterPeople, only not people who are benefits cheats - apart from Her Majesty, of course - or dopesmokers, having their doors kicked-in by an army of savagely gay plods, triumphantly holding aloft a couple of joints with an estimated street value of several billion terrorist pounds. Drug users, per se -  ie the poor - must be punished for their wickedness.

Coke, the drug of the rich, is subject to the same ethical double standard as everything else: it is illegal to supply and possess but  if rich people do it it's OK, even though, unlike weed, cocaine probably does fund worldwide terrorism. And it seems that however many celebrities, entertainers and politicians snort  the stuff it is only the poor, smuggling mules who merit the full force of the Law. 


 Baby-farmer and celebrated coke-fiend, Lady Sir Elton John got a knighthood, 

Wasted cook-headbanger, Nigella Lawson, daughter of a pinstripe, Tory spiv-dynasty,

despite snorting her arse off for years -
and trying to blame her live-in slaves
has her ghastly 
CookingWithTits show

 renewed indefinitely,
 paid for with my license fee.

It is a sour mantra de nos jours:
 rich druggies go to Rehab, poor druggies go to jail.

Spit's ascendancy in the richboy cabinet of Cameron and Clegg was always a mystery. It is true that Spit is owned lock, stock and saliva glands by Rupert Murdoch and was thus a useful conduit for Murdoch's orders to Cameron  but that should've made him no more than Seckaterry for paper clips.

 Maybe as well as being the token oik amongst the Etonians and Harrovians Spit was the Cabinet Dealer.  God knows, Osborne was off his face often enough.

Feelin' sick'n'dirty, more dead than alive...

Honourable and right honourable members will know that we on this bench are buyimg coke with the proles' DLA.

(cheers, waving of order papers)
All sing: Oh,  for he's a jolly good junky
for he's a jolly good junky.

 and the motivation for his damnable Austerity programme could easily have been some mad, vengeful cocaine nightmare, from which he awoke to punish the nation for its temerity in questioning his expenses. And for not going to Eton.  Economically it made no sense at all, it was Zombie madness. But that horrible, squeaky voice, those hateful accusations,  the burning of the wheelchairs, the closing of the libraries; 


Organised Crime visiting the less successful.

You sure we'll get out again, Chancellor?

Just hold on a few minutes, Chancellor.
I'm waiting for my man

was Michael Spit the supplier of Junky George's vile medicine?

Given that MediaMinster is probably cocaine's biggest UK customer it is unlikely that we will ever know the extent of CokeMadness in the framing of public policy but it is probably huge, as big as the child sexual abuse scandals, the fraudulent expenses scandal and the bribing of the public  political conscience by Blair and Campbell and Straw.
 It would only have been for his own narrow ambition but maybe the leaker of Gove's criminal behaviour is his rival for the Tory leadership and thus UK premiership.

Sajid Javid pledges to get tough on middle-class cocaine users 

Home secretary takes aim at professionals whose drug use is said to fuel violent crime.

We shall see what hypocritical knots our Saj ties himself into, he should, however,  forthrightly condemn and call for the retro-prosecution of his cabinet colleague, Michael Spit, shouldn't he?

JERRY CORBYN, A COWARD AND A FOOL.

 

 Colleagues! 

Down with stuff!

 Power to the shouty people!

 Right on!

If only he'd promised to renationalise the railways; to restore trade union rights and the rights of ordinary citizens to the Courts;  if only he'd promised to hound the criminals out of the City of London and jail the thieving fucking bastards; to abolish, at a stroke, the House of Lords and wherever practicable to halt and reverse  the theft of national resources by smirking, noncing parasites like Sir Richard Beardy.  If only Corbyn had had some balls, he could've offered a proper alternative to decades of Thatcher/Blair/Cameron/Clegg/May spivvery and warmongering. If only he'd  told gangster Benjy Netanyahu and his stooges to fuck off and stop behaving like Nazis. If only he, a Brexiteer, had  respected the national vote. If only he'd said that he'd fine Sinn  Fein and the Ulster Undertakers for every day that they did not go to work, as they're paid handsomely so to do by the rest of us. If only he'd thrown-out the likes of Cooper and Umuna sent them into Blairite oblivion, where they belong, instead of waiting for them to flounce off self righteously, like the spiv Heseltine did.  Instead, the worthless worm has  fucked about, squirming on Cowardice's hook, gutless and craven.

Socialism, the love that dare not speak its name,

 

 Colleagues!

 Are we all agreed? 

The working classes, be they here or in the US, are vile.

 Vile, I say! Vile! 

And working class people  have no place in this great movement of ours.

He should, by rights, have been in power by now, Jerry, talk about an open goal, he had the momentum, literally and figuratively and he's squandered it. 

Alright, MediaMinster is unfair to him but as Trump showed, there are other ways; who gives a fuck, these days, what Toilets Maguire says or Adam Lard or the BBC,  these people are all talking to themselves, dinnerpartyistes;  

Trump went over their heads - that's why they hate him at the Washington Post - and Corbyn could've done the same; instead, today, he's at a kiddies demo, when with a bit of adroit footwork he could've got Trump onside for the next election, if we ever have one, he couod've outlied the lying classes. 

 On top of the three or four million he's trousered over the past decades we now  pay Jerry a hundred and fifty grand  a year to lead the Opposition. And just look what he does.

 

 Yes, of course, Diane, anyone who disagrees with you simply must be a deplorable ignorant Islamaophobie and genderphobic homophobic racistophobe.

 How could they not be?

How'd your son get on at public school?

Be joining the family business, I expect.

Donald Trump is a cheat, a bully and a sex pest, just like nearly everyone in MediaMinster; unlike them he's not a child molester or a friend and protector of child molesters; unlike our politicians Trump hasn't waged and earned shitloads of money from an illegal war; it's not saying a great deal but in many ways Trump is a better human being than Obama, the bankers' house nigger, shitting all over those he called his own people, 

Yeah, keep on having that I have a dream dream, niggers.

 better than the murderous, larcenous and deeply criminal Clintons;  unlike the Bushes Trump is not in hock to the House of Saud and unlike, particularly, George Dubya, Trump has not shit all over the Constitution. 

Unlike many visitors accorded a State visit here Trump was elected by a majority of his fellow citizens and may be removed by them in 18 months or so;  he may have groped women but as far as I know he has not whipped them through the streets, stoned them to death or chopped their heads off;  those who have, oddly, are always welcome in Buckingham Palace and Downing Street with scarce a murmur from the demophobes.  Trump, notably, unlike Corbyn's party, hasn't  immolated and eviscerated tens of thousand of Iraqi working class children and told their mothers they should be grateful, that was  Corbyn's Labour colleague, Geoff Hoon.

....... it was put to Hoon in a Radio 4 interview that an Iraqi mother of a child killed by these cluster bombs would not thank the British Army. He replied "One day they might." Hoon continued, "I accept that in the short term the consequences are terrible. No one minimises those and I'm not seeking to do so," he said. "But what I am saying is that this is a country that has been brutalised for decades by this appalling regime and that the restoration of that country to its own people, the possibility of their deciding for themselves their future ... and indeed the way in which they go about their lives, ultimately, yes, that will be a better place for people in Iraq."^[13] 

Di and Jerry and Emily have never taken  to the streets about Labour's real war crimes, just about Trumps imaginary ones. 

Cowards and tub-thumping hypocrites, they'll never be in government and don't deserve to be.

Colleagues!
Colleagues of the World Unite!
Colleagues!
Join me and be Against Stuff! 

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL; ARMS (AND LEGS) AND THE MAN; FARAGE ROUTED, BREXIT DEAD IN THE WATER; WOTSONTELLY.

.....And where are the legs with which y'run

When y'first went off t'carry your gun

BeGod yer dancin' days're done

Ah Johnny I hardly knew ya. 

Johhny I Hardly Knew Ya, sung to the same tune as When Johnny Comes Marching Home, is thought to be one of those Irish anti-recruitment songs, like the much more joyful Arthur McBride, from the nineteenth century, each grisly verse describing a different mutilation suffered by the songstress's  now sightless and limbless soldier spouse and concludes with: Ya haven't an arm, ya haven't a leg, yer an eyeless, brainless chickenless egg, and ya'll haveta be put with a bowl to beg, Ah-ah, Johnny I hardly knew ya. 

There are massed, defeated armies  of such songs, although the people who write and perform them really do believe - in a true, sincere, showbiz fashion -  that they make a difference but I have been hearing them all my life from  the dreadful Pete Seeger's Where Have All The Flowers Gone? right up to the dreadful Neil Young's Shock and Awe and not one of them has dented the commerce of militarism. Waste of fucking space, protest songs. The opium of my virtuous g-g-g-generation;  Blowin' in the Wind, eh, it's like the electric car of it's day, utterly pointless, irrelevant pomposity. Oh, wow, man, like how many roads, man, how real is that, man; Masters of War, man, it, just, like heralds a whole new age of Peace, man.  The whole idea of Protest Song  is bizarre, singing isn't protest, singing is fucking ShowBusiness. A general strike, that's what you call Protest; an LP record is an entertainment.

People, some people, les  uniformistes sauvage , just love signing-up, dressing-up, tooling-up and fucking-up. Conscription is one thing, voluteering to spill your intestines, lose your limbs or lay down your life for some faceless billionaire shareholder  in GlobaDeath, that's just  inexcusably stupid, dying for the rich;   there might've been an inarguable case for poorboys taking the Queens poxed shilling in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries but there isn't now.

I was sitting, anyway, a few weeks back, in a hospital clinic waiting room. I'm there three times a week, outpatienting my way to dusty death, and I feel some ownership of the space.  As well as a couple of women in an open-plan office-cum-reception there was another patient on the chair opposite  and although we exchanged no words - I never do, talk to people in the hospital, saying, if prompted, Sorry, mate, I'm here for treatment, not society -  there was a quiet, amiable patience between us.

 It's not as harsh as it seems, refusing to chit-chat, it's right.

Many people see a hospital admission as a chance to nervously gossip, pointlessly flirt with a weary, uninterested nurse and bore the shit out of their neighbours when what they should be doing is  shutting the fuck up and trying to understand and remedy what it is that brought them into hospital at everyone else's expense and inconvenience and how to avoid it or more crucially just trying to stay alive.  Life is all there is. Sometimes in the hospital it's like an episode of Britain's Got Toilets, a wardful of fucking, noisy, wannabe celebrities, believing wrongly that I form part of their captive audience.  I don't care if they're nervous, I have come to detest them.

Shattering the peace of our quiet little enclave came one of Prince Harry's flashmobbers, a soldier-amputee, an utter fucking bastard.

It was a cold day but Tommy was in shorts, so we could all see his metal prosthesis. I'm touchy about these things;  I hate the sight of wounds and mutilations, I can't help it.  I've never been one for stripping off in the sunshine, much too uptight and Presbyterian and now that - since heart surgery -   I have a faded but occasionally vivid scar down my sternum  and another from groin to ankle on my left leg I won't even loosen off a couple of top buttons on my shirt, never mind wear shorts; who wants to see that stuff, even inadvertently, it's like what Oscar Wilde said about not frightening the horses in the street. 

Tommy was swinging his tin leg like those Greek ceremonial guards do, almost up to his stubbly chin, he could walk fine on it but he just didn't want anyone to miss it,  I hated him on sight; he had a pig's head, shaven and shiny and his whole body was inky with DeathBe4Dishonour maxims, snakes'n'daggers and successive sweethearts' names; everything about him was unwholesome.

He went to reception and started trying to hustle a fiver for  travelling expenses, it could only've been 'busfare but he wanted it badly, nobody was gonna get in his way.  I though it was taking the piss because in Swindon or wherever he hailed from he'd have paid his own 'busfares; patient  travel expenses here are usually to cover ferry and airflight costs which are significant.  This prick, however, was intent on bullying a fiver from people unused to rudeness such as his. 
  Knowarramean, knowarramean, Babes, a fiver's a pint to me, an that pint could make all the difference, ha-ha, knowarramean, a fiver's a fiver at the endatheday, Babes.  I 'ope it ain't gonna be like this in the new 'ospital;  I mean, there's gorrabeabetterway'n this, int there,  Babes, knowarramean, knowarramean. I'm only sayin' Babes
 I  had my Tommy-this and Tommy that and chuck him out, the brute moment  and started to stand up.

I could just see this creature, far from scrutiny, in Afghanistan or Iraq, slapping Ahmed around and saying to him, 'sgorrabeabetterwayn'nthis, my son, int there,  'sgorrabeabetterwayn'nthis. I could see him and his retarded cuntmates  storing up for us years of  bloody, homicidal  hatred, he's a headchoppers' rercuiting sergeant. I was going to say I blame his parents but odds-on he only has a Mum, who adores his every utter worthlessness, like they do.

It wasn't his lack of erudition that bugged me, broadly speaking I prefer the company of people who didn't go to grammar school, especially my grammar school,  it was his cowardly bad manners that irked; the women he was abusing were laughing but it was from nervousness and either he was too stupid to know that or he didn't care. Tommy needed a good, hard  slap.

Unlike His Hooligan Highness, Prince Harry, and most of MediaMinster I don't think that signing-up and getting your leg blown off amounts to  heroism. A construction worker falling of a scaffold isn't heroism, it's a risk of his job; Prince Harry isn't going to piggyback on legless brickies, is he,  or on drowned trawlermen  or North Sea oil men roasted in a blazing sea;  uniforms, though, flags and guns and medals and marching bands, that's proper  Ruritanian shit,  even though stepping on a mine is actually just a risk of InkyTommy's job.


There are cases where mere survival is rightly adjudged heroism. Tom Pendleton was an honorary uncle to mrs ishmael. After surviving some years in a Japanese prisoner of war camp he flew home, weighing just six stones, thirty-eight kilos, in the belly of a bomber; he never spoke of it but you can imagine, can't you.  I guess surviving those little yellow bastards' cruelties - or cultural differences as we would now be expected to say - took some balls but I don't think the returning POWs were called heroes. Lose your leg to an IED, however, and you become a modern-day Horatius at the Bridge
I remember, years ago, resurrecting the idea that there should be a covenant between HM parliament and her armed forces - if you did get maimed on active service you wouldn't have to sit on a street corner selling matches for the rest of your days, that you wouldn't have to be part of or depend on charIty banditry; that seemed fair to me but it hasn't happened.  Despite Snotty, Cameron and Clegg and Tracey May sourpussing every November at the Cenotaph Tommy still sleeps on the streets, is disproportionately unemployed,  imprisoned, prone to addictions and unless he does celebrity amputee wheelchair Antarctic trekking to boost the image of a Ruritanian playboy prince-ponce, ignored. Rather than properly care for him we, cheapskating, call him hero, simultaneousy trashing real heroism, which does sometimes distinguish the filth of war.
Really, he shouldn't have gone,  Tommy, should have waited to be conscripted.

Standing up, I had rehearsed what I was about to say: Oi, mate, can you keep it down? This is a hospital, there's people sick, in pain, worried, maybe just bereaved, just a minute ago. It's a hospital, not an Aldershot bar, mate. A'right? Knowharramean?

Maybe he'd have shut up, maybe even apologised, maybe we'd have come to blows, in which case I'd have kicked him in his bad knee but just as I stood up he left and I sat back down again. Mmm, said my hitherto silent companion, a war hero, eh?

Snotty Brown, the angry half-wit,  

Shooting wogs, it is the right thing for the country.

 sent Tommy into Afghanistan, in order, he stuttered, to keep terrorism off the streets of Britain. Well, it didn't did it?  Ask the Mancunian concertgoers or the Westminster Bridgers.

Brown's then SecDef, drunken Glaswegian bully, John Reid, in his own utterance One of Labour's BigMen - I think he's five-five in his shirtsleeves - said that  not a shot would be fired in anger against Tommy

John 'without a shot being fired' Reid's £50,000 Iraq security job | Daily Mail Online

Former Defence Secretary John Reid has secured a £50,000 job with a private security company operating in Iraq and Afghanistan.

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 but it was, wasn't it?

Reid, in retirement, has earned hundreds of thousands from the Afghaniscam. I say earned but its just bribes.  And in that time about three hundred squaddies have lost one or more limbs in that endless stupidity. If the Rcd Army couldn't subdue the Mujahadein, what chance Her Majesty's First HeadBangers? 

Here's the poisonous wee cunt in one of his other sinecures, as chairman of his beloved Celtic Sectarian Child Molesters FC. Four successive managers of the youth team have been nicked for noncing. 
Nothing to do with the cock-waving  little shit, Reid, of course, who just gets drunk and bullys women.

And when he's not busy doing his security stuff in Kabul - probably selling British defence secrets to Organised Crime - he'll be  cheering on his football team of foreign millionaire prats and he can always cop three hundred quid a day plus subsidised haute cuisine in the House of fucking Lords.  None of this is secret, people can still read in the North East, in Merseyside, in the Gorbals and all the other places savaged by successive governmental policies; why, then,  would anyone join the armed forces, when people like Reid are in charge?
This is what one of his employers - CounterTerrorExpo2020 -  says about Reid 

"Lord John Reid is one of most experienced Cabinet ministers of modern times.  He has held more ministerial posts at Cabinet level than any other politician in recent history.  In range of portfolios, and in breadth and intensity of change management across departments, his experience is unparalleled in British history. "
And that's why we bought his sorry ass.

A vicious Trot turned organised criminal.
Shifted from ministry to ministry because he was useless and insufferable.
 A bit like this arsehole-in-a-suit.

Lance Corporal Mick Fallon, useless, blowhard sexpest, 
unfit to be SecDef but still fit to be an MP.
In 2018, after being dumped, Mick received on top of his MP salary, expenses and presumably a £37,000 sacking allowance which all bent ministers receive, even jailbird Huhne, about fifty grand in bungs for imaginary work for his  various owners, Fallon's missus, too, is on the MediaMinster payroll as his senior caseworker.

A rotten Glasgow Trotskyite  thug and a redneck Tory spiv in charge; why would anyone in their right mind  join the army and act as human minesweepers  for Uncle Sam, determined, still, as he is, on putting the rest of the world  onto a reservation, feeding us porn and BigMacs while stealing our resurces.

These worthless, thieving scumbags stand up in parliament, cowardly and traitorous and lecture us on patriotism and honour. 
  
Brown's own typically grandiose imbecile prophecy was gainsaid not only in Afghanistan 
but here, in Woolwich, when the drummerboy got his head hacked away, his blood held up to TeeVee cameras.
 He's not a hero, either, is he, Lee?
Just another victim.

Dunno what Snotty's up to now, apart from giving Scotland, the birthplace of   the Labour party,  to the madbastard tribesmen and illuminating his own natural demophobia by trying his stuttering, gurning best to scupper Brexit, which isn't the right thing for the country, the country which he so successfully buggered that it elected the posh moron Cameron and his posh moron shithead mate, Clegg and plunged so many into Usurous poverty.

The army amputees, then, what do we do about them? We could try telling them that their wound is their own fault, they didn't have to go on a rich man's expedition;  that they shouldn't delude themselves that Uncle Sam  or HM government give a flying fuck about poor Afghan women and children, not when they don't give a fuck about their own poor and oppressed; that  in most cases their wounds  will have resulted from bad luck or carelessness or both. It's not my fault, mate, cover it up, deal with it,  if you keep shoving it in my face I'll rip it off and beat you with it.  I don't accept for a moment that it is GoodDivesity, that we should Celebrate and applaud  our fellows' mutilation, nor that we should be blackmailed by it;

 tact and sensitivity to others is important,

 discretion is the better part

 of valour.

Ideally, of course, people'd just stop joining-up and say Fuck that for a game of soldiers.  If only we could leave the doings of war to the sons and daughters of the rich and powerful; if only war was for Sandhurstees only; Oh, what a falling off there would be in its study.

WOTSONTELLY.

 A TENDENCY TO CORRUPT AND DEPRAVE

mrs ishmael played in Shibden Hall as a child, living just across the road from it in Halifax.  We must, therefore, here in the manse, endure each weekly broadcast of  Gentleman Jack. 
I say we but when it's on I go and sit in the garden conservatory and watch the sea; even so, I  can hear the thwacks and thumps and screams as one savage beating after another is administered to some poor peasant or tenant, followed by the slurps and sighs and moans of lesbian sex between the participants. 

Based very loosely on the massive, encoded diary of Ann Lister, which we have on the shelves, here,  the show portrays the bravery of an 1830's polymath manlady stepping-in to run the Yorkshire family estate and doing it just like Annie Oakley, better'n  any Goddamned male sonofabitch.

 Interspersed with an irritatingly jaunty and risque SteeleyeSpanesque folkrock soundtrack,  Lister's and her protagonists' scripts are laughably, impossibly cogent, concise and eloquent; the costumes, make-up and props outrageously anachronistic and the outdoor settings so romantically bucolic that they might've been painted by John Constable. No business like showbusiness. 


Introduced by a breathless, pouting BBC announcer, Gentleman Jack is sadism and titillation, extravagantly produced, overacted and overblown;
if that's what you like  just google lesbian porn and you'll find something altogether more agreeable. 


WHY BREXIT IS BAD 



Good evening. I'm Huw Welshman, with the Ten O Clock Why Brexit Is Bad, from the BBC Tonight we'll be talking to Big Al Campbell, 

 NewLabour's former Impresario of Arson, Torture, GangRape and Mass Murder.  a  gobby, psychopathic, moneygrubbing  guttersnipe, Big Al has tonight revealed what we all suspected : that the so-called Brexit Party is funded by Russia.

Often, viewers, Tony'n'Imelda Blair get all the credit and all the rewards for the illegal invasion of Iraq, the slaughter of millions, the uprooting of millions, the refugee crisis and the utterly predictable emergence  of ISIS and its widespread European terrorist attacks



 but without Big Al's doctored, untruthful, misleading, so-called sexed-up intelligence dossier all those great things would never have happened, look you, Isn't it.

 The glory due  for the Middle East being aflame at a cost of, well, simply endless gazillions of taxpayer pounds and dollars, well, that really  belongs with Big Al Campbell, 'sa matter of fact viewers, having started his career writing pornography, then being a tabloid editor before being enlisted as bully-in-chief by Tony'n'Imelda and then providing the phony impetus for an illegal war you might say, isn't it, that Alastair Campbell's life has been one obscenity after another. And that, of course, is why he's always welcome here, at the BBC where, after all, our motto, as well as Nation Shall Speak Shit Unto Nation, is Brexit Is Bad, Savile Never Happened and Protect Al Yentob's Pension.

Sir John Scarlett  


had his input to the Iraq Dossier, as the then head of the Joint Intelligence Chiefs, dictated to him, word for word by Big Al

 
We  don't know whether Campbell, as former tabloid trash editor had some dirt on Scarlett but it's hard to see why a senior spook would so clearly take orders from a cunt like Campbell, but that's just what he did.  Asked to comment on IraqGate, Sir John,simply said

Wot ReichsMinister Campbell said.


We must hope, mustn't we, viewers  that Sir John isn't concerned about his place in history;
a sort of sad, male Blair's Babe.

We'll also be getting his take from Sir Ed Davey, for the LibDems, now surging back into power and actually the winners of the Euro election. 

 Ed'll be telling us, for we've rehearsed this thoroughly, that Brexit is now smashed, dead in the water, in fact and proving it by using his own interpretation of what numbers really mean. Ed'll be telling us that with 15 seats in the Euro parliament they are now the largest British party there,  whilst the Brexit party, with simplyonly twice that many seats  seats is a busted flush, finished, just a protest vote.

But now, I'm happy to say that we're talking to London's Mayor,  His Grace Sir Sadiq Khan. 

 Mr Mayor, thanks for joining us, here on Why Brexit is Bad and what's your take on why Brexit is not only bad but suicidal, we have to report both sides of this debate, you see, and that's both of them, isn't it, it's either bad ot it's national suicide, look you. What do you, speaking for the whole of London make of it all?


 Well that's right, Huw, I do speak for all of London; after all, Huw, all of London voted for me. Look, my vote was a full fifty six per cent of the total, so that makes it, Huw, a fucking landslide. geddit?

 
 Unlike the so-called Brexit result which was only fiftytwo per cent. But even so, even if Brexit had won an overwhelming mandate like my own it would have been meaningless because it was the wrong result.  I wish the BBC would wake up and hear the Imam. I mean smell the coffee.


And is it true, your Worship, that in London more people voted for Brexit than voted for you? 


Well, Huw, that rather depends, doesn't it, on what you mean by more, depends on how much credence you put on mere numbers.


Ah, I see, your Excellency,  even though 200,000 more London  people voted for Brexit in the Referendum than voted for you, they, um, didn't.


If they did, Huw, and it's a big if, because as you know, figures that don't accord with the expectations of your masters are nearly always wrong but even if they were right it wouldn't matter because they would probably have been cast by native British people, who are now, I am pleased to say, a minority in London and in an election about the future of the country the importance of foreign-born people is much, much greater than of those who are merely native here, to the mosque born, 
I mean manor. 
No, fuck it, I don't, I mean mosque.  

So, then, your Holiness, a vote for Brexit is, as we aways say here on the BBC, racist and shouldn't count?   Probly homophobic, too, I shouldn't wonder, isn't it,  and LGB wossaname, queerphobic, is it,  can you say queer, now? Hard to keep up, look you with all this gender stuff, even though it's not gender we're on about, is it, look you, just screeching fucking freaks if you ask me, not that anyone ever does, they just give me this fucking tripe to read out loud.  If I really thought about it I wouldn't fucking sleep at night. If it wasn't for the half million a year I dunno how I'd manage to do it, sometimes.


 Well, they're just scum, aren't the? 
Aren't they Huw?  Brexiteers.


Huw,  I need to hear you say it...... 


Yes, of course, Lord Sadiq, peace and wossanames be upon your name isnt't it, look you, racists, anyone who disagrees with you, filthy, racist scum.


Thassright, Huw. 
A bit like Donald Trump.  Oh, they may have voted for him in the US, but only the racists and sexists.
 Didya know, Huw, and everybody out there, that Donald Trump banned me from America because of my faith?



I don't think he did. Didn't he just impose a six-month ban on people from half a dozen or so Muslim states which had a proven record of supporting Jihadi terrorism?


No, Huw, absolutely not, he banned all Muslims, everywhere, even Nicola Sturgeon, the Queen of Scotland, he banned her, and all Scottish muslims..

 
But Ms Sturgeon isn't a muslim.......


Well,that's just one of your so-called facts, and he shouldn't come, anyway, not to London.


  But it's a state visit...


 
 Not my fucking state, Londonistan.


So to summarise, Majesty, election results, here or abroad,  only matter if they're the results which you want and if they don't they are simply wrong and the election must be re-run until the voters do as you say. And in the meantime we must all abuse those who voted aberrantly. Is that right, Excellency,  a fair summary? 



I thought you'd never get it, Huw,
there's a good boy.



Thanks, Boss.